until the very last days at Helles, there was scarcely ever an enemy's
plane which put up a successful fight against our own.

In France the enemy is almost as much in the air as we are. He has to be
reckoned with all the time, and fierce fighting in the air, either
against German machines or in face of German shell-fire such as we
scarcely even imagined in watching the air-fighting of Gallipoli, is
the daily spectacle of the trenches. We have seen a brave flight by a
German low down within rifle-shot. But never anything to compare with
the indifference to danger of the British pilots.

I was in the lines the other day when there sounded close at hand salvo
after salvo so fast that I took it for a bombardment. The Germans were
firing at one of our aeroplanes. It was flying as low as I ever saw a
plane fly in Gallipoli--you could make out quite clearly the rings
painted on the planes, which meant a British machine. A sputtering rifle
fire broke out from the German trenches opposite--their infantry were
firing at him. Then came that salvo again--twelve reports in quick
succession--a sheaf of shells whining overhead like so many
puppies--burst after burst in the sky, some short, some far past
him--you would swear they must have gone through him--one right over
him.

The hearts of our men were in their mouths as they watched. He sailed
straight through the shrapnel puffs, turned sharply, and steered away. A
new salvo broke out over the sky where he should have been. He
immediately swerved into it like a footballer making a dodging run, then
turned away again. A minute later a third sheaf of shells burst behind
him, following him up. "He ought to be safe now," one thought to
oneself, "but my word, they nearly got him--"