"The wings are stretched: the mighty engines roar;
And from this loved land I must depart."
--_Crossing the Channel._
When I arrived at the Handley-Page aerodrome I realised that, for the
second time in the war, I was to have the good fortune to be attached to
a pioneering branch of the Air Service, and that, instead of going to a
cut-and-dried task, I was to assist in operations which had been untried
and were entirely experimental. I had been, as a second-class air
mechanic, a balloon hand on the very first kite balloon used by the
British, and had accompanied it to the Dardanelles on a tramp steamer
early in 1915. Now I was to be the first observer on the huge
night-bombers, which were to prove of such tremendous value to the
British.
I found the squadron to be as a new-born babe, blinking at the light of
day. In a couple of vast green hangars slept two gigantic machines. The
skeleton of a third hangar reared its wooden lattice-work against the
deep August sky, and everywhere lay heaps of material and stores.
A few officers were already there--among them the squadron commander,
whom I soon learnt to know as a giant among men from a commanding point
of view. He was one of those splendid leaders that are rare, but are
never to be forgotten when they are met--the type of man who, by sheer
personal magnetism, could make a body of men achieve almost impossible
feats.
On one occasion he wished to move an enormous hangar, complete with its
canvas curtains and covers, a hundred feet long and forty feet across,
about four times as big as an average cottage. The whole was extremely
heavy, and weighed many tons. The C.O. called a bugler, and the call
_Clear Lower Deck_ was sounded. When every hand, from cook to clerk, had
fallen in, he distributed the men round the hangar, gave the order,
"One, two, three, _Lift_," and marched the unwieldy structure across
the ground to its new position in a few minutes. In this way he
rearranged the whole aerodrome.
The C.O.--"_our_ C.O.," as we called him--would never call on his
officers or men to do work he would not be prepared to do himself. One
day, in the stress of action on the Western Front, an order came to the
squadron to undertake an operation which meant grave danger to the
airmen taking part in it. The C.O. decided, against regulations, to
pilot the leading machine himself. He never told the senior command, and
he knew that he would probably never return to receive censure. However,
he would not send out his officers on a dangerous task without himself
taking the same risk. Fortunately, the orders were cancelled, but his
heroism was not forgotten.
Quickly the station expanded. More and more officers and men arrived.
More and more machines landed, and were stowed in the newly-erected
hangars.
I soon had my first flight in a Handley-Page, standing on a platform in
the back, looking below as though I were on a high balcony. In front of
me the two little heads of the pilot and observer protruded from the
nose; on either side were the two great engines between the wings;
behind me was the thirty foot of tapering tail, with the great double
tail-plane vibrating at the end.
One evening I went on the most beautiful flight I ever made. For the
only time I can remember, I saw the world look lovely from the air. We
were flying in the heart of an early autumn evening, and the west was
ablaze with pale gold and decked with rose-tinted clouds. On the country
beneath me lay a rich mantle of blue mist. The whole air was warm with
the glowing colours of the sunset. Over the machine, over the face of
the pilot, and over my hands lay a faintly luminous hue of amber-red.
Below there stretched a view of field and farm, and wood and lane,
enchanted by the sapphire haze. The world lay under a spell of exquisite
beauty, and a tranquillity of peace which was sheer pain to see, so
lovely was it. Here and there shone a light in some happy cottage, where
the contented labourer sat beside the welcome fire with his wife and
children. Far on the right lay the sea, dim and vast, and apprehensive
of the night which was advancing with its banners of darkness from the
east.
Silently we glided over the unreal world. The sunset faded slowly, and
we sank into deeper and yet deeper blue. The gold crept from our faces
and hands, and the solemn silence of the evening enveloped us more and
more. Soon we drifted low over the trees, whose leaves quivered gently
with the fragrant breeze of the twilight. The last shades of dusk turned
the landscape into a sombre dream of scarce-seen hills, and the gloomy
edge of a woodland. Over a field we floated gently, and ran softly over
the dewy grass....
The earth has usually no beauty for the airman. Mountain peaks, valleys,
ravines, and curving downs are absorbed in one flat plain, strangely
patterned with dull brown and yellow and green shapes, with dark patches
here and there for woods and white ribbons for roads; with black lines
for railways, red blotches for villages, grey and brown stains for
towns. A person who loves the beauty of nature, and has artistic
sensibilities, should never fly. If he must, he should fly only at the
edge of the evening, and should glide into the blue magic of the dusk.
Meanwhile, at the squadron, the days of preparation passed--days of
superintending the erection of hangars, of sunny flights over the long
surf-lined sands, of mushroom picking in the wind-blown grass of the
rolling fields. October came, and with it the order for departure.
The great machine was prepared. Heavy tool-boxes, engine spares, tail
trolleys, and a mass of material were packed into its capacious maw. The
tanks were filled with petrol, oil, and water. The engines were tested
again and again. The day came. A pile of luggage stood on the ground
beneath the machine; farewells were said; gloves, goggles, boots, and
flying caps were collected ... and it rained.
Back into its hangar went the machine. Back into the tents went the
luggage. Back into the mess went the disappointed airmen.
For three or four days this happened, but at last a gentle breeze, a
clear horizon, and a blue sky greeted the morning. Once again the
suit-cases and trunks were packed inside the machine. I put my little
tabby kitten into her basket and tied a handkerchief over the top, and
lashed the whole on to the platform in the back of the aeroplane.
