Cavalry of the Clouds Part 11

The observer engages one of the Huns, and evidently gets in some good shooting, for it swerves away and lets another take its place. Meanwhile enemy bullets have crashed through two spars, shot away a rudder-control, and ripped several parts of the fuselage.

The black-crossed hawks cl.u.s.ter all around. There are two on the left, one on the right, one underneath the tail, and two above. A seventh Hun sweeps past in front, about eighty yards ahead. The pilot's gun rakes it from stem to stern as it crosses, and he gives a great shout as its petrol-tank begins to blaze and the enemy craft flings itself down, with a stream of smoke and another flame shooting out behind.

But his own petrol-tank has been plugged from the side, and his observer has a bullet in the left arm. The petrol supply is regulated by pressure, and, the pressure having gone when German bullets opened the tank, the engine gets less and less petrol, and finally ceases work.

To glide fifteen miles to the lines is clearly impossible. There is nothing for it but to accept the inevitable and choose a good landing-ground. The pilot pushes the joystick slowly forward and prepares to land.

The Germans follow their prey down, ready to destroy if by any chance its engine comes back to life, and it stops losing height. The observer tears up papers and maps, performs certain other duties whereby the enemy is cheated of booty, and stuffs all personal possessions into his pocket.

A medley of thoughts race across the observer's mind as the pilot S-turns the machine over the field he has chosen. A prisoner!--d.a.m.nable luck--all papers destroyed--arm hurting--useless till end of war--how long will it last?--chances of escape--relieve parents' suspense--must write--due for leave--Marjorie--Piccadilly in the suns.h.i.+ne--rotten luck--was to be--make best of it--Kismet!

One duty remains. The observer digs into the petrol tank as they touch earth, and then runs round the machine. In a second the petrol is ablaze and the fuselage and wings are burning merrily. Germans rush up and make vain attempts to put out the fire. Soon nothing remains but charred debris, a discoloured engine, bits of metal and twisted wires.

My friends are seized, searched, and disarmed. They then shake hands with the German pilots, now heatedly discussing who was chiefly responsible for their success. The captive couple are lunched by the enemy airmen, who see that the wounded observer receives proper attention. At the risk of incensing some of your eat-'em-alive civilian friends, I may say we have plenty of evidence that the German Flying Corps includes many gentlemen.

Later my friends are questioned, searched again from head to toe, and packed off to Germany. Just now they are affected with deadly heart-sickness, due to the wearisome inaction of confinement in a hostile land, while we, their friends and brothers, continue to play our tiny parts in Armageddon.

I enclose their names, and that of the prison camp where they are lodged. Perhaps you will find time to send them some of your fast-dwindling luxuries, as you flit from town to country, country to town, and so to bed.

FRANCE, _July, 1916_

III.

A BOMB RAID.

... What are your feelings, dear lady, as you watch the airs.h.i.+ps that pa.s.s in the night and hear the explosion of their bombs? At such a time the sensations of most people, I imagine, are a mixture of deep interest, deep anger, excitement, nervousness, and desire for revenge.

Certainly they do not include speculation about the men who man the raiders.

And for their part, the men who man the raiders certainly do not speculate about you and your state of mind. When back home, some of them may wonder what feelings they have inspired in the people below, but at the time the job's the thing and nothing else matters.

Out here we bomb only places of military value, and do it mostly in the daytime, but I should think our experiences must have much in common with those of Zeppelin crews. I can a.s.sure you they are far more strenuous than yours on the ground.

Our bombing machines in France visit all sorts of places--forts, garrison towns, railway junctions and railheads, bivouac grounds, staff headquarters, factories, ammunition depots, aerodromes, Zeppelin sheds, and naval harbours. Some objectives are just behind the lines, some are 100 miles away. There are also free-lance exploits, as when a pilot with some eggs to spare dives down to a low alt.i.tude and drops them on a train or a column of troops.

