My Life

My Life - Oswald MosleyI decided to ignore the order, for I was then imbued with the fatalism of war, wasdead tired and felt an obligation to rejoin the squadron as quickly as possible. I wentstraight through Ypres.Then came the strangest experience. I found myself quite alone in the middle of thegreat square, spellbound for a moment by the enduring vision. Many of the glories ofthat architecture were already in ruins, and entirely in flames. Noble buildingscollapsed in a sad fatigue born not of centuries but of a moment of bitterness, like achild's house of cards under a wanton hand, as heavy shells descended in direct hits.Too young for full consciousness, I yet felt some premonition of the sorrow: what theEuropeans were capable of doing to each other; the waste, the tragic absurdity.I went on, rejoined the squadron at Poperinghe, made my report and returned to mylodging and to bed, where I fell into the deepest sleep. An hour or two later I woke asa nearby house went up with a heavy explosion. The Germans had already advancedtheir guns and brought Poperinghe within shelling range. I hurried round to the messand was told we had to get out at once, as there would soon be little left of theaerodrome or of our aircraft. The pilots flew out the machines at once and theobservers were responsible for the loading of the lorries and the evacuation of allstores. I rode out under fairly heavy fire perched on a load of bombs.Once the second battle of Ypres was over, the attack halted and a new line determined,the normal task of reconnaissance or working with guns was resumed. Boredominterrupted by terror, as someone well put it. The observers with some experiencewere now offered the opportunity of being trained as pilots. It seemed wellworthwhile, for our lives would then at least to some degree be in our own hands. Indesperate affairs there is always the desire to take action yourself, however great yourconfidence in the other man's decision and judgment. It is the natural desire of a backseatdriver to move to the front when it is a matter of life or death.Another consideration was that by this time I had become quite a bit the worse forwear. During a reconnaissance a partly spent piece of shell had hit me on the head andknocked me unconscious; it had not penetrated my flying-helmet and must havestruck flatly rather than with the sharp edge. But the blow was sufficient to leave mewith slight concussion, manifest in nothing more serious than recurrent headacheswhich I never otherwise suffered. On another occasion return in a damaged machinehad ended in the pond at the corner of Poperinghe aerodrome with a crash that threwme forward in the cockpit and damaged my knee; I walked with some difficulty. Theopportunity to acquire the desired pilot's wings, coupled with these disabilities,decided me to accept the offer of a training course. After a visit to a skilful bone-setterin London who put the knee right, and a short spell of leave and rest at home, Ireported for duty at the Flying School at Shoreham, near Brighton.The aerodrome at Shoreham was small and badly placed, next to the river. A take-offover the river was fairly frequent in the prevailing winds and resulted in a good bumpsoon after the wheels left the ground, when the nose of the machine was elevated andthe flying speed low; the transition from land to water in these slow and clumsymachines always produced this shock. Early aircraft simply wallowed in these airpockets which might push the nose up, tail up, or one wing down, and needed instantcorrection to prevent a stall, a dive or a side-slip. It was not therefore a good idea to55 of 424