Reconnaissance and Night Flying
This much for daylight flying, but what of the night when sky and earth are alike indistinguishable? Truly night flying is a science unto itself which needs more than the average amount of courage. However, nightwork is given to only the most experienced pilots.
With active service flying again, we enter into a new phase of which reconnaissance work occupies at least eighty per cent. of the time. Simply put, reconnaissance means flying over the other fellow’s lines to see what he is about, if he is massing troops at a certain point, or digging in new gun emplacements, or if there is any unusual activity on the highways and railways immediately behind his firing line. It is a difficult matter to differentiate between infantry and cavalry on the march; to distinguish a cleverly hidden gun emplacement, or to tell the difference between an ammunition and a supply depot.
Bomb-dropping is a practice that requires the patience of a Job, good judgment, and a calm day—that is, if it is required to attain any degree of accuracy. Last, but not least, there is the matter of aerial combat, which, however, covers too wide a field for discussion in this short chapter.
Thus, in the complete air-pilot, we have a blend of gunner, wireless expert, map-reader, amateur detective, and aviator.
[PART II]
ON ACTIVE SERVICE
(Part II contains a series of incidents and adventures taken from the note-book of a British air pilot, stationed somewhere in the north of France, and are given in their original diary form.)
[CHAPTER IX]
BEHIND THE FIRING LINE
Somewhere in France,
Friday.
Tucked away in a corner of an unused Flanders roadway, a long straggled line of irregular shaped huts and sheds surrounding a wide open meadow land, several acres in extent, is the aerodrome I have in mind.
On either side are the long gaunt avenues of trees and in rear of them, bare and low-lying arable lands.
No one can claim for it that it is a beauty spot. But it is comfortable, and above all one is able to obtain a bath there.
On the right are the officers’ quarters: three long, low, wooden huts. Within, a passage runs along the center of the hut; and on either side of it are the various cabins, each about six feet square, and providing just sufficient space for a camp-bed, washstand and chair.
A stove is at either end for warming purposes; and one bath is allotted to each hut.
The mess-room is contained in a similar building across the way. The furniture is not such that one would meet with, say at the Ritz or the Savoy; but it serves its purpose. Three plain deal tables, each covered with a spotless cloth. A dozen or so stiff-back wooden chairs, and one solitary easy-chair. The competition for the latter is enormous.
The general atmosphere of the place is cheery to a degree. Every member of the mess is full of good humor, quips and jests. Sub chaffs captain and captain chaffs sub, the while they attack plain wholesome fare with an unstinted vigor.
After dinner in the evening, an impromptu concert is started. One, an obliging musician, renders an excellent violin solo. He is followed by a gentleman of poor voice. The station orchestra, in which the penny tin whistle is the most prominent instrument, plays delightfully and harmoniously with the possible exception of one member in the extreme rear, who, having previously had some bread-crumbs gently deposited down his neck by an admiring colleague, finds some difficulty in reaching the correct notes. It is, of course, the star-turn of the evening.
There are good card-games to be had, when off duty. Also a gramophone and two pianos. The gramophone usually will not work. Ludo is the rage to-day. Badminton, writing letters home, and visiting the neighboring town about complete the leisure time. There is, however, really not very much to do in the town, except to sit in the cafés, drink bad coffee, and try to talk French to the girls.
Any number and variety of pets and mascots are there. Cats and kittens, dogs of all breeds. A few hunters, with which some excellent rides across the sand-dunes can be obtained. A goat that wanders around the aerodrome risking life a dozen times daily from aeroplanes getting off and landing. And a parrot with a perfectly wonderful vocabulary of oaths.
Thus far we have been shown only the lighter side of the life. Now we come to the more serious work of flying across the lines. The strain on the nerves is so great that a pilot is only detailed for duty every other day. The work is distributed among the various squadrons and flights. One is responsible for reconnaissance work; a morning and an afternoon patrol along the coast for submarines, or a trip inland to have a look at a new gun emplacement, or to report on a new movement of the enemy’s troops. Another, the fighting squadron, is responsible for the bombing raids, for the battle flights, for convoying the reconnaissance machines, and for meeting enemy air attacks.
To the headquarters flight is allotted the photography, and any special and confidential job that may crop up.
Naturally there is the pick of all the machines, equipped with all the latest improvements and inventions.
One peculiarity concerning atmospheric conditions on the other side is, that either the weather is too misty for flying, or on the other hand, it is so remarkably clear, that it is possible to view the land from twice the altitude that it would be under similar circumstances in England. For the first two hours after sunrise there is invariably a heavy ground mist, and very little takes place save when an expedition is setting out for some distant spot, necessitating an early start. The late morning and the late afternoon are the most favorable times for flying purposes.
Almost the whole of the Flanders country is intersected by waterways and canals. This is of extreme value to the air pilot, and aids him greatly in the matter of navigation. Railway systems there are in plenty, mostly following an east or west direction.
The junctions of these railway lines are the nerve centers of the German Army in the field; they control entirely the supplies of reinforcements, ammunition, and supplies to the firing line. It is for this reason that so many of our own air raids have been made on Bruges, Courtrai, Roubaix, Lille, Tournai, and Douai. Each of these towns mentioned contains an important railway junction.
The large majority of the Belgian towns in the enemy country, immediately behind the firing line, have been totally deserted by their inhabitants and the soldiers alike; it is not considered either safe or desirable to remain within the area of a conspicuous landmark, of which the enemy artillery can obtain an exact bearing with the utmost ease. Added to this, frequent allied air-raids, and the accurate firing of the Allied artillery have reduced them to untenable masses of fallen masonry.
A point regarding aerial photography is worthy of note; if the surface of the earth has been disturbed in any way within two days previous to the photo being taken, that is, disturbed by the explosion of a shell, or a new path across a field made by the tramp of many feet, such disturbance will always show up prominently on the camera negative.
[CHAPTER X]
THE FIRST TRIP ACROSS THE LINE
Somewhere in France,
Monday.
A most important entry in my little diary, this, the day of my first trip across the “lines.”
And here in the privacy of my thoughts and of my pen let it be said that at first I was troubled with qualms of fear—qualms that I had experienced in the previous life after a stormy Channel crossing, or prior to a visit to my dentist.
As I stood there on the dreary, wind-swept aerodrome in the chilly rays of the early morning sun, forebodings filled my mind. Visions of an awful death in mid-air, and a yet more awful vision of a downward rush of thousands of feet to the ground below. Comforting myself with the reflections that, after all, out of the large number of machines that must daily cross the lines the proportion of those reported missing was extremely small, I was roused from my pessimistic thoughts by the voice of the pilot, who was already in his seat enjoying the luxury of the last few puffs at his “gasper” (cigarette) before testing the engine.
He invited me cordially to “hop in,” and once in to strap myself in securely. With his calm matter-of-fact air, which, incidentally cheered me up considerably, one would have thought that we were about to start for a motor run through Piccadilly and the Park rather than, as he so picturesquely styled it, “to play the part of a clay pigeon atop of a firework show.”
Three heavy-eyed mechanics now appeared upon the scene, and, after having been slanged roundly for their late arrival by our cheery Jehu, the engine was started with an alarming whirr. A few preliminaries and she got well away.
For a few moments we circled round the neighborhood of the aerodrome, to gain height. Then in the first contact with the icy-cold morning breeze I felt thankful that I had taken the sound advice of clothing myself well. I must have looked for all the world like an Eskimo or an Arctic explorer in my wool-lined leather coat and overall trousers, a knitted Balaclava hat or helmet, and over that again a skull-cap, the whole tied down tightly beneath my chin. A huge woolen muffler round my neck and a pair of unsightly goggles completed the picture. I had treated my hands and face with a generous dose of vaseline, which I had been assured would keep out the cold, and which advice I now gratefully acknowledge to be correct.
As we mount higher my perspective extends, and out of the gray mists and the dark shadows land and sea begin to assume their natural form and color. On the former there are now signs of movement; along the roads crawl the ant-like procession of ammunition columns back from their nightly trip to the firing lines. A steaming “Puffing Billy” slowly drags along on a limber, a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) blocking up the whole roadway, which must cause considerable annoyance to the long string of cars and motorbike dispatch riders held up in the rear.
