CHAPTER XIV—THE BOMBARDMENT
By the time the excited crowd had piled outside powerful search-lights were reaching up into the starlit heavens, lifting out of the gloom with strange and fantastic effect the thin veil of clouds which here and there stretched across it.
Even amid the booming of the anti-aircraft batteries and the sharper staccato reports of the machine guns from various parts of the field, all blending into an unearthly din, the droning of the motors high in the air could be distinctly heard. Like a pyrotechnic display, luminous bullets, searching for the invaders, shot up into the sky, often piercing the low-hanging clouds; and mingling in with them were vicious little spurts of fire which told of the explosion of shrapnel shells.
The majority of the pilots, familiar with the dreadful danger which menaced them, made a wild dash for the underground shelters. But Don Hale and a few others, fascinated by the awe-inspiring scene and situation, remained.
“Isn’t this awful!” cried Bobby Dunlap, with a distinct tremolo in his voice. “Great Scott!”
At that instant a loud, though dull boom from the explosion of a bomb had added its quota of noise to the raging inferno of sound.
It hadn’t landed so far away, either, and, as Don Hale, in the grip of fear and excitement which he found impossible to control, strove to pierce the gloom, three reports, even louder, followed one another in quick succession.
“Great Cæsar!” cried Bobby Dunlap. “It seems as though they are going to wipe the aviation camp off the map. It’s time for us to run for our lives.”
And with these words, jerked out so fast that they were scarcely intelligible, he started off on a headlong sprint to join those who had sought a haven of safety.
But even then neither Don, George nor Albert could tear themselves away from the singular scene that was passing before their eyes. Every search-light—every gun was being used. Dazzling streams of whitish light crossed and criss-crossed or swept in wide circles over the sky—the darkness of night seemed to be rent asunder. Flaming bullets were rising by the thousand.
Notwithstanding the terrific defense of the French batteries the German bombs continued to fall. Their appalling detonations seemed fairly to shake the ground.
It was a situation wherein the tragic and the terrible held full sway. No man alive could have stood it without fear and trembling; for, at any instant, one of the bombs might have fallen into their very midst.
And then, while they stood there, motionless, silent, their pulses quickened by the emotions within, they saw something which brought husky exclamations from their lips.
It was the sight of a German plane, spectral and ghostlike, sailing serenely along in a dazzling sea of light. Flying this way and that, it now and then almost disappeared in the obscurity beyond, but, inexorably, it was pulled back into the field of vision by the ever-moving rays. And then a second and a third plane sprang into view, all appearing as pale, ethereal and ghostlike as the other.
And as the pilots kept their eyes fixed upon this wonderful and singular spectacle, which seemed to combine the elements of the supernatural and unreal, they became witnesses to a scene which is given to but few in this world to see.
Suddenly, just beneath the foremost machine, now in the full glare of light, there appeared a tiny flash of fire, a tiny burst of smoke—the circling flight was ended. Almost simultaneously with the explosion of the shrapnel shell the battleplane began to fall, at first slowly, as though the airmen near the clouds were desperately seeking to regain control.
What was going to happen? A few seconds would tell.
They were thrilling seconds, too, to the little shivering knot of spectators by the bureau.
“Ah—ah!”
A long-drawn, shrill exclamation came from Don Hale.
The plane, after wobbling and staggering for the briefest instant, began a spinning dive toward the earth; and before it had gone many hundred feet a portion of one of its wings was seen to become detached. Almost instantly came a little burst of ruddy flame, rapidly increasing in intensity, until, at last, the airplane was blazing from end to end. Like a flaming meteorite, the doomed machine, still bathed in the dazzling white glare, continued its frightful plunge.
Down, down, it came, whirling and spinning, growing larger and more distinct with each passing second, and leaving behind it a long sinuous trail of sparks and inky smoke.
Absorbed—enthralled by the terrible spectacle, Don Hale almost forgot the danger that ever menaced them.
But before the plane had reached the ground the peril of their exposed position was brought forcibly to his mind by another loud report from a bursting bomb. It seemed to have fallen nearer at hand than any of the others; and he was just about to urge his companions to leave when, without warning, there came a frightful and appalling explosion, so terrible in its power that he found himself jerked off his feet and thrown violently forward.
Shocked, dazed and bewildered, he struck the turf at full length, where he lay as motionless as if the end had come.
He was brought to his senses, however, as suddenly as though ice-water had been dashed into his face. The explosion had hurled aloft great masses of earth and debris; and now, like a descending avalanche, they began beating upon the ground close about him with thuds and bangs and crashes.
With a startled cry, the boy staggered up. A clump of earth struck him on the back with almost stunning force; a piece of board crashed down at his feet, and in wild haste, he began the retreat that should have been made before.
And, to add to the danger, spent bullets from the shrapnel shells came pelting down.
The distance to the nearest underground shelter was very short, but it seemed like a mighty long way to the frightened runners. Could they reach it?
Panting, perspiring, almost desperate, they crossed the last lap of the intervening space and fairly threw themselves into the crowded bomb-proof shelter.
Their wild and unceremonious entrance brought exclamations from the crowd. But no effort was made to speak, however, for, amid the mighty, crashing chorus of the guns, voices could scarcely have been heard.
Huddled together in the shelter, which was dimly lighted by a single oil lamp, feeling the earth trembling beneath their feet, the pilots listened with awe to the sound of the explosions. It was mighty unpleasant to be cooped up—mighty unpleasant to think of what might be happening to the hangars and the little fighting Nieuports, and when, after what seemed to be an interminably long time, the din of the anti-aircraft guns and bursting bombs began to slacken, Don Hale gave a big sigh of relief.
“I guess it’s all over, boys,” he shouted.
“I’m going to make the Germans sorry for this,” cried Bobby Dunlap.
As the crowd, headed by Don, made for the door the firing had ceased, and, in contrast to the terrific racket of a few moments before, the comparative silence seemed almost strange and unnatural. The giant search-lights were still sweeping the sky, but the enemy had evidently been driven away.
Intent upon finding out as quickly as possible what damage had been done, Don Hale and George Glenn hurried toward the point where the bombs seemed to have fallen most thickly. Men were hurrying this way and that, and officers could be heard shouting their orders. It quickly developed, however, that the camp, very fortunately, had sustained but little damage. Great pits had been dug in the ground by the force of the explosions, the end of a hangar demolished, and two machines and a little storehouse destroyed.
“Now I feel very much better,” declared Don. “Honestly, I never expected to see that Nieuport of mine again.”
“From the amount of noise they made, one might have thought the whole camp was going skyward,” declared George. “Before the Boches have a chance to pay us another visit, Don, let’s beat it for the villa.”
“Done as soon as said,” exclaimed Don.
Long accustomed to the terrors and scares of the war zone, the boys had now entirely recovered from the effects of the bombardment from the sky.
With a number of others, they climbed into a big camion and were driven to their headquarters. On the way they saw encampments of soldiers in the fields, their tents, with lights inside, showing as faintly luminous spots in the darkness. Now and again a long convoy lumbered along the road; batteries were moving up nearer the front; reserves, too, passed them, marching steadily and silently, the rhythmic sound of their steadily-tramping feet sounding weirdly in the night.
And though no particular incident marked the journey, Don and George were thoroughly glad when they reached their comfortable room in the ancient villa.
Tired, after the many hours of work and excitement, they immediately turned in.
And thus ended another day.