Summary

Rowland Walker Dastral of the Flying Corps

Cras-s-sh came a shell right into his engine, and the machine went down in a wild spinning nose-dive, just behind the enemy's front line trench.
Dastral and his comrades gnashed their teeth, as they saw their two comrades thus hurled to death, but, after all, death is only an incident in the life of a pilot of the Royal Flying Corps, and who shall mourn when a hero dies? In these days of blood and iron, when Britain stands once more at the cross roads, freedom and honour can only be purchased by the blood of her bravest sons.
Source: Gutenberg

Rowland Walker Dastral of the Flying Corps

Just tell me about one of them, say your fight with Himmelman!"
"Bah! It was nothing, Tim--nothing, I mean to make a song about. If I could write and speak like you, now, I might be able to make a tale about it. But nature hasn't gifted me that way," replied the pilot.
"But don't you feel the romance and glory of it all, fighting a battle in the air at ten thousand feet?"
"Romance, glory?" laughed Dastral. "There is no romance or glory about war, when you are in it. It is horrid and brutal then. You must be miles away to see the romance of it. It is all an ugly business."
Source: Gutenberg

Rowland Walker Dastral of the Flying Corps

Huge forks of fire leapt three hundred feet into the air, and the heat was so fierce within a hundred feet that everybody within that zone of fire was scorched and fell fainting or dead.
"Some blaze that, Jock!" cried Dastral as soon as they had left the fire curtain of shrapnel behind them, and could observe the burning mass properly.
"Yes, there's a Zeppelin in there, I'll swear to it. Else it would never blaze like that." Scarcely had he spoken, when a terrific explosion rent the air, fifty times as loud and terrible as that caused by the bursting of the twenty-pound bombs.
Source: Gutenberg

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