On the roadside, by a wood, a company of infantry are falling in for early parade; they look up at us in a half interested sort of way. Some wave their hats and rifles at us. I wave my hand in reply, but know they cannot see us. We keep on climbing steadily. Out at sea are two French torpedo-boats making up the coast towards ——, and a few small trawlers sailing off in the direction of England. Happy thought!
Every moment we are getting nearer to the dreaded area. In the far distance I can see the red flashes of the rifles, the smoke clouds of the heavy guns, and the long gray lines of winding trenches. I look at my map, to discover that we are passing over a junction of two main roads, one of which is crossed by a railway, while beneath the other runs a narrow stream. It is ——.
Five miles to the firing line. With my glasses I can already pick out several of our own field-artillery emplacements, and a moving up of reinforcements from the rear—I would surmise about two battalions of infantry. I time the observation on my report sheet; also I discover from my wrist compass—my most prized and valued possession—that we are going too much to the north-west and tell the pilot so by means of a written message.
Course changed! What are Headquarters orders for the flight? A reconnaissance over ——, I puzzle out as well as my now fevered brain will allow me, whether reconnaissance will be tactical or strategical, and again whether “line” or “area.” For the benefit of those who may perhaps read my diary I will here endeavor to explain the fine points which divide the two. The former reconnaissance necessitates flying and observing along a line between two given points on the map, these points having already been marked in before leaving the ground. Area reconnaissance, on the other hand, comprises observation of a whole area or district. To do this successfully it is necessary to fly backward and forward several times, thus adding greater risk to the adventure, and taking a great deal longer time to accomplish. Hence they are not undertaken very far away from our own lines, and then only if particular information is required.
Thus far the weather had rendered the trip ideal. But it would be an entirely different matter, I surmised, when we came within reach of the enemy anti-aircraft guns. Already they were getting uncomfortably near. Should we have an easy passage across or should we have to climb up for our lives above the bursting “Archies”?
We were not left long in doubt. Their men must have been up particularly early that morning, for the very first shot came within an ace of blighting two young and promising careers. There was a loud report on the ground below, the familiar “sing” of an approaching shell, which at first interests one, but which in the course of time one gets to dread. Then it seemed for the moment that the whole machine had been blown to atoms. But no! We started to climb hurriedly.
“High explosive,” the pilot bawled in my ear. “Going up higher.”
For the next three minutes my feelings were the reverse of pleasant, and I fervently hoped that other observers did not suffer in the same way. Shells burst above, below, to the right, to the left, and all round us; but never near enough to do us any serious harm, though the bullets of one shrapnel shell certainly did rattle against the wings, piercing them with minute holes in several places, and I felt very thankful for the uncomfortable sandbag on which I sat, which protected me from bursting shells beneath.
As we climbed to a higher altitude the Huns ceased their attentions, and we very soon arrived over the scene of our “line.” My bad attack of “cold feet” now having passed over, I set myself to think seriously upon the precepts drummed into my thick head by the instructor at the training school. “The observer” he was wont to say, “should always try to keep in touch with the military situation, and particularly in the encounter battle, and discover the disposition of our own troops.”
One point I could and did satisfy myself upon—this was no encounter battle. So I ignored our own forces and kept my attention fixed upon ——. Nothing extraordinary met my eye. I saw a camp here and there, and turned my glasses upon them and discovered that they were composed of huts. Hurriedly I counted them, and noted the number in my report, together with the altitude, 12,000 ft. Again the solemn advice of my worthy instructor passed through my brain: “The eyes must constantly turn to each likely spot, and each spot must be examined carefully with the glasses if it offers anything useful for the observer’s report.”
I examined each likely spot, and discovered to my delight a broad grass meadow across which ran several pathways of very recent construction. Footpaths, I argued to myself (and I may possibly have been wrong) are not made across fields for the mere pleasure of constructing them. There is more in this than meets the eye. I signaled to my companion and he quickly grasped the situation, and in long sweeping circles, brought her down some 2000 ft. The lower we came the more distinctly I could make out that some sort of emplacement was being built up—the new emplacement for a 17-inch howitzer. I noted the same.
An excellent morning’s work. We turn to go home. But the enemy has not appreciated our attentions and most unthoughtfully turns his guns upon us.
Then the fun begins. It was bad enough crossing the lines, but child’s-play when compared with this; and besides we are two thousand lower. A perfect inferno of “Archies.” We bank first to one side then to the other; put her nose down for a moment or so, then climb for all we are worth.
But it is no good. We are hit!
Down goes her nose, down and down. The air whistles past our ears. The earth rushes up to meet us. The discs of the machine-gun topple overboard, so steep has the angle become. —— must have been hit. Yes! there he is, all huddled up over the joy-stick (control-stick). I give up all hope, when suddenly, the machine starts to right herself. I look around, and find that the rush through the air must have brought him to. He is manfully straining every nerve to get her out of the nose-dive. By a superhuman effort he succeeds. We manage to get across the lines unnoticed save by a few infantrymen, who fire futilely at us, and land a bare hundred yards the other side of our own trenches. —— makes a beautiful landing, pulls her up dead, and promptly faints in his seat. My first trip!
[CHAPTER XI]
SOME ANECDOTES
Somewhere in Belgium,
Thursday.
“The life of an airman is one of intense idleness interrupted by moments of violent fear.” This remark, originating as it does from a youthful member of the Senior Service describes, more aptly than any other yet penned, the life of the airman under active service conditions. Sometimes there will come a spell of fine weather, and he is kept going hard at it from sunrise to sunset. At other times when the weather is too bad for flying, he has nought else to do but sit round the mess-fire and tell stories.
The memory of those wet days! Men of all sorts and conditions exchanging personal experiences: anecdotes of hair-raising escapes from bursting shrapnel shells, thrilling fights with Air Huns, miraculous evolutions in mid-air, and a thousand and one other subjects dear to the heart of the airman. I will here endeavor to relate several of the best stories that have so far come my way, but it is impossible to tell more than five per cent. of them, for their name is Legion.
The first story concerns a well-known aerodrome somewhere in Flanders. The pilots of the station, when the weather was too bad for flying, filled up their spare time by playing football; until one day a wag amongst them suggested that a ball should be blown up as tight as possible; taken up in an aeroplane and dropped on the German lines. This suggestion was duly carried out and the first fine day the ball was put aboard a machine going up the Belgian Coast for a reconnaissance trip. Arrived over the town that had been decided upon, it was dropped overboard, with quite accurate aim into the market square. Seeing this dark awesome object falling through the air and taking it for a bomb the Germans took to their heels. Landing on the cobbled pave, it must have bounced nearly twenty feet into the air, then gradually lower and lower, until at last it rolled into a ditch. Then and only then did the Germans reappear, one fat soldier going over to it and giving it a vicious kick.
An instance of air camaraderie was that of the Bosche who brought Pégoud down after a fight in mid-air. Hearing that he had been killed, and where he was to be buried, he came over and dropped a wreath on the scene of his burial ground—a pretty compliment that was greatly appreciated.
The story concerning Captain M—— is the most striking of the war. Poor fellow, he has since been killed. It happened one very misty morning. M—— was on a reconnaissance trip. His engine failed and had to come down a good ten miles behind their lines. However, he landed safely, and had just burnt his machine, when he saw three dark figures coming up out of the fog, and taking discretion to be the better part of valor he fled, and hid himself in a ditch hard by. He was there for the whole of a day and a night, and it has since been ascertained that there were close on five thousand Bosches searching for him the whole time. When he found the coast was clear, he crept out of the ditch, and marched off boldly down the road until he met a friendly Belgian peasant; from this chap he wheedled an old suit of clothes, and, thus attired, walked on nearly to Lille. Here he acted somewhat foolishly. He boarded a tramcar bound for the city, not knowing where to ask to be put down. The car was full of Prussian officers. The man came for his fare; and for a moment he was nonplussed. Then he had a brain-wave. Remembering that every town in Belgium possesses a glorified market square, he demanded à la grande place, s’il vous plait, and pulled out a handful of silver coins to pay the man. Such a thing as a silver coin had not been seen in Lille for months, ever since the Germans had captured it in fact. Fortunately the Prussians were too much occupied in their own conversation to take any notice of ein schweinhund of a Belgian peasant. Arrived in the city, luck again favored him, and he obtained shelter in a garret for three weeks. Then the police grew suspicious, and late one night he was forced to clear out hurriedly. After leaving the city he had a terrible time. He tramped right across Belgium, always at night, and every moment in fear of his life, feeding on anything he could find, crusts and offal thrown to the pigs, and stale bread thrown away by the German soldiers. Footsore, weary, hungry and exhausted he at last arrived at the Dutch frontier. Here occurred another agonizing wait. Again for a day and a night he lay hidden in a ditch, until late that evening the sentry paused on his beat to light his pipe. This was his opportunity. It was a moonlight night. He dashed across the intervening space. The sentry fired three shots and missed each time. He got across Holland, to a seaport town, stowed himself aboard a fishing smack, got to England and reported himself to the astonished officials at the War Office.
