Carry On
We climb as fast as possible, then turn to find him coming to meet us, almost on end. Another machine-gun duel between the observers. We have got him this time; he is hit, he drops suddenly. A few more shots from our gun and it will be all over with him. But our gun has jammed, hastily the observer tries to remedy it. It is too late. We have missed our opportunity. Nothing else for it but to put a new tray of ammunition in the gun and have another go at him. How difficult this is in mid-air! In the safety of terra firma it is the easiest thing in the world to take the gun to pieces, or to change the ammunition tray, but here, in the confined space of an aeroplane up in mid-air it is an entirely different matter. We are only just ready when he turns to meet us. Another duel—he has passed by.
Again we both wheel to the combat. This time he is on top of us. We give up hope, and prepare for the worst. On the top of us again; his shooting is bad, but he has got the observer in the arm. Turn round to escape—no combat possible with the man at the gun hors de combat; but the observer, plucky fellow! does not know the meaning of defeat. He signals to his pilot to carry on. We turn again. The enemy is confident that he has winged us. Too confident! We wait till he is almost level with us before we fire. Then zipp, zipp, zipp, he is hit. He plunges downward. We get on top of him. Another round of lead into his back. It is all over, he plunges headlong to earth; and with a feeling of regret for our gallant foe, who fought so well, we turn homewards to earth, peace, and safety.
[CHAPTER XX]
A BATTLE FROM ABOVE
Somewhere in the North of France,
Thursday.
Dawn—not as we imagine it; but a dawn with God’s clear Heaven filled with every winged messenger of death. The very earth is shaken with agony, and the face of the sun is blotted out by heavy, choking clouds of picric smoke that hangs and hovers over the earth like a pall.
Far in the background rises a battle aeroplane. Nearer and nearer to the line it creeps, and without any attention from the enemy’s anti-aircraft guns. The German artillery is too much engaged in work of a more serious nature—the work of hurling back the irresistible lines of British infantry.
The frail craft passes over the lines, and meeting with no opposition sinks lower in long, sweeping circles, and finally appears to hover, as nearly as an aeroplane can hover, some two miles to the east and well over the enemy’s country. Then it is bombarded on all sides with “Archibalds,” now above, now below, now immediately in front, now immediately behind, but the machine continues to maneuver as if entirely oblivious of shell fire. Other swiftly moving shapes have now crept out from the direction of the British base, and all are hovering over different portions of the long line of muddy trenches, while the battle rages in all its fury.
All the varied operations of the extensive battle-field are as an open book to the watch in that frail craft ... the battle swaying backward and forward from trench to trench, the hand-to-hand combat in the open, the ding-dong artillery duel, and the hurried rush of supports and reinforcements. Nothing can be hidden from this peering eye above, that transmits the news by wireless to the great guns far in the rear, and to the headquarters, where the commander traces every movement of the battle on his map, like a chess-player planning his moves and counter-moves on a chessboard.
The enemy’s country is more heavily wooded and more broken than our own. Dotted here and there are small straggling villages. To the north, on either side of the road, are two small villages, now a mass of ruins. Between them is the tall chimney of a sugar factory, from which the black smoke no longer rises; and behind it, nearer the firing line, the long, ragged arms of a windmill move furtively in the slight breeze. To the south, and immediately in the rear of another small village, there is a large and straggling cemetery.
Woods, farms, a broken and distorted railway line, another factory, and a narrow winding stream, and the picture is complete. No! Not quite complete. Standing far removed from the main road is a large and densely wooded forest. The observer watches anxiously the stretch of British trenches immediately facing the wood. Then the barren, shell-swept land between the opposing trenches springs into life. Men and more men come swarming across the trenches and make for the German lines.
