"I'll tell you," said the C.O. "It is because he was once in the infantry, as I was; and because he knows, as I do, what it means to the line to have an artillery observing machine over directing shells on to you fellows, or taking photos that will locate your positions and bring Hades down on you. Every Hun that comes over the line, _you_ fellows have to sweat for; every minute a gun-spotter or photographer or reconnaissance machine works over you, _you_ pay for in killed and wounded. Lots of our pilots don't properly realise that, and treat air fighting as more or less of a sporting game, or just as the job they're here for. The Little Butcher knows that every Hun crashed means so many more lives saved on the ground, every Hun that gets away alive will be the death of some of you; so he's full out to crash them--whenever, wherever, and however he can." The two guests fidgeted a little and glanced shamefacedly at one another. "I hadn't thought----" began one, and "I never looked at it----" said the other. "No," said the C.O., "and few men on the ground do, because they don't know any better. P'raps you'll tell some of 'em. And don't forget--although I admit that, as he told the story, it mightn't sound like it--his isn't the simple butchering game you seem to think. You didn't see his 'bus when it was brought in? No. Well, it had just thirty-seven bullet holes in it, including one through the windscreen, a foot off his head. Any one of those might have crashed him; and he knows it. Some day one of them will get him; and he also knows that. But he takes his risks, and will keep on taking 'em--because every risk, every Hun downed, is saving some of you fellows on the floor. There's a-many women at home to-night who might be widows and are still wives; and for that you can thank God--and The Little Butcher." "I see," said the one listener slowly--"I see." "So do I," said the other. "And I'm glad you told us. Now," thrusting his chair back, "I'm going to find The Little Butcher, and apologise to him." "Me too," said the first--"apologise, and thank him for all he's done, and is doing--for us." XIV A CUSHY JOB[5] [5] Cushy=easy, soft. A Ferry Pilot once told me that he had a very pleasant and "cushy" job, especially when you compared it with the one in a Squadron working over the lines. Because we had just made an ideal flight across Channel on a beautiful summer day, and were sitting in comfortable deck-chairs, basking in the sun outside the Pool Pilots' Mess after a good lunch, I was inclined at first to believe him. A little later he told a story which made me revise that belief, the more so as it was not told to impress, and was accepted by the other Ferry Pilots there present so casually and with so little comment that it was apparently an experience not at all beyond the average.