This reminds me of a story told by a certain famous airman, a little man with a great heart, on whose breast there are the flaring crimson of the French Légion d’Honneur and the crimson and blue of the Distinguished Service Order. I will give you his own words. “I went over the lines with X—— for an observer. He’d never been over the lines before and I must confess that I felt a wee bit shaky as to how he would take it. Luckily we got across without a single shot being fired at us—and then we met a Taube, coming right down wind at about ninety miles, and at about our own level. I looked at X——, who for a time, was too busy watching the other chap coming up to notice me, but finally he turned and smiled, and I knew he was all right. ‘Got the Lewis-gun ready?’ I bawled into his ear. He nodded, and then we cleared the decks for action, so to speak. He put a fresh tray of ammunition on the gun, and got two other trays ready by the side of him, while I had a look at the bombs and grenades, and put the joy-stick about a bit just to see that she was all right. The other chap still kept on, and was only about a hundred yards off when X—— opened fire, zipp-zipp-zipp-zipp, seventy-eight of the little beggars slick into the middle of him. Gave him hell, I can tell you; at all events he didn’t stick it long. Down went the nose of his machine, and he was very soon about a thousand feet beneath us. I loosed off all my bombs, quick as I could, missed every time, had a shot with a grenade and missed again. I must confess I felt a wee bit flurried that morning—and then X—— began. Never laughed so much in all my life. He laid his hands on everything, his hat and his glasses—Government glasses, by the way—and his revolver and spare cartridges. Thank God! There was nothing of mine in the front there.”
Not nearly so pleasant, however, was the experience of a certain seaplane pilot, who when flying across the Channel from Belgium to England was forced by engine trouble to come down on to the sea, in the midst of our own mine-fields, very far removed from the track of all shipping. Here he remained for eleven and a half hours, until sighted by a torpedo-boat, which though unable to reach him herself, was able to give warning ashore, so that a small motor-boat succeeded in finding a way through the mines, rescued the pilot, but was forced to abandon the machine.
Another story concerning Pégoud. The Germans brought Pégoud down, when flying one of the new French machines, that are supposed to have so many wonderful new improvements aboard, and that they’re so secretive about. He didn’t have time to burn it—and the Huns were very keen on learning how the thing flew. So they tackled Pégoud on the subject. He said he was perfectly willing to give them an exhibition himself, but they didn’t care for the idea. “Yes, and when you get up there you’ll fly away back to your own lines again.” “Very well,” he said; “send two of your men up with revolvers and let them sit one on each side of me, so that I won’t be able to get away.” To this they afterwards agreed, and the first fine morning Pégoud, with the two men sitting on each side of the fuselage, goes up about 10,000 feet. Then one of the Huns began to get impatient. Said he: “I think we’d better go down now.” “That’s all right,” Pégoud answered, “you’re going.” And with that he put his joy-stick down. She went over a good clean loop, and the Bosches went down quicker than they bargained for.
[CHAPTER XII]
SPORT EXTRAORDINARY
Somewhere in the North of France,
Monday.
There is an undoubted fascination in being about at sunrise on a clear, fine morning. And especially so when up in the air.
Our day was of this variety. A day when a man’s heart yearns for a moor, a dog, and a gun. For moor we had the long, flat, dreary sandhill and marshes of the Belgian coast; a dog was not needed, and in fact would have been in the way.
And our gun was not of a type particularly well-known or approved of in sporting circles—a “Lewis” machine-gun, fitted above with a tray of forty-seven cartridges.
Our quest was “wild ducks,” an idea as novel as it was entertaining, originating with the padre of the station—a cheery individual, who divided his attention between writing insufferably bad verse, and collecting mess-subscriptions from irritated members.
The sun rose over the sea, lighting the blue surface with a thousand scintillating rays. The tents of the camps thousands of feet below began to show up against the gray of the earth, and the red flashes of the rifle volleys combined with the white cloud and roar of the belching heavy-gun to complete our picture of the waking world.
But we had not much time to pay attention to these matters, for our minds and eyes were concentrated on the one subject.
From what direction would they first appear? Would they come up to us, or would we have to put “her” down to them? The sun was well up in the sky, and signs of life and movement were beginning to make themselves manifest “down there,” before several tiny black specks appeared on the horizon coming up from the ground behind the marshes at Nieuport.
We brought the aeroplane round, to get the birds between the sun and ourselves, and with the wind at their backs, so as not to be aware of our approach. However, they turned off seawards, and again we had to change our course, until they seemed to be at too great a distance for us ever to get them within gun range. The noise of the racing engine must have reached them on this new tack, for we were now only half-head on to the wind; but of this they took not the slightest notice, keeping on their way a regular and well-ordered flock.
As a matter of fact this could be explained by the reason that birds in that neighborhood must have become so entirely used to the whirr of a passing aeroplane, for as many as a score passed over this same district every fine day.
We now changed our tactics, and brought her round with the sun at our backs, casting a shadow across the path of the moving flock, and a small dull replica which moved in an alarming and amazing manner across field and hedge, house and farm, beneath.
At last we were getting up with them, and to signalize the happy event the padre let off a dozen rounds, which went very far wide of the mark, and only served to divide the flock into two portions, the larger of which continued in a seaward direction.
These we determined to follow, and coming down to 500 feet, opened the engine “full out” to close on 100 miles an hour.
Never before had one realized the wonderful speed which these birds can keep up when on the wing. For with all our great speed we were yet far behind, and every moment drawing nearer to the sea, across which at this extremely low altitude we dare not venture.
Thus it seemed as if we should have to return, defeated and discomforted, to a scoffing, chaffing audience on the aerodrome, still visible some five miles to the south-east.
However, immediately before reaching the seashore our quarry turned again, and this time along the coast. Then, banking her over to the new direction, we found ourselves “down-wind” with an additional speed at the back of us of 15 m.p.h., which soon began to tell. The padre began to get unduly excited, and succeeded in giving a not unmusical series of “zimms” on the gun; the cartridges falling spent and useless on to the sand-dunes; there were no casualties. Undaunted, we kept on, taking care this time to get nearer up. The enemy were beginning to tire by this time, so putting in a fresh tray of ammunition, our courageous marksman let fly, with excellent results, three of the rearguard speeding headlong down to the earth. The pangs of a not unnatural hunger now beginning to make themselves evident, and finding ourselves some thirty miles from home, we turned her head for home and there eventually arrived, happy and hungry, after having set a new fashion in sporting and aviation circles, and discovered a new form of amusement and speculation for the blasé ones, who had deserted their card-tables and cheap French novelettes to welcome us on our return.
[CHAPTER XIII]
A BALLOON-TRIP BY NIGHT
Imagine a great bare meadow-land, lonely, wind-swept, and dark with inky blackness, out of which there plunges an occasional hurrying figure, that misses one by inches and passes on with a muttered oath. In the background, tall and sinister, two large gasometers. In the center of the field a wide tarpaulin laid along the ground, and edged by a circle of sand-bags, from the midst of which there rises a great round shape, like a mammoth tomato.
It is the balloon not yet fully inflated, fed by two curling rubber tubes, that disappear in the direction of the gasworks. We are waiting, waiting patiently until she fills. Blackened, distorted shapes, that stand around in eerie circle, and at the sudden gruff command of a hoarse voice that booms ever and anon out of the voids of darkness, seize each a heavy sandbag and slowly and clumsily lower it mesh by mesh in the netting that covers the balloon.
