In a training squadron the majority of crashes come before the cadet-pilot has had ten hours solo flying, and most of them from spins or forced landings. A cadet who had never landed outside the five acre aerodromes at Rathburn, Mohawk or Borden was pretty much up against it if he found himself running out of gas, or with a missing motor in woody or rocky country and only a small patch of even ground underneath. Smiddy had always impressed on me the importance of forced-landing practice, and at Rathburn, on the way back from various tests, or after breaking up formation, I made it my business to practice these approaches. I did not always land, but my eye became used to judging distance from the air.
Remuneration, even with flying-pay, was not so handsome in the R.F.C. as to exclude the need of adding to it by unorthodox means. No stricter regulation existed in the training squadrons than that against taking up civilians. One time, on a reconnaissance flight, a leakage in my gas tank forced me to look for a place to land behind a village cemetery some sixty miles from the aerodrome. I wrote down what I wanted and gave it to the grave digger. After a while the mayor, a resourceful man of French-Canuck stock, arrived in a Ford and blue jeans, in the back seat containers of gas, and an itinerant tinker to solder the leak in my tank. The mayor was affable and his white moustache and goatee gave him an air of distinction in spite of the blue jeans.
"Never been up in one of these aeroplones," he said, "but my son has a motor-cickle. I'd certainly like to ride in one of them."
I said that the British Government was, in principle, opposed to the idea of taking up civilians, but seeing he was a mayor, I felt an exception might be made in his case—in consideration of $5. I buckled him into the front seat, collected my five dollars and took off. I circled the cemetery a couple of times and landed. A very excited mayor climbed out of the cockpit.
The next time I was sent out on reconnaissance, a cadet named Warden was sent along too, two machines being generally sent on flights of this kind for checking-up purposes. We followed the railroad tracks for a while and then turned north toward Odessa. When we got there we found there was a village Fair on. From pure curiosity I swooped down over the Fair ground, whereupon everyone made for the gates. Entering into the spirit of the thing, I began zooming over the hedges, and kept it up until only a few terrified cattle remained in the enclosure. Then I made off after Warden who had stayed discreetly aloft at 1500 feet. Beyond the Fair ground stood a row of beech trees. They were higher and closer than I had calculated. I only just managed to clear them, my undercarriage brushing the leaves as I passed over them, motor at stalling point; and when I tried to gain height it began to miss. About five miles further on I saw a promising landing ground behind a big farm house and decided to take no chances. I made a good landing, but forgot to switch-off the gas and continued on through a five barred gate leaving my wings behind me. Warden was circling above. I waved to him to go on but he misunderstood and began spiraling down. At 60 feet from the ground he slipped into a spin. His machine was completely wrecked. For a minute or two I was afraid to go to it, anticipating having to pull him out in sections, but before I got there he had climbed out by himself, none the worse for it. We sat down then and there and prepared an alibi. In five minutes there was a mob of people, farmhands and their families, around us. I asked if there was a telephone anywhere. Everyone answered at once. There was not only a telephone, there was a victrola and electric light. Warden stayed to see that souvenir hunters left something of the busses while I went to ring up Squadron H.Q....
My orders were to stand by the machines. A truck would be sent out in the morning. It was late and bitterly cold. Warden and I took turns on guard. We had supper at the farm house, served in the kitchen by a sullen-eyed deep-bosomed girl. Warden ate his first, and it was dark already by the time I went for mine. Everyone else was in bed, as they were all dawn risers. By the time I got in the house my hands and feet were frozen and my teeth chattering. The girl was half asleep on a bench by the fire. She woke up as I came in. I pulled off my leather flying helmet and gauntlets. My fingers were so stiff I could hardly bend them.
"Feel," I said, putting my hand on her cheek.
"My, you give me the shivers," she said.
She took my hands and held them against her bosom. She had a lot of hair and it had a strong odor, her body too. She kept looking at me.
"I got something hot for you," she said.