The observer watches anxiously the stretch of British trenches immediately facing the wood. There is a strange, unaccountable feeling in the air that, were it not for the never-ceasing roar of the aeroplane engine, would be hushed and silent as the moment prior to the start of a horse-race, when an element of overstrung expectancy pervades the human brain. Down below there, the lilliputian figures crouch like ants behind the mudbank, waiting for the dread signal when the race shall commence, the race of human life and death. The booming of the great guns in the rear has long since ceased, and the nebulous region of No-man’s-land, were it not for the battle-scarred earth, would resemble an ordinary peaceful countryside, so quiet and deserted has it become. The minutes tick slowly on and on. Now it must be getting very near the appointed hour. Will it never come? Restless movements are evidenced in the opposing trenches, where an occasional bayonet glitters in the sun, or strange figures wander to and fro. At last! With a shout and roar, they are over the top. The earth trembles. Then the barren shell-swept land between the opposing trenches springs into life. Men and more men come swarming across and make for the German lines. The scene now baffles all description, it is like a fleeting glimpse of Dante’s Inferno, as if all the hate and murder and courage and strength of human existence had met in one protracted struggle of life and death between savagery and civilization. The two opposing masses intermingle, so that now it is no longer possible to distinguish each from each.
At last there comes a lull in the battle, and the aeroplane pilot, his hazardous expedition concluded and at a sign from the observer, thankfully turns for home, leaving behind him a scorched and scarred earth from which the smoke rises continuously in curling white-gray clouds.
[CHAPTER XXI]
A TRUE STORY OF THE WAR
(BEING PART OF THE DIARY OF AN INHABITANT)
Somewhere in Belgium,
Sunday.
Sunday again, but hardly to be imagined in these troublous times and places, with adventure for one’s bedfellow, war for one’s profession, and bloodshed and horrors for one’s constant reflection. Despite all this there exists, and must always exist in every war that peculiar intermingling, that strange blend of horror and sentiment, hate and romance, that mixture of dross and gold. The feelings and actions that bring out all that is the most savage, the most primitive in man’s nature, at the same time endowing him with the tenderness and unselfishness of a woman, the courage of a hero, and the fortitude and forbearance of a saint. Romance! I have a most charming instance to give to you my dear M——.
We met him first in December, 1914, in the little old-world town of S——. In fact I had the good fortune to be billeted upon him. The better class, or rather all those inhabitants who could afford it, had fled from the town at the first advance of the Hun hordes. But he had elected to risk his neck, and stay to comfort, and if possible to protect, the women and children. He was a queer old character was Père Dreyfus; he had lived in the little town now thirty years, since he came there first as a stripling curate. His curling brown hair had turned to an austere gray, his cheeks were hollow and shrunken, and his old back was bent almost double with shouldering other people’s burdens. By the general population he was almost idolized, men, women and even small children brought their troubles to Père Dreyfus, and they never went away without receiving the closest attention, and the warmest sympathy. As they loved and idolized him, so he reciprocated their feelings, and never tired of talking of them, in the long dark evenings, when we had the pleasure of sharing his company over a glass of old port, with Monsieur le Maire. He would relate vividly and with force, how in the great advance, the Uhlan patrols had ridden into the town, camped there for thirty-six hours, then returned the way they had come without, strange to say, molesting any of the population. But there was one thing that Père Dreyfus did not believe in, and that was the air.
“Bah,” he was wont to say, with a contemptuous snap of his bony fingers; “mere playthings, toys, those air-machines, toys that will be shot down before they have been in the air for half-an-hour on end.” He had incidentally never seen an aeroplane in flight, and little did he guess how those mere playthings were to affect his own life.
The cold, dreary winter had blossomed forth into glorious spring-tide, when again I came to S——. The old town had not changed much; if anything it was sleepier and drearier than ever. My first visit was to the little corner house by the great stone church; but the little corner house was no more, in its place was a pile of shattered masonry. With vague misgivings I sought M. le Maire, and found him in his stuffy, dingy little office in the Hôtel de Ville. He was poring over some musty documents as I entered, but immediately left them to shake me effusively by the hand. “But where is Père Dreyfus?” I demanded of him. Where? He gave that impressive shrug of the shoulders peculiar to the Latin, and rolled his eyes meaningly towards the heavens.
