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.
A Soft Job
Diving, climbing, banking, anywhere to get away from those awful shells, and who can give description to the dreadful sensations one undergoes the first time under shrapnel fire in mid-air? Heaven and earth seem to be rent in twain by those murderous little balls of smoke and flame and lead.
One’s past life rises before one’s eyes, sometimes most unpleasantly. Shells burst all round, above, below, to the left, to the right. At one moment over the nose of the machine, the next beneath the tail. Once hit, and the aeroplane and its occupants will plunge down to an agonizing death on the ground, many thousands of feet below.
“And this,” once remarked a cynic of one of the flying Services, “is what the men in the trenches call a soft job.”
By the time we have the opportunity of looking over the side again, we are well into the enemy’s country. In appearance this is an almost absolute replica of the area behind our own lines. There are the reserve trenches; there the big-gun emplacement and the advance hospitals, battalion, brigade and divisional headquarters, and far, very far, in the background, the German G. H. Q.
An Enemy Machine
We keep a wary eye open for movements of troops or supplies, but there is nothing doing. The enemy, like ourselves, is browsing on this beautiful September morning. Again we are troubled with the bursting “Archies,” and again we climb higher, this time above the clouds, that stretch all round and beneath us in a billowy snow-white sea. Slowly we creep round a big white fellow towards the sun, when out from a distant corner, like a spider from his web, there darts an enemy machine. Has he seen us? For a moment he keeps on his way, then suddenly round goes his nose, and he comes towards us “down-wind” at a great pace. As he draws near we discover that he is double-engined and mounts two machine-guns. He has the advantage both in the matter of guns and speed, which counts for a great deal in an aerial combat. With a faster turn of speed and the wind at his back, a good pilot should be able to overcome an enemy machine, however large and however heavily armed.
While still about five hundred yards away, he opens fire, but without effect, his bullets fly wide on either side of us. We reserve our fire. Now he is almost on top of us, and in the upper berth, thus having a great advantage. He is over us; the great shadow of his machine comes between the sun and ourselves. All the time his observer is firing wildly, some of his shots have punctured the wings, but thank God, none came near the body. The danger is over. It has been a narrow escape.