Front Lines

by Boyd Cable

The group at the table had time for no more than a pause of astonishment, a few exclamations, a hasty pushing back of chairs, when rip-rap-bang-bang-bang down came the second spray of bullets from those jerking muzzles over on the ’drome. Now a bullet hitting any solid object makes a nasty and most disconcerting sort of noise; but when it hits the tin roof of a Nissen hut, tears through it and the wood lining inside, passes out again or comes to rest in the hut, the noises become involved and resemble all sorts of queer sounds from kicking a tea-tray to treading on an empty match-box. The huts were solidly sand-bagged up their outside walls to a height of some feet, but had no overhead cover whatever. The third burst from Guns and the R.O. arrived on the hut at exactly the same moment as the General and his Staff arrived on the floor as close as they could get to the wall and the protecting sandbags. They stayed there for some exciting minutes while Guns shot numerous holes in the roof, splintered the furniture, and shot the dinner piecemeal off the table.

The shooting and the hum of the enemy engine ceased together, and the General and his Staff gathered themselves off the floor and surveyed the wreckage about them. “I just moved in time,” said the Brigade-Major, and pointed to a ragged hole in the seat of his chair. “D’you suppose it was a fluke, or have they got this place spotted?” asked the Captain. “Nasty mess of the roof,” said someone else. The General confined himself to less coherent but much more pungent remarks on all Huns in general, and night-raiders in particular. They seated themselves, and the waiter was just beginning to mop up the smashed bottle of red wine, when the distant hum of another engine was heard. This time the barraged ones reached the floor just a shade ahead of the first tearing burst from Guns and the R.O., and again they held their breath and cowered while the bullets clashed and banged on the tin roof, smacked and cracked on the ground outside, beat another noisy banging tattoo across the next-door huts. The group stayed prone rather longer after the ceasing of fire and engine hum, and had little more than risen to their feet when the third outbreak sent them flinging down into cover again.

After another and very much longer pause they very gingerly resumed their places at the table, sitting with chairs turned to positions which would allow evacuation with the least possible delay. The conversation for the rest of the dinner was conducted in hushed whispers and with six pair of ears on the alert for the first suspicion of the sound of an approaching engine. It was agreed by all that the Hun must have them spotted, and the only matter for surprise was that some of the bombs heard exploding in the distance had not been dropped on them. It was also agreed very unanimously, not to say emphatically, that the first job for a party in the morning was the digging of a solidly constructed dug-out. “Sand-bags on the roof might be good enough for bullets,” said the General, “but we’ve got to allow for bombs next time, and there’s nothing for that but a good dug-out.”

Someone suggested moving the H.Q., but this was rejected since they were busy at the time, and it would mean a good deal of time lost and work dislocated. The General decided to hang on for a bit and see what turned up.

Next morning dug-outs were started and thickish weather the next night prevented further raids and allowed satisfactory progress to be made on the shelters. The following night was clear again, but dinner passed without any alarm, and everyone, except the Brigade-Major, who had some urgent work to keep him up, turned in early.

At about 11.30 p.m. the first Hun came over, and at the ’drome the waiting and expectant Guns and R.O. set up their new and improved barrage, with four machine-guns all carefully trained and set to sweep over the same end of the same wood.

The General was awakened by the first tea-tray bang-banging on adjacent tin roofs, and, without pausing to think, rolled out of bed and bumped on to the floor just as a couple of strays from the outside edge of the barrage banged, ripped, and cracked through his roof and walls. He crawled at top pace to the wall, cursing his hardest, groped round in the dark and found a pair of boots and a British Warm, struggled into these, sitting on the cold floor in his pyjamas, while a tornado of bullets hailed and clashed and banged across the Nissen hut roofs of the camp. He took a quick chance offered by a lull in the firing, flung the door open, and set off at a floundering run for the dug-out. As he doubled along the duckboards he heard the droning roar of an engine coming closer and closer, made a desperate spurt, expecting every moment to hear the ominous whistle and resounding crash of a falling and bursting bomb, reached the dug-out entrance, hurled himself through it, and fell in a heap on top of the Brigade-Major cautiously feeling his way down the dark steps. They reached the bottom in a tumbled heap and with a bump, their language rising in a mingled and turgid flow to the delighted ears of a Staff-Lieutenant, shivering at the top of the stairs in his pyjamas with his breeches under his arm and his tunic thrown round his chilly shoulders. But his grins cut off short, and he, too, hurtled down the steps as a bomb burst a few hundred yards off with a resounding and earth-shaking crash.

Sitting there in the dark for the next hour the General meditated many things, including the mysterious ways of air Huns who so accurately machine-gunned his camp, and yet dropped nine out of ten of their bombs at various distances up to a full mile away from it.

This mystery led him next day to diverge from his way and ride across the fields to the ‘drome to make a few inquiries into the ways of night-fliers. Guns was busy making some adjustments to his barrage guns with renewed determination to bring a Hun down some night. The General saw him, and rode over and asked a few questions, and listened with a growing suspicion darkening his brow to Guns’ enthusiastic description of the barrage plan. He cut Guns short with an abrupt question, “Where do your bullets come down?”

Guns paused in bewilderment, and stared vacantly a moment at the empty sky. Somehow now in daylight it seemed so very obvious the bullets must come down; whereas shooting up into the dark it had never occurred. The General pulled his horse round and rode straight over to the Squadron office. There he found the Major and a map, had the exact position of the barrage guns pointed out to him, and in turn pointed out where the H.Q. camp lay. The R.O., who was working in the outer office, sat shivering at the wrathful remarks that boiled out of the next room and ended with a demand for the presence of the Gunnery Officer. The R.O. himself departed hurriedly to send him, and then took refuge in the hangar farthest removed from the office. A sense of fair play and sharing the blame drove him reluctantly back to the office in time to hear the effective close of the General’s remarks.