at night-time, darkness was the least suitable time for aeroplanes in the stage of development which they had reached, on account of the difficulties of starting and of landing in the dark, as well as of seeing or hearing the airship from a machine flying aloft.
The German Government and the German people had thrown their fullest energies into the development of aircraft for war. Unfortunately we had not, and it is not too much to say that, during the first few months of the war, the responsible authorities in this country did not take the aerial menace seriously.
We, as practical airmen, had taken it up seriously—very seriously, and, as result, had devoted all our time and all our limited private means—for my governor was not too generous in the matter of an allowance—towards combating the rapidly increasing peril of air attack.
The first German attempt had been on Christmas Day in the previous year. As I happened to witness it, it had fired me with determination.
Shall I ever forget the excitement of that day. I had gone down the Thames to spend Christmas with my old friend, Jack Watson, of the Naval Flying Corps, when, under cover of a light fog, a German airman suddenly appeared.
We first saw him over the Estuary, slightly to, the south of us, flying at a height that we estimated at about 9,000 feet. There was great excitement. Anti-aircraft guns at once opened on him, but they failed to hit him. Lost to our view in a mist, he was not seen again until well up the river, and from the reports afterwards published it seems that fire
