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.