While she was setting it on the table I watched her. When she walked her hips moved slowly. I went up behind her and put my arms around her and pushed my face into her hair. She turned back to me with her mouth open. Her lips were full and her teeth large and strong....
"Not here. Eat your supper first," she said, and pulled аwау frоm me.
We said no more. I sat down and ate. She brought me over a cup of tea that had been stewing a long time. After I had finished she unscrewed the solitary electric bulb and went to the door. When she opened it the bitter air made me shiver. I followed her out and she locked the door. She hid the key somewhere, I could not see where, and then pulled her shawl closer around her. There was a moon but the clouds obscured it, so she took my hand. We crossed the paddock through which I had come in and went on till we came to a lane. A hundred yards down it she stopped before a gate. The moon came out from behind the clouds and I saw a wooden shack with the trunk of a dead tree in front of it. When we got inside the shack I felt for a match while she slipped the bolt in the door.
"Better without light," she said. I stayed where I was, listening to her moving around.
"How cold it is," she said. Her voice came from a corner of the room. I followed the sound of it, my hands out. She took them and drew me down beside her on a bunk....
"You're cold, now?" I asked, after a while.
"No, no, not now," she said pressing against me, "...it feels good now...."
Suddenly she pulled back, pushing me away from her into the dark. Moonlight was striking in on the floor from a window above the bunk. Opposite us was another window. A face was flattened against it.
"Jesus," she said quietly.
"Who is it?" I said, and started for the door.
"Look out, he's got a gun," she said, pulling me back.
We heard steps on the frozen ground outside. She drew me over to another door and pushed me out, closing it behind me. After the heat of her body against me the wind chilled me to the bone. As I was buttoning my tunic I heard a man's voice:
"Who was you talking to?"
At least he saw nothing, I thought.
"Nobody," I heard her reply. Then light came through the window. I kept back, but I could see in from where I was standing. The man held a match to the parafin lamp on the table. Then he caught sight of my leather coat.
"Nobody?" he shouted, striking the girl across the face. She staggered back, but did not cry out. He made for the door. She grabbed hold of him but he flung her across the room. I saw the light gleam along the barrel of a shotgun as he shoved a couple of cartridges into the breech. The door opened. I pressed myself against the wall and, as he started out, stuck out my foot. He tripped over it and sprawled forward on his face. A second he lay in the unsteady shaft of light thrown out by the flickering lamp. I was wearing heavy army boots. My left foot caught him behind the ear with enough force to place a goal from half-way. He lay quite still after that. I grabbed the shotgun which had slipped from his hand when he fell. The girl came out.
"What are we going to do with him?" I asked, "Got a cellar where we can throw him?"
She was quite composed. There was blood on her lip where he had struck her.
"No need," she said. "We've got the gun. Leave him to me."
We carried him in and laid him on the bunk. I pulled on my leather coat and took the cartridges out of the gun.
"Has he any more?"
"What if he has?" she said.
"You're not scared?" I asked.
She laughed. I looked at the man. His mouth was open. One of his ears was bleeding. His eyes were a little open but he was seeing nothing. She drew me to the door.
"Give me the gun," she said. "And if he starts after me?"
"He won't," she said, "All I got to say is the sojers is here and he won't stick his nose outside the door for a week."
"Deserter?" I said.
She did not reply. Our breath showed up clear on the night air. I pulled the door to and took her in my arms....I left her then in the dark without a word.
Had it not been for complaints from Odessa by telephone, Warden and I had so carefully prepared our story that we would have been clear of all blame insofar as the crashes were concerned. But these reports of stunting over a crowd had to be investigated. Happily, the average farmer's description of aerial manoeuvering is anything but technical. One claim was that two machines had been looping fifty feet from the ground. My defense was logical. Engine trouble had forced me to manoeuvre for a landing in a small field behind the Fair ground, but the trees around it had made this impossible. My flight commander flew over to Odessa. He came back to corroborate my story.