Night Bombing with the Bedouins

by Robert Henry Reece

Every precaution having been taken, the engines run, the controls tested, the compasses swung, the courses made out, the charts prepared, and the drift figured, the Bedouins sat down to dinner free from care or worry. The dinner hour was always set, winter or summer, at least two hours before the night's raid was to start.

A guest of the Bedouin mess on the night of an important raid would have been surprised if told that the jolly, laughing officers, who apparently had no thought in the world other than the enjoyment of various wines and viands, were soon to set out on a pioneer raid against a far-distant German industrial centre. For the Bedouins made the best of the present; they all knew what a long-distance raid over Germany usually meant; many of their jolly comrades would not be seen again. So they made merry at dinner and drank each other's health. The wine, however, was light, and even the most reckless Bedouin drank it in tiny sips, for the work to be done was important. The personal dangers of the raid the reckless Bedouins might ignore, but they knew that these raids fitted into the general tactical plan of operations; consequently, every Bedouin was imbued with a spirit of determination in spite of an apparent frivolity.

On entering the ward-room a few moments before dinner, the guest of the Bedouin mess would have been greeted joyfully by the officers who were singing lustily in perfect tune with a piano which was very much out of tune. A few moments later he would see these rollicking fellows stand silently at attention on the entry of the Commanding Officer until "Good-evening, gentlemen," from the C.O. granted them permission to "carry on."

Before the chief steward announced dinner, "apéritifs" were passed around; then the C.O. led the way from the ward-room into the adjoining mess, where the officers stood at attention on each side of the long table until the C.O. said, "Gentlemen, be seated." If any one came in late to dinner, he apologized to the C.O. before taking his place at the table; and no matter how oily and dirty he may have been a few moments earlier, he entered the mess clean, freshly shaven, and in neat uniform. This mess etiquette, as it was called, did not interfere in any way with the good-fellowship existing between the C.O. and his junior officers; but it prevented men who had been away from home and the society of ladies for many years from growing lax in manners and careless of personal appearance.

After dinner, decanters of port were passed around and the King's health was drunk: "Gentlemen, The King."

This toast means nothing to us Americans unless we have drunk it among British officers at the front. Under such conditions, "Gentlemen, The King," is a call to patriotism, a spur to endeavor, and an ideal of courage which must be lived up to. We Americans are so apt to think of a king as a despot or tyrant that it takes us a long time to understand the love which the Englishman has for his King. The King of England is as much of a symbol to Englishmen as the Stars and Stripes are a symbol to us. The King, as an individual, has no power, except the power of influence. This power is great when the influence exerted is in the right direction, but the King has no dictatorial power similar to that which may be granted to our Presidents. The King is merely a symbol which stands in the minds of Englishmen for patriotism, justice, democracy, and humanity. So when the Bedouins raised their glasses to the toast, "Gentlemen, The King," they paid a tribute to all that Great Britain and her Allies were fighting for—democracy, justice, and freedom of the individual from oppression.

After this final toast, every aviator went to his quarters and clambered into his bulky but warm flying clothes. There was no hurry or bustle, but each aviator, thoroughly equipped for the raid with maps, charts, and instruments, arrived at the map-room on a definite moment. Here he received a few final instructions from the Commanding Officer; then, smoking a last cigarette, he made his way through the dusk to his own aeroplane.

While the aviators drank to "Gentlemen, The King," the mechanics were warming up the twin motors of each aeroplane, the bomb-racks were being filled with fourteen one-hundred-and-twelve-pound bombs, the guns were being mounted, and by the time the aviators arrived on the aerodrome the huge Handley-Page bombing planes were in readiness for a nine hours' flight over Germany.

After climbing up a ladder to their respective positions, the aviators made a final survey of the machine on the reliability of which depended the success of their adventure. The engines were again run up to see that they gave the proper revolutions, the gauges inspected, the controls tested, and the return spring of each gun weighed. When thoroughly satisfied, each aviator took his place and his pilot signalled for the "chocks" to be withdrawn from in front of the wheels.

While the aviators carried on this final inspection of their machines, the aerodrome officer, stationed on a high platform situated in one corner of the field, awaited the signal to light the "landing T"; i.e., a huge "T" of electric lights headed into the wind, which shows to the aviators the taking-off and landing path. Each machine is given its respective letter for the day, which is flashed in Morse code on the navigation lights by the aviator when ready to leave the ground; he then awaits an answer from the directing stand. Simultaneously with the lighting up of the huge "landing T," the letter flashed from the first machine ready is repeated by the signal officer. The answer received, the machine taxies across the aerodrome to the starting-point, turns, hurtles down the flare-path and leaves the ground at the head of the "T." Under this simple method of direction I have seen twenty aeroplanes leave an aerodrome on a pitch-black night in twelve minutes without a single mishap.