The Way of the Air 10

The Way of the Air 10

CHAPTER XII

 

SPORT EXTRAORDINARY

 

 

_Somewhere in the North of France,

Monday._

 

There is an undoubted fascination in being about at sunrise on a clear,

fine morning. And especially so when up in the air.

 

Our day was of this variety. A day when a man’s heart yearns for a

moor, a dog, and a gun. For moor we had the long, flat, dreary sandhill

and marshes of the Belgian coast; a dog was not needed, and in fact

would have been in the way.

 

And our gun was not of a type particularly well-known or approved of in

sporting circles--a “Lewis” machine-gun, fitted above with a tray of

forty-seven cartridges.

 

Our quest was “wild ducks,” an idea as novel as it was entertaining,

originating with the padre of the station--a cheery individual, who

divided his attention between writing insufferably bad verse, and

collecting mess-subscriptions from irritated members.

 

The sun rose over the sea, lighting the blue surface with a thousand

scintillating rays. The tents of the camps thousands of feet below

began to show up against the gray of the earth, and the red flashes

of the rifle volleys combined with the white cloud and roar of the

belching heavy-gun to complete our picture of the waking world.

 

But we had not much time to pay attention to these matters, for our

minds and eyes were concentrated on the one subject.

 

From what direction would they first appear? Would they come up to us,

or would we have to put “her” down to them? The sun was well up in the

sky, and signs of life and movement were beginning to make themselves

manifest “down there,” before several tiny black specks appeared on the

horizon coming up from the ground behind the marshes at Nieuport.

 

We brought the aeroplane round, to get the birds between the sun and

ourselves, and with the wind at their backs, so as not to be aware of

our approach. However, they turned off seawards, and again we had to

change our course, until they seemed to be at too great a distance for

us ever to get them within gun range. The noise of the racing engine

must have reached them on this new tack, for we were now only half-head

on to the wind; but of this they took not the slightest notice, keeping

on their way a regular and well-ordered flock.

 

As a matter of fact this could be explained by the reason that birds

in that neighborhood must have become so entirely used to the whirr

of a passing aeroplane, for as many as a score passed over this same

district every fine day.

 

We now changed our tactics, and brought her round with the sun at our

backs, casting a shadow across the path of the moving flock, and a

small dull replica which moved in an alarming and amazing manner across

field and hedge, house and farm, beneath.

 

At last we were getting up with them, and to signalize the happy event

the padre let off a dozen rounds, which went very far wide of the mark,

and only served to divide the flock into two portions, the larger of

which continued in a seaward direction.

 

These we determined to follow, and coming down to 500 feet, opened the

engine “full out” to close on 100 miles an hour.

 

Never before had one realized the wonderful speed which these birds can

keep up when on the wing. For with all our great speed we were yet far

behind, and every moment drawing nearer to the sea, across which at

this extremely low altitude we dare not venture.

 

Thus it seemed as if we should have to return, defeated and discomforted,

to a scoffing, chaffing audience on the aerodrome, still visible some

five miles to the south-east.

 

However, immediately before reaching the seashore our quarry turned

again, and this time along the coast. Then, banking her over to the

new direction, we found ourselves “down-wind” with an additional speed

at the back of us of 15 m.p.h., which soon began to tell. The padre

began to get unduly excited, and succeeded in giving a not unmusical

series of “zimms” on the gun; the cartridges falling spent and useless

on to the sand-dunes; there were no casualties. Undaunted, we kept

on, taking care this time to get nearer up. The enemy were beginning

to tire by this time, so putting in a fresh tray of ammunition, our

courageous marksman let fly, with excellent results, three of the

rearguard speeding headlong down to the earth. The pangs of a not

unnatural hunger now beginning to make themselves evident, and finding

ourselves some thirty miles from home, we turned her head for home and

there eventually arrived, happy and hungry, after having set a new

fashion in sporting and aviation circles, and discovered a new form of

amusement and speculation for the _blasé_ ones, who had deserted their

card-tables and cheap French novelettes to welcome us on our return.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII

 

A BALLOON-TRIP BY NIGHT

 

 

Imagine a great bare meadow-land, lonely, wind-swept, and dark with

inky blackness, out of which there plunges an occasional hurrying

figure, that misses one by inches and passes on with a muttered oath.

