It should be understood, however, that the experiences of the writer must not be taken as typical of those of all pilots at the front. The R.F.C. has different squadrons for different duties, and different types of machines suited to the nature of those duties. In the faster type of machine it is possible to do better and more dangerous work, and, even in one’s own squadron, the duties of a colleague may have been more onerous and more trying than those described. In a fighting squadron the pilot may have almost daily combats in the air; in another, he may have very long and very trying reconnaissance work. “Compared with that of some squadrons,” writes “Theta,” “our work is pleasant.”
By : Lessel Finer Hutcheon (1897 - 1962)
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The first number of the well-thumbed file of Flight, carefully kept by “Theta” up to the present day, bears date July 30, 1910, just two years after the first public flight in the world. At that time this particular public-schoolboy was thirteen years of age. His interest in aviation, however, dated from considerably before that period, and its first manifestation took the form of paper gliders. Beyond the fact that they could be manipulated with marvellous dexterity and that they could be extremely disturbing to the rest of the class in school, no more need be said. In December 1910 “Theta” felt that he had a message on airships to convey to the world, and he communicated it through the medium of the school Journal. Thenceforward he wrote regularly on flying topics for the Journal, and for four years acted as its Aeronautical Editor. Throughout 1911, with two school friends, he also assisted in producing Aviation, a cyclostyle sheet of small circulation proudly claimed as “the first monthly penny Aviation journal in the world.” Therein the various types of machines were discussed with all the delightful cocksureness of youth, and various serial stories based on flying adventures duly ran their course. For some years he pursued the construction of model aeroplanes with an assiduity that may well have been fatal to school work and games, and that was kept up until the German power-driven model drove the elastically-propelled machines into the realms of toydom. A motley crowd of enthusiasts used to gather every Saturday and Sunday in one of the great open spaces of London for the practice of their craft—nearly all boys in their teens, occasionally one or two grown-ups with mechanical interests. When the War came the group broke up. Some of them took up real aircraft construction; others became attached to the Air Service, naval and military, as mechanics. At least two became flying officers.
In July 1911 “Theta” obtained his first Pilot’s Certificate, from an Aero Club which he had assisted in founding. The document is perhaps sufficiently interesting to reproduce:
No. 1
X.Y.Z. AERO CLUB: PILOT’S CERTIFICATE
I hereby Certify that “Theta” has passed the required tests for the above-named Certificate. The tests have been witnessed by the undernamed:
R. H. W. and J. H. C.,
who are Members of the X.Y.Z. Aero Club.
The tests are as follows:—
1. Flight of 100 yards.
2. Circular flight of any distance provided the machine does not touch the ground and lands within fifteen yards of the starting-point.
3. Or (alternative) flight of any distance when machine flies not less than six feet higher than the starting-point.
4. Flight lasting at least eight seconds.
The above tests have been approved by the members of the Club.
The tests would have been very different a few months later, and really wonderful long-distance flights were afterwards accomplished.
In order to be able to write with some authority, “Theta” kept abreast of all developments in Aeronautics, reading with avidity all the literature on the subject and visiting the flying-grounds. The first aeroplane he saw in the air was when Paulhan gave a demonstration of flying at Sandown Park. Subsequently numerous pilgrimages to Brooklands and Hendon were made.
There followed visits to France in the vacations. On the second visit “Theta” and a companion, it was afterwards discovered, cycled round the rough and narrow stone parapet of a fort when a single slip would have meant precipitation into a moat on one side, or into the sea on the other. It was a test of nerves. The return from the third visit was memorable. “Theta” had left his portmanteau on a railway platform in Normandy and his waterproof on the Cross-channel steamer; but he arrived at Waterloo serenely content with the wreck of his model aeroplane wrapped up in an old French newspaper and a bathing-towel. His knowledge of French and his customary luck, however, served him, and the missing impedimenta duly followed him up in the course of a day or two. Of his French friends—three brothers—one was killed in the opening months of the War; a second was wounded and taken prisoner by the Germans, after an adventure that would have won him the V.C. in this country; and the third, as interpreter, was one of the links between the Allied forces at the Dardanelles, and is now engaged on similar work.