“Dead?” I exclaimed. “How did he die?”
“Ze airplanes,” he replied; “how you call them? Ze flying machines come one night, and drop a bomb. When I go search in ze morning, ze worthy Father is no more.”
Thus briefly, in as many words he recounted another tragedy of this awful war. Fortune is, indeed, a fickle jade. It had been her will that.... But there, the story is best told in the worthy Father’s own words. I quote extracts from a little diary that it was his habit to keep, and which was all that now remained to enable us to glean a true glimpse of the old Father’s personal feelings in the matter.
Monday.—The incessant thunder of heavy artillery the whole night long. Thus it has been for the past fourteen months, night after night without a break. I notice it no longer; it has become part and parcel of my everyday existence. Up at —— yesterday those devils shot Meurice. For what reason I have not yet heard. I wonder what has become of his wife and two children? God help them if they are in their hands! Yesterday as I walked from —— I noticed high up in the sky three black specks coming over in a north-easterly direction. Our soldiers said they were German aeroplanes, but they passed away again without attempting to drop any bombs. It is not these things that we fear, but those fiendish 17-inch shells, which come over sometimes in the middle of the night and tear away a street of houses, killing, wounding, maiming. Unhappy Belgium.
Wednesday.—No change! M. le Maire asked me if I would billet two British soldiers to-day. I found them pleasant fellows enough; young lieutenants of an infantry regiment. Such youths, one of them cannot be more than eighteen years of age: a handsome boy, with the deep blue eyes and fair curling hair, typical of his race. They appear to regard the war more in the light of a big picnic. But they have not yet been up to the firing lines, nor seen the terrors of battle. Again to-day two enemy air machines came over. They hit Laroche’s wine store and killed him and his wife and children. Nevertheless, I cannot help thinking that they are but of minor importance when compared with those diabolical shells.
Thursday.—The two soldiers left again this afternoon, smiling and joking as they came. All the afternoon and far into the night the infantry have been marching past, along the road, thousands of them, regiment after regiment, with their bands playing gayly at their head. The men all happy and contented, marching as if they were going on parade, instead of up to the firing line, many of them never to return. They have brave hearts these English! Many wagons of ammunition have been placed in the wood behind this house. They call it an ammunition park. Why, I know not.
Friday.—All to-day it rained and thundered. Thundered as if God in His Heaven were venting His wrath on the warring world below. For one long day there has been no booming of those awful guns. The road has become bare and deserted. In the evening came men into my house from the ammunition wagons in the wood. They told me that they had caught a spy. I am not surprised; this district swarms with them. But what otherwise can be expected if, previous to the war, the entire business relations of the neighborhood were conducted with the Germans? Every purchasable article from a motor-car to a needle was supplied from Berlin. This man was discovered in a deserted part of the wood, sending messages on a telegraph key. A sapper of the engineers saw the wire laid across the ground, and curious to know whither it led followed it along until he discovered this man. He will trouble us no more. But the unhappy result of it is, they say he signaled the position to the enemy, who will undoubtedly bombard us when the weather becomes fine again.
Saturday.—A fine clear morning. I hoped that the words of the sapper would prove themselves to be incorrect, and so they were to a certain degree. Anxiously I awaited the bombardment, and it must be confessed with a great misgiving in my heart. Ten o’clock! Eleven o’clock! Twelve o’clock! And still they did not open fire. But just before one a German Taube flew over. Unlike the air machine in the previous visits it did not fly away immediately, but came gradually lower in long sweeping circles, until with my glasses I was able to distinguish the two black crosses on the wings. Then the pom-poms began to bark and screech, and the heavens all round were marked with small white clouds of smoke no bigger than a man’s hand in size, and fascinating to watch. He was a cool fellow, the pilot of that air machine: undismayed by the bursting shrapnel he continued to circle round overhead, as if taking the exact bearings of the ammunition camp.