At last she is filled. The car is attached below, as rapidly and securely as the faint and flickering light of a stable lamp will allow of. The crew tumble in, one on top of another. She is let up only to be pulled down again with a nerve-racking bump. The gruff voice decides that she is now ready to get off; there is a slight slackening of ropes, an almost imperceptible lift, the figures on the ground recede rapidly, grotesque shadows in the darkness, and the lights begin to disappear one by one.
We rise to a ticklish situation; there are tall trees, factory-chimneys, and protruding roofs all waiting calm and invisible in the night, to be crashed into and collided with. But all these obstacles we may miss if we have only sufficient preparatory lift. We are all silent and cowed, trying to make out each other’s faces. There is a sudden tearing sound. The craft lurches like a drunken man and we are thrown a struggling breathless mass into a corner. But the suspense is only momentary. By a miracle of grace, she frees herself from the branches of a tree, and soars rapidly heavenwards.
Eagerly we watch the glimmering, winding streak of gray that is the river, and our only visible landmark; apparently we are making off in a north and west direction. Once out of the shelter of the houses and the trees, the breeze is stiffish: in fact, considerably more so than was expected.
What is this sensation like? Dark to the left of us, dark to the right of us, dark on top of us, and darker below us; in a frail uncontrollable craft, that drifts aimlessly and helplessly before every varying wind of the heavens. Unlike the aeroplane the passage is easy and pleasant, free from noise and we know we are flying. North and west, but the first change of the wind, and we will be bowling along merrily in quite another direction.
It is quiet, intensely quiet, no motion of any kind to be felt. But where are we? Occasionally we discover a small patch of light that may be a village, again a larger patch, evidently of a town. We watch the altimeter with as much loving care, as a mother would her child, for it is our sole deliverer from destruction. How it varies: now it is 8000 feet, now 2500. If possible, we try to keep above the latter level. The surface of the country is unfortunately not too level, and as the altimeter registers height above sea and not land level, allowance must be made. Ballast is ready to hand for emergency uses.
At last the depressing silence is broken; one youth, wiser than his years, has remembered to provide himself with food. It is handed round, and over beef sandwiches we get communicative. It gives us fresh life and inspires one of the party with a humorous turn of mind, to recite with great vividness and vivacity all the alarming accidents that have befallen night-balloonists, concluding with an impious hope, “that we likewise may have some fun.”
We get it!
Happily, as we are wallowing in the throes of this most dismal expectancy, the conversation is turned by an eager and heated discussion between two younger members of the party, as to the merits and demerits of their respective musical-comedy idols (female). The argument grows in intensity. But we have neglected to watch the altimeter. Out of the inky darkness below there rushes a volcano of spark and flame. It is a railway-train speeding on through the night. Sheepishly we discover that we are only 800 feet, and wonder unpleasantly what might have been.
On and on through the night. Now we are getting tired; there are suggestions that we should land, but they are overruled. Coming down again to 800 feet, we catch sight of a wide glimmering sheet of water. Maps are seized in a hasty impulse to guess our whereabouts. The argument grows heated, for similar stretches of water there are, alike in Essex, Kent, Surrey, Middlesex and Berkshire: in fact, in every one of the Home Counties, and for the matter of that in the Midlands, and likewise in every county in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales.
The argument abates, our eyes grow weary and more weary. It seems a life-time since we last saw the pleasant and undulating lines of the earth. One or two heads are already nodding, when there is a sudden shout of “the dawn.” Instantly all are wide awake. There sure enough, are the first few streaks of gray creeping slowly across the eastern sky; without even that, it would be an obvious matter, by reason of that intense cold, which, in the air, always precedes the hour of daybreak and freezes us to the bone.
It would be an inadequate expression to say that dawn in the air is beautiful. It is more than beautiful, it is wonderful. It is more than wonderful, it is unusual; a view only to be enjoyed by the minority, and that of the smallest. Gradually earth and sky begin to dissemble. In tint the picture is white, black, gray, blue, crimson, golden, purple, green and every other color—now like a painter’s canvas smudged with regular irregularities, edged with red and gray, now an animated panorama stirring with resuscitated life. The sun rises, a ball of flame above the horizon, lighting up the rotund shape of the balloon with an unearthly hue.
We say nothing, but look and marvel; a word would be out of place in this sacred and awesome stillness. Suddenly we are roused by a cry, more, much more, alarming than the last.
The sea! We are almost on top of it. In shimmering, level surface it stretches on into obscurity. We are lost. We cannot avoid it, yet less can we land thereon. One of the crew loses his head. He snatches the thin red tape that hangs down from the envelope. There is a tearing, rending sound.
He has ripped the balloon at 2000 feet. Pious prayers and curses intermingle. Down she sinks, with a great hole rent in her side—down and down, faster and faster. Over go the bags of ballast, one after another. Now all have been dropped. She slackens speed; but only momentarily. Down she goes again, the upward current of air whistles unpleasantly through the rigging. In a last feverish effort boots are unlaced and hurled overboard, together with coats and every portable object to hand.
Too late. We hit the edge of a cliff; bounce back several feet into the air, then sink down on to the beach below. Another crash, again we are bundled and bounced about in the confined space of the car. The sand gets in our ears and eyes and mouths. The balloon lies along the sand a woebegotten shape, as flat as a pancake. When we eventually sort ourselves out, we find luckily, that there is but one casualty: a broken wrist, sustained by the foolish idiot that ripped! Just retribution!
And to end the adventure, a stolid British policeman, ponderous official-looking note-book in hand, approaches and demands our names and addresses, and asks if we are of British nationality!
[CHAPTER XIV]
THE BATTLE OF THE WOOD
Flanders,
Wednesday.
Somewhere in the north of France there is a little wood. It is about half a mile square in area, and stands immediately south of a fine, broad highroad, along which there daily pass large bodies of reinforcements, infantry and cavalry, and convoys bringing up ammunition and supplies. The tall trees offer a welcome shade in the hot weather, and it was the custom for passing troops to halt there for a short time; and just at the spot the roadside was always well littered with broken bottles. Needless to state, it was in German territory.
However, had it not been for that road, and for the fact that on this certain day, when the road had been closed to all traffic, there were certain mysterious movements of ponderous great wagons, suspiciously like ammunition wagons, which halted in the shade of the wood, this story would never have been written.
The day was hot, and the work was heavy, and mein herr captain paused for a moment to curse his uncongenial task, and take a long draught from his water bottle, of some liquor that certainly was not water. In the midst thereof he let it fall with a curse of rage and surprise, for there overhead, as if it had suddenly appeared from the clouds, was the form of a British aeroplane. “Himmel,” he exclaimed, “all our trouble wasted, they have our hiding spot discovered, and to-morrow morning they bomb us—ach!”
The worthy gentleman was not far out in his deduction, for the lynx-eye of the observer in the aeroplane had carefully noted the exact geographical position of that new ammunition park, before the machine sped off homewards. But he was wrong to a certain extent; our Flying Corps are no fools, and they realized that Mr. Bosche would soon expect a return visit, and would be fully prepared therefor. This course was, therefore, useless to them; it was essential that that ammunition park must be destroyed, but in a manner and at a time the Germans least expected, and this is how it was accomplished.
Towards evening a light scouting machine sped swiftly away from a certain British aerodrome, only a few miles behind the firing lines. No untoward incident that, but it was particularly conspicuous from the fact that the entire aerodrome had turned out to wish the trip God-speed, to wish the pilot, a young second Lieutenant of the Canadian Infantry, the best of luck, and to cram the fuselage of the machine with spare ammunition, until she could barely “stagger” off the ground. The objective was the ammunition park already mentioned. With long, sweeping circles the scout soon cleared the area of the firing lines, and arrived over the wood.
Still nothing happened, the whole countryside was remarkably quiet for a battle area. No anti-aircraft guns fired, no enemy aircraft came humming round. Lower came the pilot to investigate. Still nothing happened; he, on his part, now began to feel genuinely alarmed, unless of course that confounded observer had been “seeing” things, a not unknown failing with aeroplane observers.
