Front Lines

by Boyd Cable

It sounds crazy, but then, as the Squadron protested, they, Guns especially, were crazy, and that’s all there was to it.

But with these notions of theirs about the infallibility of machine-guns, and the range of their usefulness, you will understand how their minds leaped to machine-gun tactics when the Hun night-fliers began to come over and bomb around the ’drome. The first night they came Guns nearly broke his neck by falling into a deep hole in his mad rush to get to the anti-aircraft machine-guns on the ‘drome near the sheds, and he alternated between moping and cursing for three days because the Huns had gone before he could get a crack at them. He cheered up a lot when they came the next time and he and the R.O. shot away a few-million rounds, more or less. But as he didn’t fetch a feather out of them, and as the Huns dropped their eggs horribly close to the hangars, the two were not properly satisfied, and began to work out all sorts of protective schemes and sit up as long as the moon was shining in hopes of a bit of shooting.

Their hopes were fully satisfied, or anyhow the Squadron’s more than were, because the Huns made a regular mark of the ’drome and strafed it night after night. And for all the rounds they shot, neither Guns nor the R.O. ever got a single bird, although they swore more than once that they were positive they had winged one. As none came down on our side of the lines, this claim was a washout, and the two got quite worried about it and had to stand an unmerciful amount of chaff from the others on the dud shooting.

After a bit they evolved a new plan. Careful investigation and inquiry of different pilots in the Squadron gave them the groundwork for the plan. In answer to questions, some of the pilots said that if they were in the place of the Huns and wanted to find the ‘drome in the dark, they would steer for the unusual-shaped clump of wood which lay behind the ’drome. Some said they would follow the canal, others the road, others various guides, but all agreed that the wood was the object the Huns would steer for. This found, all the pilots again agreed it was a simple matter to coast along the edge of the wood, which would show up a black blot on the ground in the moonlight, find the tongue or spur of trees that ran straight out towards the ’drome, and, keeping that line, must fly exactly over the hangars. One or two nights’ careful listening to the direction of the approaching and departing Hun engines confirmed the belief that the Huns were working on the lines indicated, and after this was sure the plan progressed rapidly.

The two machine-guns on the ’drome were trained and aimed in daylight to shower bullets exactly over the tip of the tongue of wood. A patent gadget invented by Guns allowed the gun-muzzles a certain amount of play up and down, play which careful calculation showed would pour a couple of streams of bullets across the end of the wood up and down a height extending to about a thousand feet, that is, 500 above and 500 below the level at which it was estimated the Huns usually flew on these night raids. It simply meant that as soon as the sound was judged to be near enough the two guns only had to open fire, to keep pouring out bullets to make sure that the Huns had to fly through the stream and “stop one” or more. It was, in fact, a simple air barrage of machine-gun bullets.

With the plan perfected, the two enthusiasts waited quite impatiently for the next strafe. Fortunately the moon was up fairly early, so that now there was no need to sit up late for the shoot, and the second night after the preparations were complete, to the joy of Guns and the R.O. (and the discomfort of the others), there was a beautiful, still, moonlight night with every inducement for the Huns to come along.

The two ate a hurried dinner with ears cocked for the first note of the warning which would sound when the distant noise of engines was first heard. Sure enough they had just reached the sweets when the signal went, and the two were up and off before the lights could be extinguished. They arrived panting at their stations to find the gun-crews all ready and waiting, made a last hasty examination to see everything was in order, and stood straining their ears for the moment when they reckoned the Huns would be approaching the barrage area, and when they judged the moment had arrived opened a long steady stream of fire. The drone of the first engine grew louder, passed through the barrage, and boomed on over the ’drome without missing a beat. There came the old familiar “Phe-e-e-w—BANG! ... e-e-e-ew—BANG!” of a couple of falling bombs, and the first engine droned on and away. Two minutes later another was heard, and Guns and the R.O., no degree disheartened or discouraged by their first failure, let go another stream of lead, keeping the gun-muzzles twitching up and down as rapidly as they could. The second Hun repeated the performance of the first; and a third did likewise. After it was all over Guns and the R.O. held a council and devised fresh and more comprehensive plans, which included the use of some extra guns taken from the machines. For the moment we may leave them, merely mentioning that up to now and even in their newer plans they entirely neglected any consideration of rather an important item in their performance, namely, the ultimate billet of their numerous bullets.

From the point of view of the defence it is an important and unpleasant fact that an air barrage eventually returns to the ground. Guns and the R.O. had been pumping out bullets at a rate of some hundreds per minute each, and all those bullets after missing their target had to arrive somewhere on the earth. The gunners’ interest in them passed for the moment as soon as the bullets had failed to hit their mark, and afterwards they came to remember with amazement that ever they could have been so idiotically unconsidering.

Some distance from the ’drome, and in a line beyond the tip of the wood, there stood a number of Nissen huts which housed a Divisional Staff, and the inevitable consequence was that those up-and-down twitching gun-muzzles sprayed showers of lead in gusts across and across the hutments. The General Commanding the Division was in the middle of his dinner with about five staff officers round the table when the first “aeroplane over” warning went on this particular night of the new air barrage. The lights in the Mess hut were not extinguished, because full precautions had been taken some nights before to have the small window-space fully and closely screened against the possibility of leakage of a single ray of light. One or two remarks were made quite casually about the nasty raiding habits of the Huns, but since no bombs had come near in the earlier raids, and the conclusion was therefore reasonable that the Divisional H.Q. had not been located, nobody there worried much over the matter, and dinner proceeded.

They all heard the drone of the Hun engine, and, because it was a very still night, they heard it rather louder than usual. Someone had just remarked that they seemed to be coming closer to-night, when the further remarks were violently interrupted by a clashing and clattering B-bang ... br-r-rip-rap, ba-bang-bang, the splintering, ripping sound of smashed wood, the crash, clash tinkle of a bottle burst into a thousand fragments on the table under their startled eyes. The barrage bullets had returned to earth.