An account of the sensational landing of a French bombarding aeroplane containing two aviators has come from an officer in the Doiran district: ‘A piece of bursting shrapnel having severed one of the control wires of an aeroplane,’ he writes, ‘the machine began to dive head-foremost and was apparently lost. It was falling within the enemy’s lines, to the great delight of the Bulgarians. When within a hundred yards of the ground the observer managed to leave his seat, and succeeded in hoisting himself on to the upper plane of his machine, where, lying on the canvas, he was able to restore the balance of the machine by moving the plane by hand. The motor controls were undamaged, and as soon as the equilibrium of the aeroplane was restored it was able to return to the Allied lines and land without further mishap, with a bomb still on board.’ Another sensational incident was that of a naval observer in a ‘sausage’ balloon operating in Macedonia, attacked by two Fokkers, which fired a stream of bullets, piercing the ‘sausage’ at several points and destroying the telephone. The observer had on board a small machine-gun and a parachute. After having sent the contents of two belts of ammunition at his enemies, the gun jammed. He then threw himself overboard with his parachute, and fell for about 600 feet. At last, however, the parachute opened, and the observer landed safely. After which the balloon was repaired and he went up again. From the Secretary of State for India news came in November, 1916, of aeroplanes being used in Indian warfare for the first time. Large Mohmand forces (estimated at 6,000) collected on the border opposite Shubkadr, and were dealt with by our aviators with remarkable effect. Each passing day our heroic airmen add to their laurels. But it must not be supposed that so much has been accomplished without the loss of valuable lives. Many heroic men—aviators of whom we are prouder than words can tell—have made the supreme sacrifice. CHAPTER XXXIV THE HEROIC DEAD ‘Those who die for their country,’ says the author of _The Wrack of the Storm_, ‘must not be numbered with the dead.... This death, on the field of battle, in the clash of glory, becomes more beautiful than birth, and exhales a grace greater than that of love. No life will ever give what their youth is offering us, that youth that gives, in one moment, the days and the years that lay before it. There is no sacrifice to be compared with that which they have made; for which reason there is no glory that can soar so high as theirs, no gratitude that can surpass the gratitude which we owe them. They have not only a right to the foremost place in our memories: they have a right to all our memories and to everything that we are, since we exist only through them.’