Meanwhile in the midst of the wood, the corpulent captain watched the small speck carefully with his glasses, then rubbed his fat hands with glee and expectation. The fool Englishman was falling beautifully into his little trap. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder, and there in a large clearing behind the wood, were ten great German battle-planes, all ready to go up at a moment’s notice and with pilots and observers standing by.
By this time the British machine had come considerably lower, and was well behind the wood, and into the German country. The captain gave a sharp, guttural order. Immediately the noise of ten great propellers smote the still air, and the squadron rose swiftly from the wood like a covey of wild ducks. The hated Englishman was hopelessly trapped.
And what of our man? Turning leisurely to make a last reconnaissance of the wood, he found ten great German battle-planes between himself and the lines. He cursed profusely at his own crass stupidity. He had been warned, and he had thought fit to ignore the warning, and this was the result. Anyway he would make a good fight for it. He fingered his machine-gun cautiously. Yes, everything was ready to hand. He set his teeth, opened his engine “full out” and began to climb rapidly.
The Germans also climbed, and within a very short space of time he found himself hemmed in on all sides, with lead flying at him from all points, and at all angles. Anyhow, he determined to have a good run for his life, and singling out two Germans immediately beneath him, he dived rapidly. As he did so, he was hit by shrapnel; for a short space of time he was unconscious, then again regaining control of his machine, began to use his machine-gun to good effect.
First one German he drove to the ground, then another, and then a third. His blood was up now, and he turned round for further victims, but the Huns had had sufficient for one day, and were scuttling off to peace and safety. He turned homewards, and his wound was becoming agonizing, as a bombing squadron of our own machines passed by.
Very soon there arose from the wood violent explosions and blinding sheets of flame, and by the time the British bombing squadron had finished its full design, all that remained of the fat captain’s ammunition park were a few broken and shattered wagons, and a heap of dead and dying men.
[CHAPTER XV]
A TIGHT CORNER
Somewhere in France,
Friday.
The other day, yesterday afternoon to be exact, a most exciting adventure befell me. I was detailed to take part in a bombing raid at ——. We had not proceeded far beyond our own lines, after the customary bombardment of anti-aircraft shells, when suddenly the machine immediately in front of us rocked violently, and began to dive towards the earth. “B——’s been hit,” my observer bawled into my ear. I continued to watch the machine in its headlong descent. Alas, it was only too true! There was no possible escape: after diving steeply six hundred feet, the machine had begun to spin, and was now whirling round and round like a humming-top, and hardly a minute after, had crashed into the midst of a wood, from which there immediately came up a cloud of gray smoke and a leaping tongue of flame.
We had started out four strong; our mission being to raid M——, a large German military center, containing a staff headquarters, an ammunition park, and a large aerodrome. And now our machine was the sole survivor, two having been shot down when crossing the lines. Alone and single-handed, in a notoriously dangerous portion of the enemy’s lines, every moment we were liable to be fired at from all quarters, and attacked by enemy aircraft.
I looked searchingly at my observer; it was his first trip across the lines, and I had to admit to myself that never before, in my six months of flying at the front, had I been in such a deucedly uncomfortable position. How would he take it? I hesitated. Should we turn back to safety, or should we continue on our way to what was almost certain death? I glanced at his face, it was stern and set, with the deliberation of the man who is willing to risk everything. With his left hand he patted and fondled the deadly machine-gun. I determined to go on.
Then they opened fire on us again. Apparently for the last few minutes they had all deserted their guns and had been busy gaping at the remains of poor B——’s machine; but now, flushed with their recent success, they commenced to fire with demoniacal fury. Shots burst behind, before, above, below: one minute immediately over the nose, the next immediately beneath the tail of the machine. To avoid them we climbed, and dived, and banked in all directions, until her old ribs began to groan and creak from sheer exertion, and she threatened every moment to fly asunder in mid-air. At last we got clear of them, and sighted our objective, just as the sun broke through the clouds, and revealed to us a stretch of low, flat-lying country, dotted here and there with villages and camps and ammunition bases. M—— showed up easily, it was a moderate-sized town of ant-like pigmy dwellings, little white and gray patches in the brilliant sunlight. A small winding river skirted the town, looking for all the world against the dark background like the vein in a man’s arm. North and south ran the gleaming, glinting railway lines, and a large road led up from the town to the firing line. This road was now converged with traffic of all descriptions. We dropped a bomb, but it was very wide of the mark, and it served to draw the enemy’s fire, which again broke out all round us with renewed fury. M—— was better supplied with anti-aircraft guns than any other position on the German front. Higher and yet higher we climbed until we were well above the clouds, and the earth was almost hidden from our sight. By this simple and expedient ruse de guerre we might be able to get over the city before the gunners were aware of our existence. But alas for our well laid plans! We had not gone far when we encountered a great double-engined Albatross, and there, with the white billowy clouds stretching like waves of a gigantic sea in all directions, we fought our battle of life and death. Fritz opened the encounter by sweeping down upon us at top speed, pouring out a steady stream of lead from the machine-gun in the nose of his machine. To avoid this we climbed rapidly, and he flashed by, beneath us, at an alarming rate. We attempted to bomb him, but it was futile, and the bomb fell downwards to the earth below.
We turned as soon as were able, and waited for the enemy to recommence the attack. He was all out now, and putting on top speed bore down upon us with the speed of an express train. Nearer and yet nearer he drew. Thankfully I noticed that we were both at the same altitude. When yet about a quarter of a mile distant, his observer opened fire, the bullets flying all around us in a leaden stream, and still we did not reply. I looked at my observer. He was bending over his gun, fumbling about with some portion of the mechanism. There was no need to ask what was the matter. Alas! I knew too well. The gun had jammed. Now followed a ticklish time for both of us, for without the gun we were completely unarmed, and Fritz was drawing nearer every second. Already I could hear and feel his bullets singing past my head, occasionally chipping portions of the machine. Now he was right level with us. What were we to do? To remain in that same position would mean certain death. If we climbed, he would climb faster, and would almost immediately be up with us again. There was only one thing to be done—the unexpected! So putting her nose-down, we dived towards the earth like a stone, and had gone over a thousand feet before I could get her level again. This maneuver so upset the calculations of the enemy, that he was now about three-quarters of a mile distant. This gave us precious time to prepare again for the attack. The observer was still working feverishly away, when we commenced to climb. Fritz had already turned and was coming down to meet us; but we had the advantage this time of having the wind behind our backs. If only that infernal gun were ready! Up we climbed, and down came Fritz; all the faster because he knew we were comparatively unarmed. Now we were under half a mile distant, now only a quarter, and now he had commenced to fire. Would we never reply? At last! Brrr! Brrr! Brrr! yapped the gun in our bows.
Fritz was so startled at this unexpected development that for a moment he paused in his firing. This was our opportunity; taking steady aim J—— put the whole drum of 47 cartridges into his back in three bursts. He staggered and reeled, he was hit; I felt I wanted to cry out for sheer joy, but my throat was parched and dry. Oh! the reaction after that dreadful ten minutes. But although we had hit him, Fritz was yet by no means out of running, that is if he elected to remain and fight it out, which I doubted extremely; for the Hun is ever super-courageous when he has an unarmed and helpless foe to deal with. So throttling her down I watched him anxiously. Turning to the left he started off at top speed in the direction of his own base. This I had expected, and off we started in his trail with only another half-hour’s petrol in our tanks. On and on he flew, over wood and town, and we were close in the rear, both flying at top speed. Every moment he was getting lower. I knew only too well what that meant. He was trying to lead us into a trap, where we would make a set target for a ring of his anti-aircraft guns. We must never let this happen or we should be finished for a certainty. If we could only catch up with him; but it was in vain we wished, for he was yet a quarter of a mile ahead, when, as usual, the unexpected happened. He had engine trouble. Within five minutes we were almost on top of him. He commenced to sink like a stone. Now was our opportunity, an opportunity which our observer was not slow to take advantage of. Right into the middle of his back flew the steady stream of bullets. Again he reeled, and this time there was that peculiar fluttering of the wings, which tells only too plainly that an aeroplane is “out of control.” Like poor B—— he commenced to whirl round like a humming-top, then with one long last plunge he had crashed into one of his own encampments, and all was over.
