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Updated: May 13, 2025
In all these operations the airmen succeeded because of their intrepidity and their decision to take advantage of cover, otherwise a prevailing mist or low-lying clouds. Flight-Lieutenant Collet approached the Zeppelin shed at Dusseldorf at an altitude of 6,000 feet. There was a bank of mist below, which he encountered at 1,500 feet.
Wells put in the witness-box any flight-lieutenant who will swear that in his reeling aeroplane, as death seemed on the point of engulfing him, he felt uncertain whether it was God or he that was about to die, and gloriously certain that in any case he was about to "step straight into the immortal being of God"? And even if, in the excitement of violent action, such hallucinations do mean something to a peculiar type of mind, has any one dying of pneumonia or Bright's disease been known to declare that, though his mortal spark was on the point of extinction, he felt that "by the incorporation of the motives of his life into an undying purpose" he had triumphed over death and the grave?
When he returned with half a dozen blank canvases the flight-lieutenant, at table, was eating pork and black bread and drinking Breton cider. Wayland seated himself, laid both crutches across his knees, picked up one of the chassis, and began to rip from it the dusty canvas. It was like tearing muscles from his own bones.
Flight-Lieutenant C. appeared, rather younger than his Captain, a long, slender youth, with serious brow and thoughtful eyes, whom I forthwith questioned as diplomatically as might be. "Oh, yes!" he answered, in response to my various queries, "it was exciting for a minute or so, but I expect the Captain has been pulling your leg no end. Yes, they smashed my gun.
Do you think you could find us a bit of sail, or something, to use for patching?" Wayland indicated an old high-backed chair of oak, quaintly embellished with ancient leather in faded blue and gold. It had been a royal chair in its day, or the Fleur-de-Lys lied. The flight-lieutenant seated himself with a rather stiff bow.
Who are you?" asked Wayland. "West flight-lieutenant, 10th division, Cinque-Ports patrolling squadron." "Good heavens, man! What are you doing in Finistère?" "What!" "You are in Brittany, province of Finistère. Didn’t you know it?" The air-officer seemed astounded. Presently he said: "The dirty weather foxed us. Then that fellow out yonder winged us. I was glad enough to see a coast line."
"Evidently you can’t go with me." "Haven’t you enough petrol to take you to Lorient?" "How far is Lorient?" Wayland told him. "I don’t know," said the flight-lieutenant; "I’ll have to try to get somewhere. I suppose it is useless for me to ask," he added, "but have you, by any chance, a bit of canvas an old sail or hammock? I don’t need much.
So far as aerial excursions are concerned the most brilliant exploit is undoubtedly that of Flight-Lieutenant C.H. Collet, of the Naval Wing of the British Flying Corps, who, with a fleet of five aeroplanes swept across the German frontier and, hovering over Düsseldorf, dropped three bombs with unerring effect upon the Zeppelin sheds.
That’s what I came for and some shellac and wire, and a screwdriver of sorts? We need patching as well as petrol; and we’re a little short of supplies." Wayland’s steady gaze never left him, but his smile was friendly. "We’re in a tearing hurry, too," added the flight-lieutenant, looking out of the window. Wayland smiled. "Of course there’s no petrol here. There’s nothing here.
Once a day a coast guard patrols along the cliffs " "When?" "He has passed, unfortunately. Otherwise he might signal by relay to Lorient and have them send you out some petrol. By the way are you hungry?" The flight-lieutenant showed all his firm, white teeth under a yellow mustache, which curled somewhat upward.
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