The heroism and courage of the airmen were without precedent, but none the less admirable. Those stripling pilots of the air that flew undaunted over shell-fire in all weathers and at all times have opened up a chapter in our history that nothing can rival. Who can define the psychology of these young men who can meet death as an old acquaintance and pass him, mocking, by--who laugh at fear, and make a jest of danger? Is it that they are without nerve entirely, or is it rather a pose, a lovable bravado that hides their true feelings? Is it that they are rather less devoid of fear than their brothers in the trenches? Hardly. We have known them, you and I, reader, in the last few years, but under a different guise--as happy, laughing schoolboys, as young men plunging into life, the “flanneled fools and muddied oafs” of Britain, and suddenly they have become men, ready and eager to share a man’s burdens and responsibilities, yet no whit altered; but deadly in earnest when there is work to be done on the other side. Undoubtedly the air does affect a man to a degree, and endows him with that strange malady, flying temperament, that makes him reckless, and, to a certain extent, headstrong; occasionally to get out of hand, and to find rules and discipline chafing and irksome. But then the air has a call of its own that few can resist; that runs through a man’s veins like flame, and whispers courage and defiance into his ear, that invites his sympathy, his love, his esteem. But the air is a fickle mistress, and woe betide he who dares to slight her or make free at her expense; he must pay the penalty, and that penalty is--death. Every known sensation is experienced in flying: joy--the joy of youth astride the dull old world, accomplishing what previous generations dared not to attempt; excitement, to feel the cool air brushing one’s cheek, and whistling past one’s ears; fear, danger, hope and despair; all are crowded into this one brief hour of life. Day after day, in all kinds of weather, the airman must go up, for the battle seldom slackens and never pauses on the earth beneath. One day reconnoitering--that is, making a long flight over the enemy’s country under a continual bombardment from the Hun anti-aircraft guns, noting any fresh movements of enemy troops, gun emplacements, headquarters, supply depots, ammunition columns, or any unusual activity on his roads or railways. Another day taking part in a bombing raid on some distant military center, or perhaps out fighting enemy aircraft; but always taking his life in his hands, and never knowing each morning as he sets out whether he will return again.