We were left to reach our own lines with twenty minutes’ petrol remaining, and under a violent bombardment of the enemy “Archies.”
Again an interesting personal account, told in the words of the pilot participating in a Zepp Strafe:—
The orderly from the telephone room brought the news. Zeppelins had been sighted at —— and were proceeding in a northerly direction. This meant that they would be overhead at any moment.
A few sharp orders and the station began to throb with life.
Mechanics hurried hither and thither, some to the sheds to get out the machine, others to fetch the bombs and a Véry’s pistol from the armory; yet others to lay out the light flares across the aerodrome in order that upon our return we might perchance be able to define the right landing ground.
Compasses, electric light torches and maps were dragged hurriedly from their hiding-places in lockers. A general bearing was taken of the enemy’s course, and we ran out on to the aerodrome, where a searchlight had already begun to work, sending long, scintillating beams of light across the dark night sky, turning and twisting, first in one quarter, then in another, covering the heavens in the twinkling of an eye, but never disclosing the true object of its search.
At last there is a shout from one of the men by the light. He had discovered the whereabouts of the Zeppelin. Yes! there she is! A long, gray, cigar-shaped object far up in the clouds.
We hurried across to the machine, and while I examined the bombs in the bomb-rack beneath the fuselage (body), and attended to the fitting-in of the Lewis-gun, the pilot tested the engine. And before five minutes had elapsed since the first alarm we were off the ground.
Who can well and truly describe the sensations of night flying? Suddenly one is hurled from the ground into an unbounded space of darkness at the rate of fifty miles an hour. It is like jumping off a cliff on a dark night and plunging on and on, one knows not where. It is impossible to see beyond one’s nose, and the only thing that seems real and natural is the incessantly loud hum of the engine. It is a by no means pleasant task.
Leaving the ground we miss a roof-top by inches, and, feeling considerably shaken, climb rapidly. At first it is dark, pitch dark. We see nothing, we know not where we are. One would lose one’s reason were it not for the hum of the racing engine.
At last there breaks through the long shadows of darkness, beneath us, a long, narrow, winding ribbon of shimmering gray. The young moon has broken through the clouds and the reflection of its light upon the water gives us the position of the river. On either side or moving slowly along the surface are small pin-pricks of colored lights; I switch on my electric light in front of the observer’s seat, glance at the altimeter, and discover that we are already 500 feet up.
The glare of that light, feeble though it be when contrasted with the black darkness of the atmosphere around, has got into my eyes, and for a moment or two I can distinguish absolutely nothing. Then lights begin to make themselves visible.
The street lamps can easily be distinguished; as being darkened at the top the light is concentrated downwards in a circle onto the pavement beneath, which serves the purpose of reflecting it heavenwards and upwards. The main streets can be picked out by the two parallel lines of colored lights; the windows of shops, the lights of which have been covered with red and green shades.
I have another look at the altimeter. Only a thousand, but still climbing steadily. Into a dark bare patch of land far below there comes rushing a flaring, glaring gleam of light, followed by a string of smaller lights. I puzzle out what this strange apparition may be. It is a railway train.
As we mount yet higher we begin to lose all our bearings, and all sight of the earth beneath. A much more beautiful earth when compared with the dull, prosaic everyday affair, looking for all the world like a huge garden decorated with a myriad of multi-colored lights. It is difficult to realize that those few, straggling, irregular rows of lamps encompass seven million living souls; that there far below us sleepily blinking and twinkling is the greatest city of the world.
The altimeter registers 5000 ft. Getting nearer to the Zepp altitude, yet no sign! The anxiety of waiting and suspense is becoming insufferable. Nothing but the incessant throb of the engine. But I have spoken too soon! Out of the darkness and blackness there rushes past, with the speed of an express train, a black unholy shape.
Suddenly there is the most violent cannonade; a sure sign that the anti-aircraft gunners have spotted their quarry. Searchlights from all directions are in a second of time concentrated upon ourselves, while they are endeavoring to get the range. This latter, much to the disgust of the pilot, who, blinded by the glare, banks too steeply, just in time saves her from a nose-dive, and consigns all anti-aircraft gunners to a certain well-known locality possessed of a permanent and extremely warm climate.
We are in luck’s way, however; for presently the guns are all silenced. The searchlights go out one by one. All becomes quiet and dark, dismally dark. We cruise around for another ten minutes or so, then descend cautiously and gradually. With one eye glued to the altimeter, to make certain of the height, I peer over the side with the other to pick up the first sign of lights or landmarks.
Eight thousand feet! Seven thousand feet! Getting horribly cold! Six thousand! Five thousand! Shall we never get down? Four thousand! Three thousand! it seems like an age. Two thousand! One thousand! Cautiously now or our necks will be broken!
At last we are safe back on Mother Earth again, and very thankfully seek the refuge of our beds!
[CHAPTER XVI]
AN AIR FIGHT WITH A HUN
Somewhere in the North of France,
Saturday.
To-day our special delight has been a bombardment from enemy aeroplanes.
They came over about noon and roused the fearful and subdued the proud while we were all at lunch. They circled overhead for about five minutes, dropped a dozen or so bombs, then cleared off hurriedly before our own men had time to get away.
One man here had a most ingenious “funkhole” for aerial bombardment. He utilized a large stone drain-pipe for this purpose, and it was his custom when enemy aircraft were reported to be in sight to crawl into this thing, take a book with him, and calmly read until they had taken their departure. He advertised this comic shelter one day as:—
“A novel bijou residence, completely detached, every convenience, within easy reach of the firing line. Bullets and bombs pass the door every few moments.”
Figuratively speaking, our mission was target-registering.
But having previously heard that the “mother” (naval 9:2-inch gun) with which we were to have worked was incapacitated, and the afternoon being fine and sunny, we determined to seek adventure further afield, and turning her nose in a south-easterly direction kept straight on.
“Am making for Dixmude to see if we can raise a Hun or two.”
This latter by means of a note passed over my shoulder by the pilot. And here let it be said that a proper understanding between pilot and observer is one of the essential features of war flying. What the latter misses the former often picks up, for when flying at high altitudes of over 10,000 feet, field-glasses for observation purposes, with the excessive vibration of the engine, are at first very difficult to manipulate.
Our machine, one of the latest scouting types, was a beauty. She climbed rapidly and had a fast turn of speed through the air, concerning which latter feature there always seems to exist in the lay mind a deal of misapprehension, especially concerning the possibilities and peculiarities of the various types.
The aeroplane is a most curious and difficult machine to build up, because so many different factors have to be taken into consideration in the construction of it. If it be constructed for speed work, it necessitates a large engine, and hence more weight, and with its limited “lifting” capacity, some other feature has to be sacrificed, very probably petrol-tanks, thus cutting down the possible duration of flight. Similarly speed would have to be sacrificed for duration.
Thus it will be seen that an aeroplane can only specialize in one feature and cannot possess, at one and the same time, speed, lift, safety, climbing power and long durability.
The alpha and omega of the adventure was that we were within certain limits free to do what we pleased. This added a certain amount of vim and interest, especially so when compared with target-registering.
As we sail along the blue sky over green fields and steepled city, my eye constantly roams round in search of enemy aircraft, but thus far with not much luck.
The firing lines are now far behind us, and we are well over into the enemy’s country. One would have thought that before now we should have encountered a stray Aviatik or so, or a patrolling Albatross.
At last! In the far distance and coming towards us at a great speed “down-wind” is a white-nosed machine, which I distinguished as “Fritz,” a single tractor biplane, a hybrid of the Albatross and Aviatik types, fitted with a 225 h.p. Mercedes engine, that gives 90 miles per hour. It has a range of ten hours’ flight, and carries two Maxim guns—one in front, but only firing sideways, and one behind the pilot.
Immediately thoughts of an aerial combat flash across my mind. I had never taken part in one before, but had often watched them from the comfortable security of terra firma: during that first moment I had a bad attack of “cold feet.”
A vision of many a hard-fought battle in mid-air came before my eyes. With the opposing machines darting above and below one another like two great birds, the sun glistening on the whitened planes as they turned and twisted, while all around and silhouetted against the deep blue sky were the little black and flame patches of the bursting shrapnel, it was a gloriously fascinating sight.
