IN CLOUDLAND

New Zealand Tablet, 20 June 1918, Page 28

IN CLOUDLAND

WHAT THE AIRMAN SEES. (By K. L., in London Dull;/ Mail.) ■ On a dull and overcast day, when the leaden ceiling of clouds moves slowly overhead, shutting out every gleam of sunshine, every sign of blue sky, it is very pleasant to climb into an aeroplane, start its engine, and soar upwards from the ground, leaving far below the unfortunate earth-bound mortals, crawling on the ground like ants.

Slowly you climb under the drifting-clouds, until you are moving immediately underneath them, and every now and then some low-lying fragment passes — a wisp of grey, whirling vapor. Now begin the difficulties of your task. You do not know the thickness of the barrier above, and flying through it will be very dangerous, for you will have no horizon to guide you, no ground to look at in order to correct your level. It will be possible to turn upside down, to slide on your tail, or to nose-dive, unconsciously, having no instrument but your speed indicator to show your position in relation to the earth. You continue to climb, and the grey damp vapor begins to surround the machine, shutting from your view the countryside below. You have a last glimpse of a little village and some trees, and then you are entirely immersed in a grey, cold nothingness. There is nothing bslow, nothing above, nothing on either side save vapor and fog. You watch your speed indicatorthe finger moves upward and upward, registering an ever-growing speed. The machine must be diving to earth. You pull back the "stick" a little, and at once the finger on the dial begins to reverse, till it registers such a low speed that you are sure you must be climbing almost vertically. Once again the "stick" goes forward, and the speed increases alarmingly. You are buffeted from, side

to side by wind eddies, and continually the maehine drops suddenly in an "air-pocket" and has to be corrected by a quick movement of the "stick." It is a difficult time. You wonder if this watery greyness will ever end. Your height indicator shows that you have already climbed a thousand feet in it and are approaching the second thousand. Then there is a sudden feeling that the fog is growing lighter and lighter, and to your delight you see for a moment a glimpse of blue sky, which is quickly blotted out. You still climb, and suddenly burst through the barrier into a panorama of almost indescribable beauty. For miles and miles, as far as you can see, the billowy ranges of snow-white clouds are lit by the glorious sun, which shines in the deep blue of the cloudless sky above. It is a new world. The blue of the sky is a deeper blue than is seen from the earth ; the dazzling whiteness of the rolling mountain range is purer than the whiteness of the snow-clad Alps ; even the sun seems more serene and golden than the sun which you have seen on the distant earth far below. The great panorama seems so solid and so real that it is difficult to believe that underneath it lies another country, grey and dismal, but just as substantial. It seems strange to think that you have pierced those clouds and have risen through the sunny hills, to wander over them at your ease, and to sail along the shadowy valleys and rush gloriously over the towering summits. You are alone in a 'great loneliness. There is no one to share the splendor of it; no one to gambol with you down the sunny slopes, on which you can almost imagine fat, dimpled cherubims to be sleeping or playing lazily in the golden sunlight.