The Way of the Air 8

The Way of the Air 8

The mess-room is contained in a similar building across the way. The

furniture is not such that one would meet with, say at the Ritz or the

Savoy; but it serves its purpose. Three plain deal tables, each covered

with a spotless cloth. A dozen or so stiff-back wooden chairs, and one

solitary easy-chair. The competition for the latter is enormous.

 

The general atmosphere of the place is cheery to a degree. Every member

of the mess is full of good humor, quips and jests. Sub chaffs captain

and captain chaffs sub, the while they attack plain wholesome fare with

an unstinted vigor.

 

After dinner in the evening, an impromptu concert is started. One, an

obliging musician, renders an excellent violin solo. He is followed by

a gentleman of poor voice. The station orchestra, in which the penny

tin whistle is the most prominent instrument, plays delightfully and

harmoniously with the possible exception of one member in the extreme

rear, who, having previously had some bread-crumbs gently deposited

down his neck by an admiring colleague, finds some difficulty in

reaching the correct notes. It is, of course, the star-turn of the

evening.

 

There are good card-games to be had, when off duty. Also a gramophone

and two pianos. The gramophone usually will not work. Ludo is the rage

to-day. Badminton, writing letters home, and visiting the neighboring

town about complete the leisure time. There is, however, really not

very much to do in the town, except to sit in the cafés, drink bad

coffee, and try to talk French to the girls.

 

Any number and variety of pets and mascots are there. Cats and kittens,

dogs of all breeds. A few hunters, with which some excellent rides

across the sand-dunes can be obtained. A goat that wanders around the

aerodrome risking life a dozen times daily from aeroplanes getting off

and landing. And a parrot with a perfectly wonderful vocabulary of

oaths.

 

Thus far we have been shown only the lighter side of the life. Now we

come to the more serious work of flying across the lines. The strain

on the nerves is so great that a pilot is only detailed for duty every

other day. The work is distributed among the various squadrons and

flights. One is responsible for reconnaissance work; a morning and an

afternoon patrol along the coast for submarines, or a trip inland to

have a look at a new gun emplacement, or to report on a new movement

of the enemy’s troops. Another, the fighting squadron, is responsible

for the bombing raids, for the battle flights, for convoying the

reconnaissance machines, and for meeting enemy air attacks.

 

To the headquarters flight is allotted the photography, and any special

and confidential job that may crop up.

 

Naturally there is the pick of all the machines, equipped with all the

latest improvements and inventions.

 

One peculiarity concerning atmospheric conditions on the other side

is, that either the weather is too misty for flying, or on the other

hand, it is so remarkably clear, that it is possible to view the land

from twice the altitude that it would be under similar circumstances in

England. For the first two hours after sunrise there is invariably a

heavy ground mist, and very little takes place save when an expedition

is setting out for some distant spot, necessitating an early start. The

late morning and the late afternoon are the most favorable times for

flying purposes.

 

Almost the whole of the Flanders country is intersected by waterways

and canals. This is of extreme value to the air pilot, and aids him

greatly in the matter of navigation. Railway systems there are in

plenty, mostly following an east or west direction.

 

The junctions of these railway lines are the nerve centers of the

German Army in the field; they control entirely the supplies of

reinforcements, ammunition, and supplies to the firing line. It is

for this reason that so many of our own air raids have been made on

Bruges, Courtrai, Roubaix, Lille, Tournai, and Douai. Each of these

towns mentioned contains an important railway junction.

 

The large majority of the Belgian towns in the enemy country,

immediately behind the firing line, have been totally deserted by their

inhabitants and the soldiers alike; it is not considered either safe or

desirable to remain within the area of a conspicuous landmark, of which

the enemy artillery can obtain an exact bearing with the utmost ease.

Added to this, frequent allied air-raids, and the accurate firing of

the Allied artillery have reduced them to untenable masses of fallen

masonry.

 

A point regarding aerial photography is worthy of note; if the surface

of the earth has been disturbed in any way within two days previous to

the photo being taken, that is, disturbed by the explosion of a shell,

or a new path across a field made by the tramp of many feet, such

disturbance will always show up prominently on the camera negative.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER X

 

THE FIRST TRIP ACROSS THE LINE

 

 

_Somewhere in France,

Monday._

 

A most important entry in my little diary, this, the day of my first

trip across the “lines.”