Monday.—I was roused from my bed by a series of violent explosions. It is that infernal bombardment come at last, I thought to myself. But no! The air above was filled with a loud hum as of a hundred motors. I looked above me to find the face of the sky darkened with aircraft, all of them with the black cross on either wing; from all sides they appeared to be circling in. And every moment there would be the unpleasant rush of the falling bomb. A shattering explosion. A burst of flame! And the yell or cry of the dead and dying, the heartbreaking neigh of a wounded horse, the crash of falling timber. The series of smaller explosions as the ammunition and cartridges went off. For ten awful moments this continued, bomb followed bomb, explosion followed explosion, shrieks, cries, groans. It was a living hell. My God, these aircraft are more to be feared than those infernal guns. I—I——
Here the old Father’s narrative ends, and across the page were two dull brown splashes, that tell their story but too plainly.
[CHAPTER XXII]
HEROISM IN THE AIR
Somebody censored was engaged in a long reconnaissance trip into the enemy’s country, and had already turned home when a shrapnel shell burst immediately beneath his aeroplane, smashed part of the body of the machine, and shattered the pilot’s leg. Rendered unconscious, he lost control, the aeroplane began to nose-dive to the earth, and fell 5000 feet. From this point the observer takes up the story:—
“I have given up all hope, the earth seemed rushing up to meet us, and I prayed that our agony might not be prolonged. I shut my eyes and waited for the final crash, when, wonder of wonders, the machine began to right herself. Hardly daring to believe my eyes, I looked to the pilot’s seat. The headlong rush through the cool air must have brought him round, and he was making strenuous efforts to regain control.
“Luckily the enemy had given us up for lost, had ceased to shoot, and we immediately began to climb again. Then the Germans opened fire, and we only escaped with our lives through the superb pilotage of L——, with one leg shattered and blood flowing in streams. At 8000 feet he again seemed to be sinking. I hastily scrawled a note urging him to descend. He read it, shook his head decidedly, pointed to me with a smile on his white drawn face, then pointed in the direction of our lines, and carried on.
“At times he would faint, and then, recovering himself, redouble his efforts. At last we were over the lines, but it seemed utterly impossible that he should be able to land the machine in his condition. But he did. Choosing a large green meadow about three miles behind the trenches, he landed as gently and as easily as if he had only been up for a practice flight, brought the machine to a stop, and fainted dead away.”
This gallant pilot, as he lay mortally wounded in the field hospital, and knowing that he was dying, thought only of the terrible time his observer must have had. Thus he wrote to his mother in England:—
“Mummy dear,
“Don’t be alarmed at my little escapade; will be all right again soon and be with you.... Poor P——, what an awful time he must have had after I fainted and we were nose-diving headlong for the ground!
“P. S.—Please don’t go talking about this business to all the old dowagers of your acquaintance.”
Officer R—— M—— was on a bomb-dropping and reconnaissance expedition in the neighborhood of Y—— in the late summer of 1915. When twenty miles from our lines he was hit by shrapnel and mortally wounded in the thigh, but making up his mind not to be taken prisoner, he kept bravely on, crossed the lines, and disdaining to take advantage of the cover thus afforded and land in the first available spot, kept resolutely on to the aerodrome from which he had set out, though losing blood rapidly and knowing he had not long to live. There he made a beautiful landing, handed in his report, and fell unconscious, never to come round again.
Early in the present year an air raid was organized to bomb a town not far from Constantinople. The raid was duly carried out, but on the journey home one of our aeroplanes was hit by a shell and forced to come to earth in marsh lands beside a small river. Immediately a party of Turkish infantry rushed up to take charge of the craft, but before they could reach it another of our machines swooped down on the scene and landed close by. The pilot jumped out, ran across a field swept by Turkish rifle fire, picked up the wounded pilot, and placing him on his back, staggered across to his own machine. Still subjected to a violent fusillade, he unthrottled his engine, and with the wounded man carried before him, bravely flew off and made his own base again.