A daylight bomb raid is seldom a complete failure, but the results are sometimes hard to record. If an ammunition store blows up, or a railway station bursts into flames, or a train is swept off the rails and the lines cut, an airman can see enough to know he has succeeded. But if the bombs fall on something that does not explode or catch fire, it is almost impossible to note exactly what has been hit. Even a fire is hard to locate while one is running away from Archie and perhaps a few flaming onions.

Fighting machines often accompany the bombing parties as escort. The fighters guard the bombers until the eggs are dropped, and seize any chances of a sc.r.a.p on the way back. It is only thus that I have played a part in raids, for our squadron does not add bombs to its other troubles. I will now tell you, my very dear friend, about one such trip.

The morning is clear and filled with suns.h.i.+ne, but a strong westerly wind is blowing. This will increase our speed on the outward journey, and so help to make the attack a surprise. Those low-lying banks of thick white clouds are also favourable to the factor of surprise.

It is just before midday, and we are gathered in a group near the machines, listening to the flight-commander's final directions.

Punctually at noon the bombers leave the ground, climb to the rendezvous height, and arrange themselves in formation. The scout machines const.i.tuting the escort proper follow, and rise to a few hundred feet above the bombers. The whole party circles round the aerodrome until the signal strips for "Carry on" are laid out on the ground, when it heads for the lines.

At this point we, the fighting two-seaters, start up and climb to our allotted height. We are to follow the bombing party and act as a rearguard until the eggs have fallen. Afterwards, when the others have finished their little bit and get home to their tea, it will be our pleasant task to hang about between the lines and the scene of the raid, and deal with such infuriated Boche pilots as may take the air with some idea of revenge.

We travel eastwards, keeping well in sight of the bombers. The ridges of clouds become more numerous, and only through gaps can we see the trenches and other landmarks. Archie, also, can only see through the gaps, and, disconcerted by the low clouds, his performance is not so good as usual. But for a few sh.e.l.ls, very wide of the mark, we are not interrupted, for there are no German craft in sight.

With the powerful wind behind us we are soon over the objective, a large wood some few miles behind the lines. The wood is reported to be a favourite bivouac ground, and it is surrounded by Boche aerodromes.

Now the bombers drop below the clouds to a height convenient for their job. As the wood covers an area of several square miles and almost any part of it may contain troops, there is no need to descend far before taking aim. Each pilot chooses a spot for his particular attention, for preference somewhere near the road that bisects the wood. He aligns his sights on the target, releases the bombs, and watches for signs of an interrupted lunch below.

It is quite impossible to tell the extent of the damage, for the raid is directed not against some definite object, but against an area containing troops, guns, and stores. The damage will be as much moral as material since nothing unnerves war-weary men more than to realise that they are never safe from aircraft.

The guns get busy at once, for the wood contains a nest of Archies. Ugly black bursts surround the bombers, who swerve and zig-zag as they run.

When well away from the wood they climb back to us through the clouds.

We turn west and battle our way against the wind, now our foe. Half-way to the lines we wave an envious good-bye to the bombers and scouts, and begin our solitary patrol above the clouds.

We cruise all round the compa.s.s, hunting for Huns. Twice we see enemy machines through rifts in the clouds, but each time we dive towards them they refuse battle and remain at a height of some thousand feet, ready to drop even lower, if they can lure us down through the barrage of A.-A. sh.e.l.ls. Nothing else of importance happens, and things get monotonous. I look at my watch and think it the slowest thing on earth, slower than the leave train. The minute-hand creeps round, and homing-time arrives.

We have one more flutter on the way to the trenches. Two Huns come to sniff at us, and we dive below the clouds once more.

But it is the old, old dodge of trying to salt the bird's tail. The Hun decoys make themselves scarce--and H.E. bursts make themselves plentiful. Archie has got the range of those clouds to a few feet, and, since we are a little beneath them, he has got our range too. We dodge with difficulty, for Archie revels in a background of low clouds.

n.o.body is. .h.i.t, however, and our party crosses the lines; and so home.

