with uncongenial duties. As regards actual
fighting the airman again has the advantage. For those with a suitable
temperament there is tense joy in an air scrap; there is none in
trudging along a mile of narrow communication trench, and then, arrived
at one's unlovely destination, being perpetually ennuied by crumps and
other devilries. And in the game of poker played with life, death, and
the will to destroy, the airman has but to reckon with two marked
cards--the Ace of Clubs, representing Boche aircraft, and the Knave
Archibald; whereas, when the infantryman stakes his existence, he must
remember that each sleeve of the old cheat Death contains half a dozen
cards.

All this by way of prelude to a protest against the exaggerative
ecstasies indulged in by many civilians when discussing the air
services. The British pilots are competent and daring, but they would be
the last to claim an undue share of war's glory. Many of them deserve
the highest praise; but then so do many in all other fighting branches
of Army and Navy. An example of what I mean is the reference to R.F.C.
officers, during a Parliamentary debate, as "the super-heroes of the
war,"--a term which, for ungainly absurdity, would be hard to beat. To
those who perpetrate such far-fetched phrases I would humbly say: "Good
gentlemen, we are proud to have won your approval, but for the Lord's
sake don't make us ridiculous in the eyes of other soldiers."

Yet another asset of the airman is that his work provides plenty of
scope for the individual, who in most sections of the Army is held on
the leash of system and co-operation. The war pilot, though subject to
the exigencies of formation flying, can attack and manoeuvre as he
pleases. Most of the star performers are individualists who concentrate
on whatever methods of destroying an enemy best suit them.

Albert Ball, probably the most brilliant air fighter of the war, was the
individualist _in excelsis_. His deeds were the outcome partly of
pluck--certainly not of luck--but mostly of thought, insight,
experiment, and constant practice. His knowledge of how to use sun,
wind, and clouds, coupled with an instinct for the "blind side" of
whatever Hun machine he had in view, made him a master in the art of
approaching unobserved. Arrived at close quarters, he usually took up
his favourite position under the German's tail before opening fire. His
experience then taught him to anticipate any move that an unprepared