[PART III]
OTHER CRAFT AND THE FUTURE
[CHAPTER XXIII]
THE EVOLUTION OF THE AIRSHIP
The airship is the aristocrat of the air. In jealousy and scorn the aeroplane may refer to her as “gasbag,” “sausage”; may poke fun at her by reason of her unwieldy size, and laugh at her lack of speed; she still looks down on that craft with as much haughty disdain as a duchess of royal blood would bestow on a nouveau riche. Has she not a pedigree as long as may be forgotten?
She may trace her genealogy back to the Greek mythology and may number among her progenitors such men as Leonardo da Vinci, Cyrano de Bergerac, Francisco de Lana, Joseph Montgolfier, Blanchard, Santos Dumont and Count Zeppelin. The aeroplane is but an invention of the Twentieth Century!
Italy was the birthplace of the lighter-than-air craft; throughout the interesting history of the airship the names of famous Italian scientists predominate, and particularly those of the monastic order. Perhaps it was that convent life was inducive to study; untrammeled by the cares of the outside world, men turned their attention to the sciences and developed their imaginations. Be that as it may, we find that to-day the Italian airships are the finest in the world.
But although Italy may have done more than the other nations, history tells us that it was two Frenchmen, Stephen and Joseph Montgolfier, who were the first to bring the lighter-than-air craft prominently before the world.
The story goes that while rowing, Stephen’s silk coat fell overboard into the water. It was placed over a hot oven to dry, and watching it, Joseph noticed that the hot air tended to make it rise. The upshot of the affair was the Montgolfier balloon.
Throughout history the lighter-than-air craft has figured prominently in warfare. In the Franco-Prussian War, during the siege of Paris alone, as many as 66 balloons left the stricken city, carrying 60 pilots, 102 passengers, 409 carrier pigeons, 9 tons of letters and telegrams, and 6 dogs.
Gaston Tissandier went over the German lines and dropped 10,000 copies of a proclamation addressed to the soldiers, asking for peace, yet declaring that France would fight to the bitter end.
In the American Civil War an aeronaut named La Fontaine went up in a balloon over an enemy camp, made his observation, rose higher into the air, and succeeded in getting into a cross-current, which carried him back to his place of departure.
The first cross-channel flight was made by balloon in 1785, by Blanchard, who had with him an American doctor named Jefferies, together with a large supply of provisions, ballast and oars. This weighed the balloon down to such an extent that she almost sank into the sea a few moments after starting. Ballast was thrown overboard, and she rose, only to sink again. More ballast was dropped. Then they rose into the air and eventually landed in safety on the hills behind Calais.
Having thus shortly outlined the development of the one, we will endeavor to discover the fundamental difference between aeroplane and airship. It is simply the matter of “lift” obtained in the case of the latter from the property of being lighter than air, whereas the other craft being heavier than air must obtain its “lift” by mechanical propulsion.
The airship is merely an improvement on the old-fashioned balloon: a balloon to which mechanical propulsion has been applied. Different in shape, indeed, and fitted out with many modern improvements, its flight is still governed by the same laws of “aerostatics.”
For practical purposes we will divide the airship into two portions: the envelope or balloon, and the car. Atmospheric conditions influence the envelope to no small degree. The effect of heat upon gas—with which the envelope is filled—is to make it expand, and consequently cause the craft to rise. Cold, on the other hand, causes the gas to contract, and the craft to descend. Air pressure is another factor which must be taken into account, and this is greatest at sea-level. The greater the altitude, the less the pressure becomes, and the less pressure on the outside surface of the envelope the easier it is for the gas to expand; but this is compensated for by the fact that the atmosphere is considerably cooler at a high altitude.
