The Way of the Air 9

The Way of the Air 9

As we climbed to a higher altitude the Huns ceased their attentions,

and we very soon arrived over the scene of our “line.” My bad attack

of “cold feet” now having passed over, I set myself to think seriously

upon the precepts drummed into my thick head by the instructor at the

training school. “The observer” he was wont to say, “should always try

to keep in touch with the military situation, and particularly in the

encounter battle, and discover the disposition of our own troops.”

 

One point I could and did satisfy myself upon--this was no encounter

battle. So I ignored our own forces and kept my attention fixed upon

----. Nothing extraordinary met my eye. I saw a camp here and there,

and turned my glasses upon them and discovered that they were composed

of huts. Hurriedly I counted them, and noted the number in my report,

together with the altitude, 12,000 ft. Again the solemn advice of my

worthy instructor passed through my brain: “The eyes must constantly

turn to each likely spot, and each spot must be examined carefully with

the glasses if it offers anything useful for the observer’s report.”

 

I examined each likely spot, and discovered to my delight a broad

grass meadow across which ran several pathways of very recent

construction. Footpaths, I argued to myself (and I may possibly have

been wrong) are not made across fields for the mere pleasure of

constructing them. There is more in this than meets the eye. I signaled

to my companion and he quickly grasped the situation, and in long

sweeping circles, brought her down some 2000 ft. The lower we came the

more distinctly I could make out that some sort of emplacement was

being built up--the new emplacement for a 17-inch howitzer. I noted the

same.

 

An excellent morning’s work. We turn to go home. But the enemy has not

appreciated our attentions and most unthoughtfully turns his guns upon

us.

 

Then the fun begins. It was bad enough crossing the lines, but

child’s-play when compared with this; and besides we are two thousand

lower. A perfect inferno of “Archies.” We bank first to one side then

to the other; put her nose down for a moment or so, then climb for all

we are worth.

 

But it is no good. We are hit!

 

Down goes her nose, down and down. The air whistles past our ears.

The earth rushes up to meet us. The discs of the machine-gun topple

overboard, so steep has the angle become. ---- must have been hit. Yes!

there he is, all huddled up over the joy-stick (control-stick). I give

up all hope, when suddenly, the machine starts to right herself. I

look around, and find that the rush through the air must have brought

him to. He is manfully straining every nerve to get her out of the

nose-dive. By a superhuman effort he succeeds. We manage to get across

the lines unnoticed save by a few infantrymen, who fire futilely at us,

and land a bare hundred yards the other side of our own trenches. ----

makes a beautiful landing, pulls her up dead, and promptly faints in

his seat. My first trip!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI

 

SOME ANECDOTES

 

 

_Somewhere in Belgium,

Thursday._

 

“The life of an airman is one of intense idleness interrupted by

moments of violent fear.” This remark, originating as it does from

a youthful member of the Senior Service describes, more aptly than

any other yet penned, the life of the airman under active service

conditions. Sometimes there will come a spell of fine weather, and he

is kept going hard at it from sunrise to sunset. At other times when

the weather is too bad for flying, he has nought else to do but sit

round the mess-fire and tell stories.

 

The memory of those wet days! Men of all sorts and conditions

exchanging personal experiences: anecdotes of hair-raising escapes from

bursting shrapnel shells, thrilling fights with Air Huns, miraculous

evolutions in mid-air, and a thousand and one other subjects dear to

the heart of the airman. I will here endeavor to relate several of the

best stories that have so far come my way, but it is impossible to

tell more than five per cent. of them, for their name is Legion.

 

The first story concerns a well-known aerodrome somewhere in Flanders.

The pilots of the station, when the weather was too bad for flying,

filled up their spare time by playing football; until one day a

wag amongst them suggested that a ball should be blown up as tight

as possible; taken up in an aeroplane and dropped on the German

lines. This suggestion was duly carried out and the first fine day

the ball was put aboard a machine going up the Belgian Coast for a

reconnaissance trip. Arrived over the town that had been decided upon,

it was dropped overboard, with quite accurate aim into the market

square. Seeing this dark awesome object falling through the air and

taking it for a bomb the Germans took to their heels. Landing on the

cobbled pave, it must have bounced nearly twenty feet into the air,

then gradually lower and lower, until at last it rolled into a ditch.

Then and only then did the Germans reappear, one fat soldier going over

to it and giving it a vicious kick.

 

An instance of air _camaraderie_ was that of the Bosche who brought

Pégoud down after a fight in mid-air. Hearing that he had been killed,

and where he was to be buried, he came over and dropped a wreath on

the scene of his burial ground--a pretty compliment that was greatly

appreciated.

 

The story concerning Captain M---- is the most striking of the war.

