Cavalry of the Clouds Part 9

We wrap ourselves in flying kit and cross the road to the aerodrome.

There the band of leather-coated officers s.h.i.+ver while discussing their respective places in the formation. A bus lands and taxies to a shed.

From it descends the Squadron Commander, who, with gum-boots and a warm coat over his pyjamas, has been "trying the air." "Get into your machines," he calls. As we obey he enters his hut-office and phones the wing headquarters.

The major reappears, and the command "Start up!" is pa.s.sed along the line of machines. Ten minutes later we head for the trenches, climbing as we travel.

It was cold on the ground. It was bitter at 5000 feet. It is d.a.m.nable at 10,000 feet. I lean over the side to look at Arras, but draw back quickly as the frozen hand of the atmosphere slaps my face. My gloved hands grow numb, then ache profoundly when the warm blood brings back their power to feel. I test my gun, and the trigger-pressure is painful.

Life is worse than rotten, it is beastly.

But the cold soon does its worst, and a healthy circulation expels the numbness from my fingers. Besides, once we are beyond the lines, the work on hand allows small opportunity to waste time on physical sensations. On this trip there is little interruption, thank goodness.

Archie falls short of his average shooting, and we are able to outpace a group of some twelve Hun two-seaters that try to intercept us. The movement below is noted, the round is completed according to programme, and we turn westward and homeward.

Have you ever sucked bull's-eyes, respected sir or madame? If not, take it from me that the best time to try them is towards the end of a three-hour flight over enemy country. Five bull's-eyes are then far more enjoyable than a five-course meal at the Grand Babylon Hotel. One of these striped vulgarities both soothes and warms me as we re-cross the trenches.

Down go the noses of our craft, and we lose height as the leader, with an uneven, tree-bordered road as guide, makes for Doulens. From this town our aerodrome shows up plainly towards the south-west. Soon we shall be in the mess marquee, behind us a completed job, before us a hot breakfast. Life is good.

Arrived on land we are met by mechanics, each of whom asks anxiously if his particular bus or engine has behaved well. The observers write their reports, which I take to the Bra.s.s Hats at headquarters. This done, I enter the orchard, splash about in a canvas bath, and so to a contented breakfast.

Next you will find most of the squadron officers at the aerodrome, seated in deck-chairs and warmed by an early autumn sun. It is the most important moment of the day--the post has just arrived. All letters except the one from His Majesty's impatient Surveyor of Taxes, who threatens to take proceedings "in the district in which you reside," are read and re-read, from "My dearest Bill" to "Yours as ever." Every sc.r.a.p of news from home has tremendous value. Winkle, the d.i.n.ky Persian with a penchant for night life, has presented the family with five kittens.

Splendid! Lady X., who is, you know, the bosom friend of a certain Minister's wife, says the war will be over by next summer at the _latest_. Splendid again! Life is better than good, it is amusing.

Yesterday's London papers have been delivered with the letters. These also are devoured, from light leaders on electoral reform to the serious legends underneath photographs of the Lady Helen Toutechose, Mrs.

Alexander Innit, and Miss Margot Rheingold as part-time nurses, canteeners, munitioners, flag-sellers, charity matinee programme sellers, tableaux vivants, and patronesses of the undying arts. Before turning to the latest number of the 'Aeroplane,' our own particular weekly, one wonders idly how the Lady Helen Toutechose and her emulators, amid their strenuous quick-change war-work, find time to be photographed so constantly, a.s.siduously, and distractingly.

We pocket our correspondence and tackle the morning's work. Each pilot makes sure that his machine is overhauled, and if necessary, he runs the engine or puts a re-rigged bus through its paces. I am told off to instruct half a dozen officers newly arrived from the trenches on how to become a reliable reconnaissance observer in one week. Several of us perform mysteriously in the workshops, for we are a squadron of many inventors.

Every other officer has a pet mechanical originality. Marmaduke is preparing a small gravity tank for his machine, to be used when the pressure tank is ventilated by a bullet. The Tripehound has a scheme whereby all the control wires can be duplicated. Some one else has produced the latest thing in connections between the pilot's joystick and the Vickers gun. I am making a spade-grip trigger for the Lewis gun, so that the observer can always have one hand free to manipulate the movable back-sight. When one of these deathless inventions is completed the real hard work begins. The new gadget is adopted unanimously by the inventor himself, but he has a tremendous task in making the rest of the squadron see its merits.

After lunch we scribble letters, for the post leaves at five. As we write the peaceful afternoon is disturbed by the roar of five engines. B Flight is starting up in readiness for an offensive patrol. Ten minutes later more engines break into song, as three machines of C Flight leave to photograph some new lines of defence before Bapaume. The overhead hum dies away, and I allow myself a sleep in payment of the early morning reconnaissance.