There are three types of airship: the “non-rigid,” in which the two portions, the car and the envelope, are entirely separate portions, being held together by means of rigging; “semi-rigged,” in which the car is partly attached to the envelope, a type greatly favored by French and Italians; and the “rigid” airship, of which both car and envelope are in the same framework. The Zeppelin is of the latter class.
Like other great airships the Zeppelin does not rely on one single balloon for “lift.” Instead, the envelope forms merely the outer covering for eighteen balloonettes, which can be regulated in the matter of expansion and contraction from the control-car of one of the three gondolas below.
We have by no means yet seen these wonderful craft at their deadliest; the German pilots are extremely brave men, yet lack that initiative and dash peculiar to the British Air Service. Were the position reversed, one dreads to think what might happen to this country.
The future is all with the airship, in the rôle of commerce-bearing aircraft. The aeroplane and all heavier-than-air craft are of little value save as units of war, and even then their uses are infinitesimal when compared with those of the Zeppelin. And the secret of the success of the Zeppelin is that she has the “lift,” double and treble the lift of the aeroplane, and is developing beyond belief, whereas, in proportion, the aeroplane develops little year by year.
Taking everything into consideration we must have Zeppelins! It is imperative for the future safety of our nation. The longer we submit thus meekly to these aerial invasions, the longer will the war go on. The German people in the past have been intoxicated with Zeppelins. Weak, hungry and dispirited, their flagging spirits have again and again been whipped up into martial ardor by the fantastic and bragging reports issued by the General Staff in Berlin. One Zeppelin raid was of more value to the moral of the German nation than two great victories on the land. The giant craft to them is more than a mere engine of warfare and destruction, it is a fetish, almost a religion; thus after every raid the bells are rung. The streets are beflagged and decorated, and the inhabitants become mad with joy. And we must not consider the moral effects alone. From a military point of view, at the time of writing the enemy air-raids necessitate the authorities retaining numbers of valuable aircraft and many trained and expert pilots, not to mention anti-aircraft guns and their crews, which would all be of great value on the other side. Further, Germany defeated on land, and deprived of her fleet at sea, but still in possession of her Zeppelins, is a military power, and a very strong military power of the future. We, in Great Britain, have lost for ever the natural advantage we once possessed of being an island. Thanks to the vigilance and strength of our Navy, we have held the narrow seas with a firm hold, that so far no other nation has been able to overcome. Now we are always open to invasion from the air; and the sea, which formerly afforded us protection, is a serious disadvantage, in that invading aircraft can creep over those broad lonely spaces, and come down upon us before we are even aware of their proximity.
How can airships’ raids be encountered? There are three methods. The first is, by anti-aircraft artillery; secondly, by airship; and lastly, by aeroplane. The first method—that of gun-fire—is extremely unreliable. This is not the fault of the men so much, nor of the guns with which they fire, but rather of the conditions under which they work. Practice with anti-aircraft guns is rare and insufficient; and the best part of the firing takes place at night at a rapidly moving object, many thousands of feet up in the air. Aeroplanes are greatly handicapped by want of “lift”—a quality which goes far to render aircraft either useful or useless. To obtain “lift” the latter craft relies solely on the high power of its engine, whereas, with the Zeppelin, “lift” is obtained by two means: one by the envelope, which contains gas several times lighter than air; and the other, as with the aeroplane, by engine power. Thus we have double the lifting power with a dirigible than with an aeroplane, and hence double, and in actual fact treble, the war lift; and treble the amount of bombs, ammunition, and machine-guns can be carried.
The effect the enemy hopes to gain by his constant Zeppelin raids, is partly moral, partly military. To achieve the latter it is necessary that the enemy airman destroy some position or place of military importance, as a powder-factory, an arsenal, a large camp, an important railway junction, a munitions factory, a naval dockyard, an ordnance factory, or a similar area. But in very few instances have the raiding Zeppelins touched either of these places. Thus they have achieved but little military result. The moral result attempted has been to frighten and harass the inhabitants of this country until—Germany had a mental vision—they would be groveling on their knees in the dust, begging the Government to sue for peace. We have already dealt with the moral effect these raids have on their own people. By aid of lying and bombastic reports the enemy do not fail to impress—and greatly impress—neutral countries. Some readers will perhaps remember it was after a big Zeppelin raid on this country that Bulgaria joined the Central Powers. The Germans know only too well that we do not possess large airships of our own. Suppose we did; what would be the panic and consternation caused in Berlin by the appearance over that city of a squadron of British bomb-dropping Zeppelins, and how far would it go to shorten the war?