Poor fellow, he has since been killed. It happened one very misty

morning. M---- was on a reconnaissance trip. His engine failed and had

to come down a good ten miles behind their lines. However, he landed

safely, and had just burnt his machine, when he saw three dark figures

coming up out of the fog, and taking discretion to be the better part

of valor he fled, and hid himself in a ditch hard by. He was there for

the whole of a day and a night, and it has since been ascertained that

there were close on five thousand Bosches searching for him the whole

time. When he found the coast was clear, he crept out of the ditch,

and marched off boldly down the road until he met a friendly Belgian

peasant; from this chap he wheedled an old suit of clothes, and, thus

attired, walked on nearly to Lille. Here he acted somewhat foolishly.

He boarded a tramcar bound for the city, not knowing where to ask to

be put down. The car was full of Prussian officers. The man came for

his fare; and for a moment he was nonplussed. Then he had a brain-wave.

Remembering that every town in Belgium possesses a glorified market

square, he demanded _à la grande place, s’il vous plait_, and pulled

out a handful of silver coins to pay the man. Such a thing as a silver

coin had not been seen in Lille for months, ever since the Germans had

captured it in fact. Fortunately the Prussians were too much occupied

in their own conversation to take any notice of _ein schweinhund_ of

a Belgian peasant. Arrived in the city, luck again favored him, and

he obtained shelter in a garret for three weeks. Then the police grew

suspicious, and late one night he was forced to clear out hurriedly.

After leaving the city he had a terrible time. He tramped right across

Belgium, always at night, and every moment in fear of his life, feeding

on anything he could find, crusts and offal thrown to the pigs, and

stale bread thrown away by the German soldiers. Footsore, weary, hungry

and exhausted he at last arrived at the Dutch frontier. Here occurred

another agonizing wait. Again for a day and a night he lay hidden in a

ditch, until late that evening the sentry paused on his beat to light

his pipe. This was his opportunity. It was a moonlight night. He dashed

across the intervening space. The sentry fired three shots and missed

each time. He got across Holland, to a seaport town, stowed himself

aboard a fishing smack, got to England and reported himself to the

astonished officials at the War Office.

 

This reminds me of a story told by a certain famous airman, a little

man with a great heart, on whose breast there are the flaring crimson

of the French Légion d’Honneur and the crimson and blue of the

Distinguished Service Order. I will give you his own words. “I went

over the lines with X---- for an observer. He’d never been over the

lines before and I must confess that I felt a wee bit shaky as to how

he would take it. Luckily we got across without a single shot being

fired at us--and then we met a Taube, coming right down wind at about

ninety miles, and at about our own level. I looked at X----, who for a

time, was too busy watching the other chap coming up to notice me, but

finally he turned and smiled, and I knew he was all right. ‘Got the

Lewis-gun ready?’ I bawled into his ear. He nodded, and then we cleared

the decks for action, so to speak. He put a fresh tray of ammunition

on the gun, and got two other trays ready by the side of him, while

I had a look at the bombs and grenades, and put the joy-stick about

a bit just to see that she was all right. The other chap still kept

on, and was only about a hundred yards off when X---- opened fire,

zipp-zipp-zipp-zipp, seventy-eight of the little beggars slick into the

middle of him. Gave him hell, I can tell you; at all events he didn’t

stick it long. Down went the nose of his machine, and he was very soon

about a thousand feet beneath us. I loosed off all my bombs, quick

as I could, missed every time, had a shot with a grenade and missed

again. I must confess I felt a wee bit flurried that morning--and

then X---- began. Never laughed so much in all my life. He laid his

hands on everything, his hat and his glasses--Government glasses, by

the way--and his revolver and spare cartridges. Thank God! There was

nothing of mine in the front there.”

 

Not nearly so pleasant, however, was the experience of a certain

seaplane pilot, who when flying across the Channel from Belgium to

England was forced by engine trouble to come down on to the sea, in the

midst of our own mine-fields, very far removed from the track of all

shipping. Here he remained for eleven and a half hours, until sighted

by a torpedo-boat, which though unable to reach him herself, was able

to give warning ashore, so that a small motor-boat succeeded in finding

a way through the mines, rescued the pilot, but was forced to abandon

the machine.

 

Another story concerning Pégoud. The Germans brought Pégoud down, when

flying one of the new French machines, that are supposed to have so

many wonderful new improvements aboard, and that they’re so secretive

about. He didn’t have time to burn it--and the Huns were very keen on

learning how the thing flew. So they tackled Pégoud on the subject. He

said he was perfectly willing to give them an exhibition himself, but

they didn’t care for the idea. “Yes, and when you get up there you’ll

fly away back to your own lines again.” “Very well,” he said; “send