I had but
very shortly before done my first solo in England. The British
were fairly short of fliers then, or I should not have been sent
out. I arrived at the airdrome full of conceit, thinking I was a
real pilot.
"The morning after I got there they led me out and stood me alongside
a double-seater. The boss of that shop told me he wanted to see me
take it around for a try-out, and then it was off and away for the
front. He said considerately that I might wait a few minutes until
another new arrival had done his little preliminary canter.
"The other victim started up, taxied toward the other side of the
field that served for an airdrome, and lifted too late, with the
result that he caught the wheels of his chassis in the tall hedge
and came down in mighty nasty fashion on the other side, just out of
sight. That is, he was out of sight. The tail of his plane stuck up
to show what a real header he had taken. I found out later that he
got out of that smash with a broken leg and a bad shake-up, but when
I was standing there by that machine, waiting to go up, I thought
the poor devil who had the tumble must have been killed, sure.
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