The Way of the Air 15

The Way of the Air 15

“Shrapnel,” my observer bawls into my ear, “better go higher,” and we

do.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX

 

A MID-AIR BATTLE

 

 

_Somewhere in France,

Friday._

 

It was a sleepy old-world town hidden away in the sunny hills of

Northern France, with a broad highway leading from the town in

either direction and easily distinguishable from the air as being

a first-class or main road, by its extraordinary width and the

superabundance of traffic passing to and fro. We were still flying low

and could easily distinguish the long strings of motor cars, convoys

of ambulance wagons, supply and ammunition columns. In one place a

battalion of reinforcements, marching up towards the firing line with

their transport wagons in the rear. Further up and nearer to the firing

line were a string of motor ’buses, crowded outside with Tommies, their

bayonets gleaming silver as they caught the rays of the early sun. In

another place a small traction-engine was hauling a chain of limbers,

on which were the parts of a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) being

hurried up to take part in that murderous duel along the lines.

 

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.

 

 

CARRY ON

 

We climb as fast as possible, then turn to find him coming to meet

us, almost on end. Another machine-gun duel between the observers. We

have got him this time; he is hit, he drops suddenly. A few more shots

from our gun and it will be all over with him. But our gun has jammed,

hastily the observer tries to remedy it. It is too late. We have

missed our opportunity. Nothing else for it but to put a new tray of

ammunition in the gun and have another go at him. How difficult this

is in mid-air! In the safety of _terra firma_ it is the easiest thing

in the world to take the gun to pieces, or to change the ammunition

tray, but here, in the confined space of an aeroplane up in mid-air it

is an entirely different matter. We are only just ready when he turns

to meet us. Another duel--he has passed by.

 

Again we both wheel to the combat. This time he is on top of us. We

give up hope, and prepare for the worst. On the top of us again; his

shooting is bad, but he has got the observer in the arm. Turn round to

escape--no combat possible with the man at the gun _hors de combat_;

but the observer, plucky fellow! does not know the meaning of defeat.

He signals to his pilot to carry on. We turn again. The enemy is

confident that he has winged us. Too confident! We wait till he is

almost level with us before we fire. Then zipp, zipp, zipp, he is

hit. He plunges downward. We get on top of him. Another round of lead

into his back. It is all over, he plunges headlong to earth; and with

a feeling of regret for our gallant foe, who fought so well, we turn

homewards to earth, peace, and safety.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XX

 

A BATTLE FROM ABOVE

 

 

_Somewhere in the North of France,

Thursday._

 

Dawn--not as we imagine it; but a dawn with God’s clear Heaven filled

with every winged messenger of death. The very earth is shaken with

agony, and the face of the sun is blotted out by heavy, choking clouds

of picric smoke that hangs and hovers over the earth like a pall.

 

Far in the background rises a battle aeroplane. Nearer and nearer

to the line it creeps, and without any attention from the enemy’s

anti-aircraft guns. The German artillery is too much engaged in work of

a more serious nature--the work of hurling back the irresistible lines

of British infantry.

 

The frail craft passes over the lines, and meeting with no opposition

sinks lower in long, sweeping circles, and finally appears to hover,

as nearly as an aeroplane can hover, some two miles to the east and

well over the enemy’s country. Then it is bombarded on all sides

with “Archibalds,” now above, now below, now immediately in front,

now immediately behind, but the machine continues to maneuver as if

entirely oblivious of shell fire. Other swiftly moving shapes have now

crept out from the direction of the British base, and all are hovering

over different portions of the long line of muddy trenches, while the

battle rages in all its fury.

 

All the varied operations of the extensive battle-field are as an open

book to the watch in that frail craft ... the battle swaying backward

and forward from trench to trench, the hand-to-hand combat in the

open, the ding-dong artillery duel, and the hurried rush of supports

and reinforcements. Nothing can be hidden from this peering eye above,

that transmits the news by wireless to the great guns far in the rear,

and to the headquarters, where the commander traces every movement

of the battle on his map, like a chess-player planning his moves and

counter-moves on a chessboard.

 

The enemy’s country is more heavily wooded and more broken than our

own. Dotted here and there are small straggling villages. To the

north, on either side of the road, are two small villages, now a mass

of ruins. Between them is the tall chimney of a sugar factory, from

which the black smoke no longer rises; and behind it, nearer the firing

line, the long, ragged arms of a windmill move furtively in the slight

breeze. To the south, and immediately in the rear of another small

village, there is a large and straggling cemetery.

 

Woods, farms, a broken and distorted railway line, another factory,

and a narrow winding stream, and the picture is complete. No! Not

quite complete. Standing far removed from the main road is a large

and densely wooded forest. The observer watches anxiously the stretch

of British trenches immediately facing the wood. Then the barren,

shell-swept land between the opposing trenches springs into life. Men

and more men come swarming across the trenches and make for the German

lines.

 

The observer watches anxiously the stretch of British trenches

immediately facing the wood. There is a strange, unaccountable feeling

in the air that, were it not for the never-ceasing roar of the

aeroplane engine, would be hushed and silent as the moment prior to

the start of a horse-race, when an element of overstrung expectancy

pervades the human brain. Down below there, the lilliputian figures

crouch like ants behind the mudbank, waiting for the dread signal

when the race shall commence, the race of human life and death. The

booming of the great guns in the rear has long since ceased, and the

nebulous region of No-man’s-land, were it not for the battle-scarred

earth, would resemble an ordinary peaceful countryside, so quiet and

deserted has it become. The minutes tick slowly on and on. Now it must

be getting very near the appointed hour. Will it never come? Restless

movements are evidenced in the opposing trenches, where an occasional

bayonet glitters in the sun, or strange figures wander to and fro. At