To date I have never piloted a biplane, but for many nights before I had any thought of writing this book I dreamed I was sitting in the cockpit of a ‘black’ biplane. Although I could not see the wings, I just somehow ‘knew’ it was one. There was a tiny, half-moon windshield, an instrument panel with some gauges and a joystick in front of me. I could feel the wind on my face, icy cold in my bones, vibrations and movements of the aircraft through ‘the seat of my pants,’and a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach… A few nights later, the silhouetted head and shoulders of a young man started to haunt my dreams instead. Every time I dreamed of him, his face became a little clearer, and I eventually saw he was wearing old-fashioned flying goggles and a leather cap: everything was sepia-coloured like an old-fashioned photograph or daguerreotype plate. Silent at first, eventually he ‘said,’ a trifle forlornly, but not bitterly: ‘Please… ask them not to forget us… What we fought and died for… was it for nothing?’