The uncertainty held one spellbound. Suddenly one of the machines would put down her nose and descend like a stone to earth; for a moment one’s heart was in one’s mouth until she would right herself and climb up again into the fray. Sometimes these wonderful battles would last as long as forty minutes or an hour, until one or the other would crash down thousands of feet to the earth below.
In a warfare of long-ranging artillery, and the scientific slaughter of an invisible foe many miles away where hand-to-hand combat was practically unknown, these duels in mid-air were a delight to friend and foe alike, for they, and they alone, were favored with the old-time romance of war, daring and adventure.
Men in the trenches would leave their rifles, forget the enemy, and gaze with wide-open eyes at what was going on overhead; drivers of ammunition-wagons would pause on their way in the middle of the road craning their necks, the while red-hatted staff-officers would order their cars to be stopped until the fight was over.
Those two little black specks, suspended thousands of feet above were the cynosure of all eyes, and when the stricken machine came low enough for her nationality to be distinguished, if it were a black cross on either wing a shout of sheer joy would burst forth from many an anxious heart; if on the other hand, it were the three circles of red, white, and blue, a sigh would go down the lines like the rustle of the wind through the trees.
She is almost up to us by this time. I let fire with the machine-gun, but she is still beyond range. Oh, those moments of expectation! Would she fight or turn tail and run?
She elected to do the former and climbed quickly above us. Her pilot opened fire with his machine-gun. The bullets whizzed past our ears, dangerously near.
We climb in turn and lose sight of her for a moment or so. It is a complicated game of blind-man’s buff. We got up with her at last and both let off simultaneously. There is a language spoken in that act, a language that has neither stops, commas, letters, characters, notes, nor images. It is the language of unbounded hate. Hate to the death. We got above her and “down-wind” this time. Luck is on our side. Another tray of cartridges for the gun quickly! That’s got her. She drops sharply. Her pilot must have been hit and lost control of his “joy-stick.” We are right on top of her now and let the whole tray of munitions off into her back.
Suddenly down goes her nose. She rushes earthwards with a very fair speed to waft her pilot to paradise. Faster and faster she travels. Fainter, fainter does our view of her become!
Down below the hundreds are waiting anxiously, already glorying in the prize. She’s down at last!
Most thankfully we turn home.
[CHAPTER XVII]
A GREAT RAID
Somewhere in the North of France,
Monday.
As I walked across the aerodrome, the feeble rays of the young moon were dying in the west. It was 4.30 in the morning, with an icy-cold nor’wester shrieking through the tree-tops, and I was very thankful that I had taken the precaution of clothing myself warmly in a wool-lined leather coat and trousers, a pair of long gum boots—invaluable for keeping out wet and cold alike—a woolen balaclava helmet under my leather aviation cap, and two pairs of gloves to keep my hands from freezing.
We had received our instructions the previous night. Ten bomb-dropping aeroplanes were to be convoyed by two battle-planes.
It may be mentioned that a bomb-dropping machine is usually of the fast, scouting variety, with a speed of well over ninety miles per hour, and is a single seater—that is to say, it carries no observer. The reason for this is not very far to seek. With two men and a machine-gun aboard, very little power remains for a supply of bombs; without an observer and a machine-gun, the bomb supply may be doubled. And the more bombs aboard the more damage can be done to the enemy.
The battle-plane is either a “pusher” (with the propeller at the rear) aeroplane, mounting a large gun at the prow, or a Caudron with two engines. Its principal duty is to protect the bomb-dropping machine from attack by enemy aircraft.
The two battle-planes were the first to get away from the ground and the others soon followed. When they had all reached an altitude of 5000 feet, they took up their pre-arranged formation with one of the battle-planes on either wing; then turned their noses eastward towards the sun, and set off in the direction of the enemy lines.
Far away across the sand-dunes there came the first rays of the rising sun, casting a thousand scintillating gleams across the sea. Out in the channel was a fleet of fishing smacks, heedless of the drifting mines, bowling along merrily before the breeze to their accustomed fishing-ground. The dull gray lines and the smoke-belching funnels of a British destroyer, full out at thirty knots showed as she churned the seas into masses of white foam, leaving in her rear a long white wake. Dotted here and there were small tramp-steamers and cargo-boats. By the sand-dunes off the coast was a long dark shape, which might easily have been mistaken for a whale, had it not been for that tell-tale periscope. It was one of our own submarines. Away in the distance was a dark irregular line, which later in the day and in a stronger light, would reveal itself as the shores of old England.
A glance at the altimeter—the instrument for registering the height—revealed the fact that we were now 6000 feet. Still climbing, the course was set further out to sea, to avoid as much as possible the anti-aircraft guns at Westende and Middlekerke.
Things ashore now began to brighten up. Along and behind the firing line there was the occasional flash of a heavy gun, followed almost immediately by dense clouds of white smoke. Along the roads there crawled, ant-like, the long columns of supply and ammunition wagons. Sometimes a big gun appeared, hauled along by a puffing traction-engine; sometimes a battalion or company of infantry or a squadron of cavalry moving up to the front line.
Running south and east were the two dull gray straggling lines of opposing trenches, so close together in places that they appeared to run into one another. We were gradually drawing nearer to those much dreaded lines where our real troubles were to begin. Already far up along the coast, it was possible to distinguish Middlekerke and the Ostend railway station.
The first anti-aircraft shot! A long-drawn-out hiss and a violent explosion in unpleasant proximity—a pretty enough exhibition to watch from the safety of terra firma, but deucedly uncomfortable when one is playing the leading part in the little drama. It is the first shot that is always the most unpleasant and the most terrifying.
For the next few moments there continues a fairly strenuous bombardment, which necessitates rapid climbing and diving to continually alter the range. Then the firing ceases for a short while, and all is normal again.
From behind a small wood there comes floating gayly up aloft the long and ugly shape of a “sausage” (captive balloon). Now is our chance for a little just retribution. But, apparently the Germans have seen us, for the “sausage” is being brought rapidly down towards the earth again. The temptation is too strong for two of our men, who, despite previous orders to the contrary, try their ’prentice hand with a few bombs, without success. It is easy to see that this is their first time across, for the “sausage” is the most difficult of all targets, and very rarely hit.
My map now reveals to me that we are over Ostend. More shrapnel flies up, interspersed here and there with high-explosive shell. One can feel a certain contempt for shrapnel in mid-air. The conditions are entirely different when firing across the land, than when firing straight up into the air. In the latter case the resistance is more than treble, with the result that, by the time the shrapnel reaches anything of an altitude, the best of its driving force has been expended, and bullets rattle harmlessly against the wings of the aeroplane. In fact, on one occasion a Royal Flying Corps pilot returned from a reconnaissance trip with 365 bullet-holes in various parts of his machine, which was still air-worthy.
High explosive is another matter. If it bursts reasonably near the machine, there is not the slightest chance of ever reaching the ground again in a whole condition, and even when bursting at a distance it is apt to give the aeroplane a nasty jar and sometimes upsets it entirely.
One machine has had to drop out and has turned back towards the lines, and now there are only eleven of us. More shrapnel and yet more; much too near on the last occasion. We climb rapidly higher to 10,000 feet. It is a fine, clear day, and everything beneath us is quite distinct. Even so, it is a very difficult matter to maneuver the machine and to use one’s glasses at the same time.
One peculiarity in atmospherical conditions on the Continent is that the weather is either too misty for flying, or so remarkably clear that the airman can reconnoiter from much greater heights than in England. For the first two hours after sunrise there is invariably a heavy ground mist. Yet early morning and later afternoon are the more favorable times for flying purposes.
Ghistelles looms into view, far away to the south and bathed in a sea of light mist. It is the great German aeronautical center in Belgium. All the large enemy raids are organized and planned at this center. The town itself is of no great size, but it has good lines of communication by road and rail, both to the firing line and the distant bases in the immediate neighborhood of Brussels. There are some forty hangars there, and until quite recently there were two large sheds. Probably no other spot within the German lines is so well and plentifully supplied with anti-aircraft guns as is this place.
Far away in the distance, and coming “down wind” at a very great pace, is a minute black shape, at present no larger in size than a man’s hand.
An enemy machine! Excitement rules high. He cannot have seen us, for no Hun airman would dream of taking on so many of our machines single handed.