 

And here in the privacy of my thoughts and of my pen let it be said

that at first I was troubled with qualms of fear--qualms that I had

experienced in the previous life after a stormy Channel crossing, or

prior to a visit to my dentist.

 

As I stood there on the dreary, wind-swept aerodrome in the chilly rays

of the early morning sun, forebodings filled my mind. Visions of an

awful death in mid-air, and a yet more awful vision of a downward rush

of thousands of feet to the ground below. Comforting myself with the

reflections that, after all, out of the large number of machines that

must daily cross the lines the proportion of those reported missing was

extremely small, I was roused from my pessimistic thoughts by the voice

of the pilot, who was already in his seat enjoying the luxury of the

last few puffs at his “gasper” (cigarette) before testing the engine.

 

He invited me cordially to “hop in,” and once in to strap myself in

securely. With his calm matter-of-fact air, which, incidentally cheered

me up considerably, one would have thought that we were about to start

for a motor run through Piccadilly and the Park rather than, as he so

picturesquely styled it, “to play the part of a clay pigeon atop of a

firework show.”

 

Three heavy-eyed mechanics now appeared upon the scene, and, after

having been slanged roundly for their late arrival by our cheery Jehu,

the engine was started with an alarming whirr. A few preliminaries and

she got well away.

 

For a few moments we circled round the neighborhood of the aerodrome,

to gain height. Then in the first contact with the icy-cold morning

breeze I felt thankful that I had taken the sound advice of clothing

myself well. I must have looked for all the world like an Eskimo or an

Arctic explorer in my wool-lined leather coat and overall trousers, a

knitted Balaclava hat or helmet, and over that again a skull-cap, the

whole tied down tightly beneath my chin. A huge woolen muffler round

my neck and a pair of unsightly goggles completed the picture. I had

treated my hands and face with a generous dose of vaseline, which I

had been assured would keep out the cold, and which advice I now

gratefully acknowledge to be correct.

 

As we mount higher my perspective extends, and out of the gray mists

and the dark shadows land and sea begin to assume their natural form

and color. On the former there are now signs of movement; along the

roads crawl the ant-like procession of ammunition columns back from

their nightly trip to the firing lines. A steaming “Puffing Billy”

slowly drags along on a limber, a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun)

blocking up the whole roadway, which must cause considerable annoyance

to the long string of cars and motorbike dispatch riders held up in the

rear.

 

On the roadside, by a wood, a company of infantry are falling in for

early parade; they look up at us in a half interested sort of way. Some

wave their hats and rifles at us. I wave my hand in reply, but know

they cannot see us. We keep on climbing steadily. Out at sea are two

French torpedo-boats making up the coast towards ----, and a few small

trawlers sailing off in the direction of England. Happy thought!

 

Every moment we are getting nearer to the dreaded area. In the far

distance I can see the red flashes of the rifles, the smoke clouds of

the heavy guns, and the long gray lines of winding trenches. I look at

my map, to discover that we are passing over a junction of two main

roads, one of which is crossed by a railway, while beneath the other

runs a narrow stream. It is ----.

 

Five miles to the firing line. With my glasses I can already pick out

several of our own field-artillery emplacements, and a moving up of

reinforcements from the rear--I would surmise about two battalions of

infantry. I time the observation on my report sheet; also I discover

from my wrist compass--my most prized and valued possession--that we

are going too much to the north-west and tell the pilot so by means of

a written message.

 

Course changed! What are Headquarters orders for the flight? A

reconnaissance over ----, I puzzle out as well as my now fevered brain

will allow me, whether reconnaissance will be tactical or strategical,

and again whether “line” or “area.” For the benefit of those who may

perhaps read my diary I will here endeavor to explain the fine points

which divide the two. The former reconnaissance necessitates flying

and observing along a line between two given points on the map, these

points having already been marked in before leaving the ground. Area

reconnaissance, on the other hand, comprises observation of a whole

area or district. To do this successfully it is necessary to fly

backward and forward several times, thus adding greater risk to the

adventure, and taking a great deal longer time to accomplish. Hence

they are not undertaken very far away from our own lines, and then

only if particular information is required.

 

Thus far the weather had rendered the trip ideal. But it would be an

entirely different matter, I surmised, when we came within reach of the

enemy anti-aircraft guns. Already they were getting uncomfortably near.