During the last few months we have seen the Zeppelin in a more useful and more dangerous aspect, namely in the capacity of Naval Scout. Let us consider what are the main duties of a light-cruiser fleet at sea; they are of a very similar nature to those of the cavalry, namely to form a protective screen to the main body, and to advance as nearly as possible to the enemy to discover the exact disposition of his forces. In one word, their main duty is scouting. In this respect the enemy went one better than ourselves. He built Zeppelins, and succeeded in accomplishing with a single Zeppelin that which in former days had required a fleet of light cruisers. Without necessarily running any risk, the giant airship at a height of 10,000 feet has a view extending on a clear day to as much as thirty miles, and some three-hundred square miles of sea surface. What cruiser look-out can claim a perspective equal to that? At thirty miles, or twenty-five or even twenty, the Zeppelin pilot is well out of range of the enemy shells, and with his wireless instrument, which has another range of thirty miles, can signal to the admiral of the fleet when the enemy is yet sixty miles off. This view explains the fact why the two fleets have so seldom been at grips in the two years of war. The enemy, by means of his aerial scouts, must oft and again have been warned of the proximity of the British Fleet. The official account of the Jutland battle stated that the weather was dull and misty; hence the Zeppelins would have been unable successfully to perform their usual duties.
The extreme radius of Zeppelin activity is usually considered to be 600 miles out, 600 miles home, and judged from the three principal Zeppelin centers—Heligoland, Brussels and Friedrichshaven—embraces, with the possible exception of a small and unimportant portion of the west coast of Ireland and north coast of Scotland, every city, military camp, munition factory, dockyard and industrial center in Great Britain.
[CHAPTER XXIV]
LAWS OF THE AIR
At a recent coroner’s inquest on the death of a young Service pilot in England, an instructor of the flying school at which he was being trained, stated in the course of his evidence that if the pilots—there had been a horrifying collision in mid-air—had only been familiar with aerial rules and regulations, the accident would never have occurred.
In this particular instance one machine had been coming down, while another was just leaving the ground. Both of the pilots were aware of the danger they were in, but neither knew the right course to pursue. Result—collision and death. Had both of them carried out the Royal Aero Club’s regulation: that an aeroplane passing another aeroplane in mid-air must leave at least ten meters’ space between the extreme wing-tips and always pass to the right of the approaching craft, both of them would have been alive to-day.
So very few of the public outside the flying world are aware that, as navigation of the sea is ordered by the Navigation Act, so is the navigation of the air by the Aerial Navigation Acts of 1911 and 1913, and by the rules and regulations of the Royal Aero Club, which latter organization previous to the war controlled all matters aeronautical and still controls the granting of pilot’s certificates.
Even in the ballooning days a charter was drawn up at a conference at Brussels, which ordained that every private balloon—that is to say, one not in the hands of the naval or military authorities—must be registered and have a name and number, which should be printed in large letters on the body of the balloon. The place of residence of the owner must also be stated, and the number and the place of origin be printed in red. Every ascent by a private person must be under the control of a state official. Government balloons, on the other hand, are not expected to carry papers, but private balloons must have a copy of the official particulars and a list of the passengers. A balloon must be identified in the same way as a ship, and must carry a flag, fastened to the net half-way down the balloon, and this must be recognizable both by its shape and coloring, and be properly mounted in position. A journal must be kept and the man in charge must produce his certificate on demand.