Nearer and yet nearer he draws. Suddenly he sees us. He turns quickly, but is too late. Our battle-plane on the extreme right is after him. The enemy skirts the fringe of the dark clouds that hang across the horizon. After him goes our battle-plane. For a short space of time both are hidden in its depths. Then, from the distant end, there descends rapidly a small black object.
Is it British or enemy? Down she goes; a steep volplane turning into a spiral, and finally into a murderous-looking nose-dive. Thank Heaven, it is the enemy machine. I have seen the black cross on the tail. Back comes our machine triumphant, and we continue on our way to Ostend.
There are various objectives of an offensive through the air. There is the attack on enemy aircraft. This is hardly a matter for an organized raid; it is rather the errand of a cruising battle-plane. Next there comes the destruction of material; ammunition columns (usually situated in woods), parks of transport, railways, and all appertaining to them, and especially bridges and trains, stations and sidings, enemy headquarters, aeroplane and airship sheds, petrol depots, and gas-works.
Lastly, there is the bombing of troops. This is a comparatively simple matter, the best occasion on which to attack them being when they are crowded in roadways and similar areas.
Zeebrugge was at last almost within reach. The place is recognizable from the long jetty running in a large curve far out into the sea. Proceeding in a westerly direction are numerous heavy troop-trains, and standing in the sidings several locomotives with steam up, all of which incidents point to the movement of a large number of troops. In the harbor are four destroyers and three submarines. The more the merrier!
Gradually we draw nearer. It is now possible to see something of the panic in the streets and roadways. Motor-cars are darting out of the city in all directions; the destroyers are hurriedly trying to make for the open sea. The anti-aircraft guns begin to open fire from every quarter. And then we commence to drop our bombs. Down they go, those ministers of death and destruction, to their targets. Huge columns of living flame leap up skywards hundreds of feet into the air. The din of the engine resounds upon the ear-drums until we begin to wonder if we shall ever be able to hear distinctly again. But down below, where the guns still pound away unceasingly, the crash of the bursting shells, the violent explosions of the dropping bombs; all are strangely noiseless. It is a veritable inferno of death and destruction.
The roof-tops of the city are covered with great rolling clouds of thick black smoke. It is now almost impossible to distinguish any landmark on the ground below.
Two of our machines have already gone crashing down. The sight of them falling is the greatest shock to the nerves imaginable; it is the true test of bravery, for one always feels tempted to give up and follow them, but only for the passing second. The lust of battle grows strong again; more bombs and yet more are dropped onto the stricken city. The flying of the machines is marvelous to behold.
Another of our craft is hit, making number three; she, too, disappears into the mist beneath. Our bombs are now all exhausted and we turn thankfully homewards. Another machine drops out, to land safely on the foreshore, and, as we afterwards learn, the pilot is made a prisoner. Then we reach our own lines once more and are safe.
[CHAPTER XVIII]
A DAY-DREAM
Somewhere in the North of France,
Saturday.
The other day I had a dream; at six o’clock in the morning, at 10,000 feet up in the air, with the biting cold wind whistling by my ears. On all sides stretched the air, a boundless infinity; beneath, a moving panorama of wood, river, and hill, of men, guns and battle-field. Far in the distance, the waters of the North Sea glinted blue in the early morning sun; when suddenly the air became filled with a strange purring sound, and from all sides came flying hundreds of aircraft of varying shapes and sizes. Among them I noticed one, a leviathan. A long cigar-shaped, silver-tinted, super-airship; beneath and swinging easily in the breeze, the hull was in the shape of the old-fashioned sea-going steamer. For’ard was a wide expanse of promenade deck, where could plainly be distinguished the passengers walking to and fro. In the center, on a raised dais, a band, resplendent in blue and gold, were strumming some popular air. Amidships a great bridge, where the officer of the watch and the quartermaster were directing her course. Astern was another wide expanse of deck, but this apparently was reserved for the crew. Now a large group of men were busily engaged round a small, bullet-shaped aeroplane. With a whirr, she started off across the wide deck, and a second later was gracefully clearing the great ship’s side, and missing a green and white balloon buoy literally by inches, sank rapidly in a southerly direction; and then our wireless telephone rang. It was the big ship speaking us, “Had we seen anything of the home-bound mail?” “No, we had not.” “Could we say what the Siberian weather conditions had been the day previous?” “Well, nothing extraordinary, slight haze over North China.” “Strange, the Menelaus left Canton yesterday, should have reported Bombay this morning, Moscow reports her two hours overdue.” “No, we have seen nothing of the missing liner;” and, leaving the great pleasure ship miles in the rear, we skim across the Carpathians, speaking two Serbian cruisers on patrol duty along the Northern Frontier. From thence we run into a storm, have to climb to 5000, and by the time the mist and darkness clears away, the North Sea has loomed into view. Now we are more in the beaten track, swarms of small pleasure craft go cruising by; the Paris-London way is chock-a-block with traffic: cumbersome great four and eight engined merchant vessels, slim graceful pleasure craft, Government vessels, two giant American liners, and an Australian non-stop mail-boat, some naval craft and small police patrol craft, endeavoring to order the converging lines, and two military transports bringing home leave men from Abyssinia. The Far East fleet, flying majestically and impressively along with the flagship Twentieth Century leading the line, the hind portion tapering off gracefully and far into the rear to the smaller aeroplane—torpedo craft. The air is full of the crackling of the wireless, every master endeavoring at the same time to engage a berth in either the London or Norwich aerodromes. Soon the fleet makes a sharp turn to the left, the less important and smaller craft scurrying hurriedly away to give her passage. The Home Fleet looms into view, silent and majestic; in the dim distance the two units sight each other, and after paying the usual compliments, pass on their respective ways. Nearer the English coast the air swarms with pleasure vessels, elegant and tiny airships float lazily in the air, their occupants lolling idly in the sun. Over Dover can be seen the ugly form of the new floating dock, said to be large enough to accommodate even an air dreadnought.
Strung across the North Sea; about 2000 feet up, and well below the level of the trade routes, are the small gray ships of the Aerial Sporting League. We speak one of them. There is to be an international race this morning between London and Petrograd. Amused, we watch the long gray line at the starting-post, among the green fields of Kent, presently they are beneath us in a long extended line, two machines of our own red, white and blue, well to the fore. We give our number and business to the Patrol airship at the Nore, and come down slowly to pick up our landing stage, somewhere east of Greenwich, when suddenly the waters of the Thames below are cleft in twain, as if by an earthquake, and from the disturbance there rises a squat, peculiarly shaped craft, that commences to glide along the smooth surface of the water towards Purfleet, where she climbs gently out onto the far bank, into a wide gray slipway, some quarter of a mile in width. Still crawling along on her belly, she reaches the Government repair works where, taking fresh supplies aboard, she suddenly sprouts two wings and commences climbing up into the air. Again there is an unpleasant purring noise, and a yet more unpleasant concussion....
“Shrapnel,” my observer bawls into my ear, “better go higher,” and we do.
[CHAPTER XIX]
A MID-AIR BATTLE
Somewhere in France,
Friday.
It was a sleepy old-world town hidden away in the sunny hills of Northern France, with a broad highway leading from the town in either direction and easily distinguishable from the air as being a first-class or main road, by its extraordinary width and the superabundance of traffic passing to and fro. We were still flying low and could easily distinguish the long strings of motor cars, convoys of ambulance wagons, supply and ammunition columns. In one place a battalion of reinforcements, marching up towards the firing line with their transport wagons in the rear. Further up and nearer to the firing line were a string of motor ’buses, crowded outside with Tommies, their bayonets gleaming silver as they caught the rays of the early sun. In another place a small traction-engine was hauling a chain of limbers, on which were the parts of a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) being hurried up to take part in that murderous duel along the lines.
We are now getting nearer the dreaded area, and for the sake of comfort and safety have to climb higher. The surface of the earth, however, still remains distinct. The long gray winding lines of trenches stretch away to the north and south as far as the eye can reach. In some places as much as half a mile divides them, in others they are so close together, that from above they appear to “kiss.” But our happy soliloquizing is broken by the burst of a shrapnel shell in the near vicinity. No more time for thought now.