From the point of view of our fighting machines, the afternoon has been uneventful. Nevertheless, the job has been done, so much so that the dwellers in the wood where we left our cards are still regretting their disturbed luncheon, while airmen and A.-A. gunners around the wood tell each other what they will do to the next lot of raiders. We shall probably call on them again next week, when I will let you know whether their bloodthirsty intentions mature.

FRANCE, _September_, 1916

IV.

SPYING BY SNAPSHOT.

... Since daybreak a great wind has raged from the east, and even as I write you, my best of friends, it whines past the mess-tent. This, together with low clouds, had kept aircraft inactive--a state of things in which we had revelled for nearly a week, owing to rain and mist.

However, towards late afternoon the clouds were blown from the trench region, and artillery machines s.n.a.t.c.hed a few hours' work from the f.a.g-end of daylight. The wind was too strong for offensive patrols or long reconnaissance, so that we of Umpty Squadron did not expect a call to flight.

But the powers that control our outgoings and incomings thought otherwise. In view of the morrow's operations they wanted urgently a plan of some new defences on which the Hun had been busy during the spell of dud weather. They selected Umpty Squadron for the job, probably because the Sopwith would be likely to complete it more quickly than any other type, under the adverse conditions and the time-limit set by the sinking sun. The Squadron Commander detailed two buses--ours and another.

As it was late, we had little leisure for preparation; the cameras were brought in a hurry from the photographic lorry, examined hastily by the observers who were to use them, and fitted into the conical recesses through the fuselage floor. We rose from the aerodrome within fifteen minutes of the deliverance of flying orders.

Because of doubtful light the photographs were to be taken from the comparatively low alt.i.tude of 7000 feet. We were able, therefore, to complete our climb while on the way to Albert, after meeting the second machine at 2000 feet.

All went well until we reached the neighbourhood of Albert, but there we ran into a thick ridge of cloud and became separated. We dropped below into the clear air, and hovered about in a search for the companion bus.

Five minutes brought no sign of its whereabouts, so we continued alone towards the trenches. Three minutes later, when about one mile west of Pozieres, we sighted, some 900 yards to north of us, a solitary machine that looked like a Sopwith, though one could not be certain at such a range. If it was indeed our second bus, its pilot, who was new to France, must have misjudged his bearings, for it nosed across to the German air country and merged into the nothingness, miles away from our objective. What became of the lost craft is a mystery which may be cleared up to-morrow, or more probably in a month's time by communication from the German Prisoners' Bureau, or maybe never. Thus far we have heard nothing, so a forced landing on British ground is unlikely. For the rest, the pilot and observer may be killed, wounded, injured, or prisoners. All we know is that they flew into the Ewigkeit and are "missing."

For these many weeks Pozieres has been but a name and a waste brick pile; yet the site of the powdered village cannot be mistaken from the air, for, slightly to the east, two huge mine-craters sentinel it, left and right. From here to Le Sars, which straddles the road four miles beyond, was our photographic objective. We were to cover either side of the road twice, so I had arranged to use half the number of plates during each there-and-back journey.

The R.F.C. camera used by us is so simple as to be called foolproof.

Eighteen plates are stacked in a changing-box over the shutter. You slide the loading handle forward and backward, and the first plate falls into position. Arrived over the spot to be spied upon, you take careful sight and pull a string--and the camera has reproduced whatever is 9000 feet below it. Again you operate the loading handle; the exposed plate is pushed into an empty changing-box underneath an extension, and plate the second falls into readiness for exposure, while the indicator shows 2. And so on until the changing-box for bare plates is emptied and the changing-box for used ones is filled. Whatever skill attaches to the taking of aerial snapshots is in judging when the machine is flying dead level and above the exact objective, and in repeating the process after a properly timed interval.