EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

brought down. There would be one more journey. In
the last machine would be Sir Francis Humphrys.

On the 26th of February, a single bomber sped
towards the hills for the last time. It was on the ground
only a few moments. Sir Francis Humphrys, hearing
its approach, ran to the roof of the Legation and hauled
down the Union Jack. Folding it and tucking it under
one arm, he took a last look round the Legation, home
of his personal treasures as well as his happiest hours.
Then, by one of those queer impulses which affect men
at dramatic moments, he picked out of its shattered
glass case a stuffed woodcock, tucked the incongruous
bird under the other arm, and ran for the 'plane. He
landed at Peshawar, a wreck of his former self, nerve-
racked and ill, with the absurd bird still tightly clasped
to his body.

He was the last of 586 souls safely flown from a
besieged city with one single mishap, and that on the
ground. The Air Force had brought off a feat that
thrilled the world.

The great 'planes roared their way in echelon down
to Delhi. Whole towns turned out at the beat of their
engines in the sky. I saw them when, a day or two
later, their wireless instruments were receiving in the
air the congratulations of the King. Then they flew
to Delhi, each pilot and navigator to be personally
congratulated by the Viceroy of India.

I spoke to Sir Francis Humphrys the night he arrived
once more on British soil. He was a weary man, proud
but still sick at heart at the destruction of hopes as
well as homes, that he had seen. He had, I think,
really believed in the good intentions of the exile who
was now licking his wounds in Kandahar. He had
never crossed the border-line of diplomacy, but he had
done his best in an indirect way to slow up the progress

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