The psychology of flying would be a curious study, were it not so difficult to get frankly stated data--uninfluenced by pride, self-respect, or sense of morale. I only know my own feelings in so far as they represent the average single-seater pilot. Once in the air, I am perfectly contented and at home, somewhat bored at times on dull days, or when very high and cold. On the other hand, I have never been strapped in a machine to leave the ground, without an underlying slight nervousness and reluctance; no great matter, and only an instant's mental struggle to overcome, but enough perhaps to prevent me from flying the very small and powerful machines, for pleasure, after the war. I often wonder if other pilots have the same feeling--it's nothing to be ashamed of, because it does not, in the slightest, prevent one's doing one's duty, and disappears the moment one is in the air. I can give you its measure in the fact that I always prefer, when possible, to make a long journey in my machine, to doing it in the deadly slow war-time trains. Still, it's a choice of evils. It is hard to give reasons, but certainly flying is not an enjoyable sport, like riding or motoring, once the wonder of it has worn off; simply a slightly disagreeable but marvelously fast means of transport. The wind, the noise, the impossibility of conversation, the excessive speed--are all unpleasant features. These are partially redeemed by the never-ceasing wonder of what one sees. One's other senses are useless in the air, but what a feast for the eyes! Whole fruitful domains spread out beneath one, silvery rivers, smoking cities, perhaps a glimpse of the far-off ragged Alps. And when, at eighteen or twenty thousand feet, above a white endless sea of clouds, one floats almost unconscious of time and space in the unearthly sunshine of the Universe, there are moments when infinite things are very close. The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS U . S . A