These latter rules also apply to airships, but not to aeroplanes. These types of aircraft are too numerous to be able to identify singly, but there are many other rules to which they must submit. For instance—flying over London and similar crowded areas is prohibited; or, in the words of the R. A. C.: “Flying to the danger of the public is prohibited, particularly unnecessary flights over towns, or thickly populated areas, or over places where crouds are temporarily assembled, or over public enclosures at aerodromes at such a height as to involve danger to the public. Flying is also prohibited over River Regattas, Race meetings, meetings for public games and sports, except flights specifically arranged for in writing with the promoters of such Regattas, Meetings, etc.”
If he disregard any of these regulations, the airman is liable to a fine not exceeding £20 and suspension of his flying certificate.
The first Aerial Navigation Act of 1911 was not in reality a Navigation Act at all, but although that was its title, it was described as “An Act to provide for the protection of the public against dangers arising from the Navigation of Aircraft.” The penalties attached thereto were exceedingly heavy and provided that any airman disregarding the Act would be liable after conviction on indictment or on summary conviction to imprisonment for a term not exceeding six months, or to a fine not exceeding £200, or to both such imprisonment and fine.
The Act included various prohibited flying areas, mostly in the neighborhood of arsenals, munition factories, and naval dockyards, or similar military areas.
Certain conditions were imposed on aircraft landing in this country from abroad, as that the person in charge of the aircraft, before commencing a voyage to the United Kingdom, must apply for a clearance to a duly authorized British Consular Officer. He must make a written application, which states clearly the name and registered number of the craft; the type, the name, nationality, and the place of residence of the owner or person in charge, and of every member of the crew; and the name, profession, nationality and place of residence of every passenger (if any), the nature of the cargo (if any), the approximate time of departure, place of departure, the intended landing-place in the United Kingdom, the proposed destination, and the object of the voyage.
Having settled the matters of procedure, it was further added that “no person in any aircraft entering the United Kingdom should carry, or allow to be carried, in the aircraft, any goods, the importation of which is prohibited by the laws relating to customs; any goods chargeable upon importation into the United Kingdom with any duty or customs, except such small quantities as have been placed on board at the place of departure, as being necessary for the use during the voyage of the persons conveyed therein, any photographic apparatus, carrier or homing pigeons, explosives or firearms, or any mails.”
On the return journey the aircraft is not permitted to leave unless there be at least one British representative, approved by the authorized officer, on board. No photographic or wireless apparatus, etc., shall be carried, and no mails.
Foreign, naval, or military aircraft must not pass over, nor land within any port of the United Kingdom, nor the territorial waters thereof, except on the express invitation, or with the express permission, previously obtained, of His Majesty’s Government.
None of the foregoing orders applies to naval or military aircraft, belonging to, or employed in the service of His Majesty.
[CHAPTER XXV]
AERIAL COMBAT
With every combat in mid-air some new theory is set up, some new conclusion arrived at, and as yet nothing can be definite. We may say for practical purposes that the strategical work is confined to seaplane and airship-scouting with the fleets at sea, and long-distance aeroplane raids into the enemy’s country; tactical work to reconnaissance trips over the neighborhood of the lines and the direction of artillery fire. The battle formation of the aeroplane squadron is now, and will in the future be similar to that of a fleet at sea. Even now the two methods of battle are closely akin.
There are three distinct phases of aerial combat to be considered—aeroplane versus aeroplane, airship against airship, and aeroplane against airship. It is a difficult matter to decide which is the more useful as a fighting unit, but thus far one is inclined to say the light, high-powered aeroplane. Zeppelins and airships are for the most part clumsy and unwieldly. Seaplanes, again, are usually heavy and slow to answer to their controls.
The important factors are the lifting power of the machine and weather conditions. The property of “lift” is determined on the one hand by mechanical devices, and on the other by the balloon portion of the craft which is lighter than the air. Lift spells speed, endurance, and climbing powers, and therefore the machine with the greater lift is the better equipped for fighting purposes.