WAR

perseverance have been beyond all praise. They have furnished me with the
most complete and accurate information, which has been of incalculable value in
the conduct of operations. Fired at constantly, both by friend and foe, and not
hesitating to fly in every kind of weather, they have remained undaunted
throughout."
The four squadrons of the RFC billed to go to France had assembled at
Dover on August 12, landing in parks and on playing fields. The one-night
camp was astir at dawn—most of the pilots and ground crew had slept under
the wings of their machines—and the order was passed that everything was to be
ready for the start to an undisclosed destination at six o'clock.
The engines were started up and Lieutenant Colonel F.
H. Sykes, then Chief
of Air Staff, came to see the aeroplanes and crews off. He told the pilots their
destination, Amiens, and pointed out the approximate route on a map. Straight
across the Channel to Cap Gris Nez, then down the coast of France to the mouth
of the Somme, then along the course of the river to Amiens. One hundred twenty
miles; two hours. Piece of cake, really. Then Sykes shook hands with each man
in turn. The handshake was a bit of bad judgement, and most of the pilots felt
it had been better left out for it imparted a depressing "God be with you" tone to
the operation. Aviators, like actors, are a superstitious lot in spite of themselves,
and the most sincere expression of good wishes is better left unsaid; rather, you
must say "Hals unci Beinbruch," that is, "Break your neck and your legs," or
"I'll be slapping you in the face with a shovel, Buddy." Something delicate.
The mixed company of aeroplanes bumped across the ground, lifted into
the air, and turned their noses toward Britain's ancient bulwark, the Channel.
Lieutenant H. D. Harvey-Kelly of No. 2 Squadron, flying a B.E.2a, was
the first to leave and the first to arrive, setting down at Amiens about twenty
minutes past eight. One by one the others came in, although not necessarily in
the order of their departure. One pilot force-landed with engine trouble, and
several others, seeing his machine in a field, supposed that they had arrived and
landed beside him. Much annoyed, they then continued their flight to the correct
destination.
Not all of the aeroplanes and crews made it, however. One machine, a
Bleriot two-seater of No. 3 Squadron piloted by a Lieutenant Skene, leveled
off abruptly on leaving the ground and, instead of climbing to join its fellows,
continued on a level course that soon took it out of sight behind the trees girding
the field. The men who had been watching from the ground exchanged glances,
then froze as the engine suddenly cut out. An appalling silence endured for a
fraction of eternity, then there came a splintering crash and the men began to
run toward the sound.
They found the wreck in a clump of trees, the early morning sun slanting
across the shattered wood and bloodied linen.
The Royal Flying Corps had lost the first of six thousand.
B.E.2a