The Way of the Air 14

The Way of the Air 14

Running south and east were the two dull gray straggling lines of

opposing trenches, so close together in places that they appeared to

run into one another. We were gradually drawing nearer to those much

dreaded lines where our real troubles were to begin. Already far up

along the coast, it was possible to distinguish Middlekerke and the

Ostend railway station.

 

The first anti-aircraft shot! A long-drawn-out hiss and a violent

explosion in unpleasant proximity--a pretty enough exhibition to watch

from the safety of _terra firma_, but deucedly uncomfortable when one

is playing the leading part in the little drama. It is the first shot

that is always the most unpleasant and the most terrifying.

 

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.

 

Is it British or enemy? Down she goes; a steep volplane turning into a

spiral, and finally into a murderous-looking nose-dive. Thank Heaven,

it is the enemy machine. I have seen the black cross on the tail. Back

comes our machine triumphant, and we continue on our way to Ostend.

 

There are various objectives of an offensive through the air. There is

the attack on enemy aircraft. This is hardly a matter for an organized

raid; it is rather the errand of a cruising battle-plane. Next there

comes the destruction of material; ammunition columns (usually situated

in woods), parks of transport, railways, and all appertaining to

them, and especially bridges and trains, stations and sidings, enemy

headquarters, aeroplane and airship sheds, petrol depots, and gas-works.

 

Lastly, there is the bombing of troops. This is a comparatively simple

matter, the best occasion on which to attack them being when they are

crowded in roadways and similar areas.

 

Zeebrugge was at last almost within reach. The place is recognizable

from the long jetty running in a large curve far out into the sea.

Proceeding in a westerly direction are numerous heavy troop-trains, and

standing in the sidings several locomotives with steam up, all of which

incidents point to the movement of a large number of troops. In the

harbor are four destroyers and three submarines. The more the merrier!

 

Gradually we draw nearer. It is now possible to see something of the

panic in the streets and roadways. Motor-cars are darting out of the

city in all directions; the destroyers are hurriedly trying to make

for the open sea. The anti-aircraft guns begin to open fire from every

quarter. And then we commence to drop our bombs. Down they go, those

ministers of death and destruction, to their targets. Huge columns of

living flame leap up skywards hundreds of feet into the air. The din

of the engine resounds upon the ear-drums until we begin to wonder

if we shall ever be able to hear distinctly again. But down below,

where the guns still pound away unceasingly, the crash of the bursting

shells, the violent explosions of the dropping bombs; all are strangely

noiseless. It is a veritable inferno of death and destruction.

 

The roof-tops of the city are covered with great rolling clouds of

thick black smoke. It is now almost impossible to distinguish any

landmark on the ground below.

 

Two of our machines have already gone crashing down. The sight of them

falling is the greatest shock to the nerves imaginable; it is the true

test of bravery, for one always feels tempted to give up and follow

them, but only for the passing second. The lust of battle grows strong

again; more bombs and yet more are dropped onto the stricken city. The

flying of the machines is marvelous to behold.

 

Another of our craft is hit, making number three; she, too, disappears

into the mist beneath. Our bombs are now all exhausted and we turn

thankfully homewards. Another machine drops out, to land safely on the

foreshore, and, as we afterwards learn, the pilot is made a prisoner.

Then we reach our own lines once more and are safe.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII

 

A DAY-DREAM

 

 

_Somewhere in the North of France,

Saturday._

 

The other day I had a dream; at six o’clock in the morning, at 10,000

feet up in the air, with the biting cold wind whistling by my ears. On

all sides stretched the air, a boundless infinity; beneath, a moving

panorama of wood, river, and hill, of men, guns and battle-field.

Far in the distance, the waters of the North Sea glinted blue in the

early morning sun; when suddenly the air became filled with a strange

purring sound, and from all sides came flying hundreds of aircraft of

varying shapes and sizes. Among them I noticed one, a leviathan. A

long cigar-shaped, silver-tinted, super-airship; beneath and swinging

easily in the breeze, the hull was in the shape of the old-fashioned

sea-going steamer. For’ard was a wide expanse of promenade deck, where

could plainly be distinguished the passengers walking to and fro. In

the center, on a raised dais, a band, resplendent in blue and gold,

were strumming some popular air. Amidships a great bridge, where the

officer of the watch and the quartermaster were directing her course.

Astern was another wide expanse of deck, but this apparently was

reserved for the crew. Now a large group of men were busily engaged

round a small, bullet-shaped aeroplane. With a whirr, she started off

across the wide deck, and a second later was gracefully clearing the

great ship’s side, and missing a green and white balloon buoy literally

by inches, sank rapidly in a southerly direction; and then our wireless

telephone rang. It was the big ship speaking us, “Had we seen anything

of the home-bound mail?” “No, we had not.” “Could we say what the

Siberian weather conditions had been the day previous?” “Well, nothing

extraordinary, slight haze over North China.” “Strange, the Menelaus

left Canton yesterday, should have reported Bombay this morning, Moscow

reports her two hours overdue.” “No, we have seen nothing of the

missing liner;” and, leaving the great pleasure ship miles in the rear,

we skim across the Carpathians, speaking two Serbian cruisers on patrol

duty along the Northern Frontier. From thence we run into a storm,

have to climb to 5000, and by the time the mist and darkness clears

away, the North Sea has loomed into view. Now we are more in the beaten

track, swarms of small pleasure craft go cruising by; the Paris-London

way is chock-a-block with traffic: cumbersome great four and eight

engined merchant vessels, slim graceful pleasure craft, Government

vessels, two giant American liners, and an Australian non-stop

mail-boat, some naval craft and small police patrol craft, endeavoring

to order the converging lines, and two military transports bringing

home leave men from Abyssinia. The Far East fleet, flying majestically

and impressively along with the flagship _Twentieth Century_ leading

the line, the hind portion tapering off gracefully and far into the

rear to the smaller aeroplane--torpedo craft. The air is full of the

crackling of the wireless, every master endeavoring at the same time