A few months before war broke out “Theta” visited Germany and photographed the Zeppelin “Viktoria Luise” and its hangar at Frankfort. He was immensely struck by the ease with which the huge airship was manipulated, and with its value as a sea scout; but as a fighting instrument he put his money on the heavier-than-air machines. So grew day by day, month by month, and year by year—without the least slackening—that interest in aviation which came to fruition in war time.
“Theta” was born in May 1897; the War broke out in August 1914. On his eighteenth birthday “Theta” decided that it was time to “get a move on.” His ambition from the first had been to enter the Royal Flying Corps. This was opposed chiefly because of his youth and seeming immaturity and the excessive danger attached to training. But fate, impelled by inclination, proved too strong. He had been a member of his O.T.C. for four years, and had attended camps at Aldershot and Salisbury Plain; but he deliberately set his face against “foot-slogging.” He urged that though he was old enough to risk his own life he was not old enough to risk the lives of others—his seniors—by accepting an infantry commission.
After many preliminaries an appointment was secured at the War Office with a High Official of Military Aeronautics. There “Theta” was subjected to a curiously interesting catechism which seemed to touch on nearly every possible branch of activity under the sun except aviation. Finally the High Official, probably seeing a way of ridding himself of a candidate who had accomplished little or nothing of the various deeds of daring enumerated in the Shorter Catechism, suggested an immediate medical examination on the premises. That ordeal safely passed, “Theta” returned to his catechist, who said wearily, “Well, we’ll try you, but you know you have not many of the qualifications for a flying officer.” “Theta” returned to school to await his summons, which was promised within two months. The school term ended; a motor-cycling holiday in Devon followed—and still no call. On the return to London a reminder was sent to the War Office. There immediately came a telegram ordering “Theta” to report for instruction at what may be called Aerodrome “A.”
Training began almost at once with a joy-ride of ten minutes’ duration. But the weather was for the most part what the aviators in their slang call “dud.” An “abominable mist” hung over the aerodrome, and consequently, though the period of instruction was fairly prolonged, the opportunities for flights were few. There was much waiting and little flying, and the bored youth was driven to music and rhyming to fill up the interstices. But before the end of the year a good deal had been accomplished. At the close of his eleventh lesson “Theta” was told to hold himself in readiness for a “solo” performance.
After four more flights came the successful tests for the “Ticket” which transforms the pupil into a certificated aviator. This preliminary triumph was celebrated the same evening by a joy-ride at nearly 2,000 feet, the highest altitude that “Theta” had reached on a solo performance. Nearly four years and a half had elapsed between the schoolboy “Ticket” and the real thing.
Then came a transfer to another and more advanced type of machine. On this there were but three flights with an instructor, and then another “solo” performance. Towards the close of the year “Theta” left Aerodrome “A” for Aerodrome “B,” having in the meantime been gazetted as a probationary second lieutenant, Special Reserve.
The advanced course occupied about three months. It proved more exciting in many ways. In the elementary portion of training “Theta” saw many “crashes,” none of which, however, proved fatal. In the second, war conditions more nearly prevailed, and at times—when, for example, three colleagues lost their lives in flying, and a Canadian friend who shared his hut in training was reported “missing, believed killed,” within a few weeks of reaching the front—the stern realities of his new profession were driven home.
But youth is ever cheerful and optimistic. In fulness of time there came a flight of a covey of seven “probationaries” in one taxicab to an examination centre for “wings,” a successful ending, followed shortly afterwards by final leave, an early-morning gathering of newly made flying officers at Charing Cross Station, the leave-taking, and the departure to the front.
Training was over; the testing-time had come. Before his nineteenth birthday was reached “Theta” had been across the German lines.
His letters may now be allowed to “carry on.”
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