In the background, tall and sinister, two large gasometers. In the

center of the field a wide tarpaulin laid along the ground, and edged

by a circle of sand-bags, from the midst of which there rises a great

round shape, like a mammoth tomato.

 

It is the balloon not yet fully inflated, fed by two curling rubber

tubes, that disappear in the direction of the gasworks. We are waiting,

waiting patiently until she fills. Blackened, distorted shapes, that

stand around in eerie circle, and at the sudden gruff command of a

hoarse voice that booms ever and anon out of the voids of darkness,

seize each a heavy sandbag and slowly and clumsily lower it mesh by

mesh in the netting that covers the balloon.

 

At last she is filled. The car is attached below, as rapidly and

securely as the faint and flickering light of a stable lamp will allow

of. The crew tumble in, one on top of another. She is let up only to be

pulled down again with a nerve-racking bump. The gruff voice decides

that she is now ready to get off; there is a slight slackening of

ropes, an almost imperceptible lift, the figures on the ground recede

rapidly, grotesque shadows in the darkness, and the lights begin to

disappear one by one.

 

We rise to a ticklish situation; there are tall trees, factory-chimneys,

and protruding roofs all waiting calm and invisible in the night, to be

crashed into and collided with. But all these obstacles we may miss if

we have only sufficient preparatory lift. We are all silent and cowed,

trying to make out each other’s faces. There is a sudden tearing sound.

The craft lurches like a drunken man and we are thrown a struggling

breathless mass into a corner. But the suspense is only momentary. By a

miracle of grace, she frees herself from the branches of a tree, and

soars rapidly heavenwards.

 

Eagerly we watch the glimmering, winding streak of gray that is the

river, and our only visible landmark; apparently we are making off in a

north and west direction. Once out of the shelter of the houses and the

trees, the breeze is stiffish: in fact, considerably more so than was

expected.

 

What is this sensation like? Dark to the left of us, dark to the

right of us, dark on top of us, and darker below us; in a frail

uncontrollable craft, that drifts aimlessly and helplessly before every

varying wind of the heavens. Unlike the aeroplane the passage is easy

and pleasant, free from noise and we know we are flying. North and

west, but the first change of the wind, and we will be bowling along

merrily in quite another direction.

 

It is quiet, intensely quiet, no motion of any kind to be felt. But

where are we? Occasionally we discover a small patch of light that may

be a village, again a larger patch, evidently of a town. We watch the

altimeter with as much loving care, as a mother would her child, for it

is our sole deliverer from destruction. How it varies: now it is 8000

feet, now 2500. If possible, we try to keep above the latter level.

The surface of the country is unfortunately not too level, and as the

altimeter registers height above sea and not land level, allowance must

be made. Ballast is ready to hand for emergency uses.

 

At last the depressing silence is broken; one youth, wiser than his

years, has remembered to provide himself with food. It is handed round,

and over beef sandwiches we get communicative. It gives us fresh life

and inspires one of the party with a humorous turn of mind, to recite

with great vividness and vivacity all the alarming accidents that have

befallen night-balloonists, concluding with an impious hope, “that we

likewise may have some fun.”

 

We get it!

 

Happily, as we are wallowing in the throes of this most dismal

expectancy, the conversation is turned by an eager and heated

discussion between two younger members of the party, as to the merits

and demerits of their respective musical-comedy idols (female). The

argument grows in intensity. But we have neglected to watch the

altimeter. Out of the inky darkness below there rushes a volcano

of spark and flame. It is a railway-train speeding on through the

night. Sheepishly we discover that we are only 800 feet, and wonder

unpleasantly what might have been.

 

On and on through the night. Now we are getting tired; there are

suggestions that we should land, but they are overruled. Coming down

again to 800 feet, we catch sight of a wide glimmering sheet of water.

Maps are seized in a hasty impulse to guess our whereabouts. The

argument grows heated, for similar stretches of water there are, alike

in Essex, Kent, Surrey, Middlesex and Berkshire: in fact, in every one

of the Home Counties, and for the matter of that in the Midlands, and

likewise in every county in England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales.

 

The argument abates, our eyes grow weary and more weary. It seems a

life-time since we last saw the pleasant and undulating lines of the

earth. One or two heads are already nodding, when there is a sudden

shout of “the dawn.” Instantly all are wide awake. There sure enough,