When I left for my leave to England, I was not very keen on going. The excitement of the chase had a tight hold on my heart-strings, and I felt that the only thing I wanted was to stay right at it and fight, and fight and fight in the air. I don’t think I was ever happier in my life. It seemed that I had found the one thing I loved above all others. To me it was not a business or a profession, but just a wonderful game. To bring down a machine did not seem to me to be killing a man; it was more as if I was just destroying a mechanical target, with no human being in it. Once or twice the idea that a live man had been piloting the machine would occur and recur to me, and it would worry me a bit. My sleep would be spoiled perhaps for a night. I did not relish the idea even of killing Germans, yet, when in a combat in the air, it seemed more like any other kind of sport, and to shoot down a machine was very much the same as if one were shooting down clay pigeons. One had the great satisfaction of feeling that he had hit the target and brought it down; that one was victorious again.
When I reached England, however, I found I was in a very nervous condition. I could not be still. After a week there, in which I enjoyed myself tremendously, I found I was getting quieter, and realised that my leave was probably doing me a world of good. My last week of leave I enjoyed without stint, every minute seeming better than the one before. To make it still more ideal I did not have the usual dread of going back to France—I was looking forward to it. I realised that this short rest had quieted my nerves, and had left me in a much better state of health, so that when the two weeks were up and the day came for my return I gladly got on the train leaving Charing Cross, and all day looked forward to my return to the squadron. By great luck, I managed to catch an automobile going in my direction from Boulogne, and arrived at the aerodrome the same night I had left London. I felt like a small boy returning home for his holidays. I was plied with questions as to what “Good old England” looked like, what I had done and what was happening in “Blighty,” and in my turn I was full of questions as to what had happened in the squadron while I was away. Many things had; several people had been killed, and quite a number of Hun machines had been shot down by our pilots. A great many exciting and a great many amusing fights in the air were related.
It was typical of the attitude of these comrades of mine that when a man had been in an exceedingly tight corner, and had managed to squeeze out of it, it was later related as a very amusing, not as a very terrible incident, and as the narrator would tell his story the others would shriek with laughter at the tale of how nearly he had been hit and how “scared” he had been. It was such a wonderful way to take life that upon looking back at it I feel that nothing the future can ever hold for me can excel those wonderful days. Face to face with death every day, but always with the best of comrades and the most tried of friends, it has left a wonderful memory with me.
The day after rejoining the squadron, I did my first job at nine o’clock in the morning. I must admit I felt very funny in the machine. I seemed to have lost all “feel” of it and could not turn or fly it properly at all. However, that day I had two jobs, and by the end of the second luckily had run into no exciting episodes.
Then came the reaction. I felt a wonderful thrill at being back in the air again, and handling my beloved Nieuport. It seemed that nothing was dangerous, and that to throw this machine about in the air, was just the best sport that had ever been invented. I remember racing along close to the ground, seeing how close I could make my wing tips come to the sheds and trees without hitting them. It was all just a wonderful thrill, and no thought of peril entered my head. That evening I went up and spent an hour in flying, just for the pure pleasure of it. Life was as sweet as it could be, and I saw the world through rose-coloured glasses.
That night the romance of our life at the front was brought home to me again. We spent the evening after dark standing around a piano, while one of our number played popular songs, the remainder singing in loud and varied keys, going on the principle that if you cannot sing at least you can make a joyful noise.
About nine o’clock a party of ten others arrived from a squadron stationed near us, and we had more music and songs with them. Everybody was happy; flying and fighting had been forgotten for the moment, and war was a thing far, far away. Toward the end of the party we went to the farmyard nearby, appropriated some small pigs only a few months old, and placed them in the room of one of our pilots who was dining out. Then, about eleven o’clock, when he had come back, we went into the next room to listen through the thin partition to his remarks when he entered his pig-filled boudoir. In a small space about ten by six, over fifteen of us were jammed anxiously waiting for the climax of the evening. In the other room the little pigs were grunting away merrily, and it was all we could do to keep from roaring with laughter. It was pitch black, and with the funny little squeals coming through the partition, there would occasionally be a bit of a scamper, for although we at first placed the pigs on the bed, on looking over the partition I saw they were moving around the room in formation, one of their number evidently having assigned himself the position of leader of the pork patrol.
Unfortunately, the episode fell through miserably, as the pigs took up a station near the door, and when the owner of the room returned and opened it he walked across to light his lamp. The pigs, seeing the opening before he had seen them, made a dash and managed to get out, with a great chorus of squealing. They hid under the huts, and it took the rest of us several hours to find them and take them back to their mother.
After going to bed, I was awakened by one of my dogs scampering out of the hut. I listened for a minute and heard voices outside, got up and walked out in my pajamas. It was a perfect moonlight night, without a breath of wind, and bright as could be. Outside two or three others were standing in pajamas, and after asking what was the matter I was told there was a German machine overhead. Listening carefully, I could hear the beat of a Mercedes engine about a mile away. We could not see the Hun but could hear him quite distinctly as he flew past. Then came the explosions as a few bombs were dropped, and then more explosions as the anti-aircraft guns located the moonlight marauder and began to fire. We could see little bursts of flame as the shells exploded high in the air. It was a beautiful show. The light was too bright even to see the stars, but these fierce little bursts of flame dotted the sky first in one spot, then in another, and gradually travelled in a line towards the trenches, as the enemy made in that direction. He got away safely, however, and we returned to bed.
In our home in a beautiful green orchard, our life was full of the most extraordinary contrasts. One minute we were as far removed from the war as if we were in South America, and an hour later we would be fighting for our lives or carrying on in some way directly connected with the mad world struggle. It all added to the lure of life and somehow made the real fighting, when it came, seem less real and tragic.