Wearing a dress suit I am seated on the steps of a church. On my knee is a Lewis gun. An old gentleman, very respectable in dark spats, a black tie, and s.h.i.+ny top-hat, looks down at me reproachfully.

"Very sad," he murmurs.

"Don't you think this trigger's a d.a.m.ned good idea?" I ask.

"Young man, this is an outrage. As you are not ashamed enough to leave the churchyard of your own accord, I shall have you turned out."

I laugh and proceed to pa.s.s some wire through the pistol-grip. The old man disappears, but he returns with three grave-diggers, who brandish their spades in terrifying manner. "Ha!" I think, "I must fly away." I fly my wings (did I tell you I had wings?) and rise above the church tower. Archie has evidently opened fire, for I hear a near-by _wouff_. I try to dodge, but it is too late. A sh.e.l.l fragment strikes my nose. Much to my surprise I find I can open my eyes. My nose is sore, one side of the tent waves gently, and a small apple reposes on my chest.

Having run into the open I discover that the disengaged members of C Flight are raiding our corner with the sour little apples of the orchard. We collect ammunition from a tree and drive off the attackers.

A diversion is created by the return of the three photography machines.

We troop across to meet them.

The next scene is the aerodrome once again. We sit in a group and censor letters. The countryside is quiet, the sun radiates cheerfulness, and the war seems very remote. But the mechanics of B Flight stand outside their sheds and look east. It is time the offensive patrol party were back.

"There they are," says a watcher. Three far-away specks grow larger and larger. As they draw near, we are able to recognise them as our buses, by the position of their struts and the distinctive drone of their engines.

Four machines crossed the lines on the expedition; where is the fourth?

The crew of the other three do not know. They last saw the missing craft ten miles behind the Boche trenches, where it turned west after sending up a Very's light to signal the necessity of an immediate return. There were no Huns in sight, so the cause must have been engine trouble.

The shadows of the lost pilot and observer darken the first ten minutes at the dinner-table. However, since cheerfulness is beyond G.o.dliness, we will take this to be an anxious occasion with a happy ending. Comes a welcome message from the orderly officer, saying that the pilot has phoned. His reason for leaving the patrol was that his engine went dud.

Later it petered out altogether, so that he was forced to glide down and land near a battery of our howitzers.

The conversational atmosphere now lightens. Some people from another squadron are our guests, and with them we exchange the latest flying gossip. The other day, X rammed a machine after his gun had jambed. Y has been given the Military Cross. Archie has sent west two machines of the eleventeenth squadron. While on his way home, with no more ammunition, Z was attacked by a fast scout. He grabbed a Very's pistol and fired at the Boche a succession of lights, red, white, and green.

The Boche, taking the rockets for a signal from a decoy machine, or from some new form of British frightfulness, promptly retired.

Dinner over, the usual crowd settle around the card-table, and the gramophone churns out the same old tunes. There is some dissension between a man who likes music and another who prefers rag-time. Number one leads off with the Peer Gynt Suite, and number two counters with the record that choruses: "h.e.l.lo, how are you?" From the babel of yarning emerges the voice of our licensed liar--

"So I told the General he was the sort of bloke who ate tripe and gargled with his beer."

"Flush," calls a poker player.

"Give us a kiss, give us a kiss, by wireless," pleads the gramophone.

"Good-night, chaps. See you over Cambrai." This from a departing guest.

Chorus--"Good-night, old bean."

A somewhat wild evening ends with a sing-song, of which the star number is a ballad to the tune of "Tarpaulin Jacket," handed down from the pre-war days of the Flying Corps, and beginning--

"The young aviator was dying, And as 'neath the wreckage he lay (he lay), To the A.M.'s a.s.sembled around him These last parting words he did say: 'Take the cylinders out of my kidneys, The connecting-rod out of my brain (my brain), From the small of my back take the crank-shaft.

And a.s.semble the engine again.'"

On turning in we give the sky a final scour. It is non-committal on the subject of to-morrow's weather. The night is dark, the moon is at her last quarter, only a few stars glimmer.

I feel sure the land needs rain. If it be fine to-morrow we shall sit over Archie for three hours. If it be conveniently wet we shall charter a light tender and pay a long-deferred visit to the city of Arriere.

There I shall visit a real barber; pa.s.s the time of day with my friend Henriette, whose black eyes and ready tongue grace a book shop of the Rue des Trois Cailloux; dine greatly at a little restaurant in the Rue du Corps Nu Sans Tete; and return with reinforcements of Anatole France, collar-studs, and French slang.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] This narrative first appeared in 'Blackwood's Magazine.'

LETTERS FROM THE SOMME

_ACKNOWLEDGMENT IS DUE

TO THE

OWNER OF THESE LETTERS, WHO HAS ALLOWED ME TO REVISE FOR PUBLICATION WHAT WAS WRITTEN FOR HER ALONE_