The six airmen dressed themselves in their sky-clothes and took their
places--the C.O. at the wheel. A whistle was blown; farewells were
shouted; the engines roared, and we mounted triumphantly into the air
over the countryside of Thanet. For a time we circled over England, and
saw the villages shrink to red flowers on the carpet of harvest gold and
brown plough and dull green meadow land, which was fringed by the yellow
and white line of the curving shore. The little haycocks became
mushrooms; cows looked like little dots of white and black on the green
fragments of the mosaic; and more and more the sea, the wide glittering
sea, dominated the landscape.
Then the machine turned S.E. towards France. Looking ahead, with the
glorious wind rushing across my face, I could see the three
leather-helmeted heads of the pilot, the observer, and the officer in
the front cockpit, and below them the shining Channel. Looking through
the slats of the platform between my feet I could still see hedgerows
and plump red farms. Then we passed over the cliffs, whose summits
appeared to be on the same level as the sea, and below me I saw the
waves.
I was leaving England behind! I had to look back over the tail to see
the white line of the cliffs and the sweep of the Isle of Thanet coast
from Birchington to Ramsgate. I began to feel a lump in my throat. I was
not eager to look forward to see the first glimpse of France through the
sea mist. My thoughts were full of the sadness of bereavement. I knew
not what lay ahead--what France and war might bring me. I knew not how
long I would be from my own well-known country, or even if I would ever
return. Later on, after leave in England, I found no heart-sinkings when
I left Dover on a destroyer--for I had grown used to leaving
England--but now my departure was potent with sorrow. I felt almost
inclined to fling out my arms to the fast-fading homeland.
At last it died away behind me, and France mocked me with its twin line
of cliffs and sweep of coast. I lay down on the platform and wrote
letters to be posted in Paris. Between the strips of wood on which I lay
I could see the grey and silver sea far below me, and here and there a
tiny boat, apparently motionless, though a thin line of white foam
stretched behind it.
To my horror I suddenly became conscious of the kitten sitting beside me
carefully cleaning her paws, and probably supremely unconscious that she
was 6000 feet in the air, half-way across the Dover Straits.
Apprehensive for her safety I gave her no time to learn her position,
but quickly pushed her into the basket, and, undoing my flying coat and
my muffler, I took off my tie, which I tied across the top of the basket
to prevent the spirited young lady from emerging once more.
Now the machine was almost over the French coast, so I put the letter
away and clambered on to my feet to look over the side. Though I was far
from the ground, it was easy to tell that the country was an unfamiliar
one. The houses had a different tint of red, the villages looked
strange, and were arranged differently. The whole country looked
peculiar and un-English. It was the opening gate of a new world and a
new life.
Over sand-dunes and small pine-woods we roared. Etaples slowly passed
us, with its wide estuary spanned by two bridges, and its huge hospital
city. Over the mouth of the Somme, near Abbeville, we flew into the
brown and yellow autumn land of France--above old chateaux and their
withering parks; above little ugly villages; above long straight roads,
lined with trees blown half-bare by the equinoctial gales.
I soon forgot my freezing feet in the interest of reading. As I grew
more and more absorbed in 'The History of Mr Polly,' the thundering
pulse of the engines and the slight vibration of the machine slipped
from my consciousness. The everlasting anaesthetic of literature had
rendered me unconscious of being in the air nearly a mile from the
ground.
Suddenly the machine began to sway, and to "bump" a little. I stood up
and saw that we were passing through the outskirts of a cloud-bank.
Little patches of vapour appeared to rush by, though they probably were
scarcely moving. The air grew perceptibly cooler, and every now and then
the ground would be hidden, as the white vapour streaked by, under the
wheels, in a misty blur. Then suddenly the little houses of a village, a
forest, and a curving road would appear far below, only to vanish again
behind the next swift-moving edge of white.
We were near Paris. The pilot decided to go beneath the cloud-bank so as
to keep on his course with greater accuracy. The noise of the motors
stopped, the urgent forward motion of the craft became slower and
gentler as we drifted down through the cloud-bank, being thrown up and
down a little by the eddies caused by the different temperatures of the
air levels.
Soon, in the distance, appeared a slender tower, hanging high above the
mist. A great expanse of houses and streets, half obscured in haze,
revealed itself to our left. Here and there sparkled a winding river,
and under us were ragged suburbs with great factories and scattered
groups of houses clustered round wide straight roads that pierced the
heart of the city like white arrows.
_Paris!_ I felt the trumpet-call of the name of a large capital, though
Paris has perhaps the weakest name of all. What worthy stirring names do
Vienna, Berlin, Brussels, Amsterdam, Rome, and above all, London, bear!
In the very sound of them you hear the dying song of long trains gliding
majestically into domed stations; you hear the roar of traffic in
crowded streets; you hear the dominant throbbing of huge subterranean
newspaper presses.
These giant cities with the splendid names should be entered by train.
You should thunder over populated suburban roads, and clatter under iron
bridges. You should see more and more gleaming rails pouring together in
ever wider streams; you should have glimpses of grey old buildings,
rising sublimely above a sea of smoking chimney-pots--if you wish to
feel the thrill of entering a metropolis.
To approach a great city by the air is disappointing. You can see too
great an expanse of it at once. I should dread to fly high over London,
lest I saw the fields to the north and to the south of it at once, and
realised that this great city of ours _had_ limits which were
comprehensible by man. It would be a disillusion which would haunt me
all my life.
Fortunately it was misty over Paris, and we only saw occasional
stretches of boulevard, and white and red houses, half hidden by the
haze through which glittered here and there the Seine.
On one side lay the white buildings of Versailles and its wide
tree-lined avenues; on the other lay the square ugly factories of the
suburbs; between was a great expanse of field lined with countless
sheds--Villacoublay!
With silenced engines we floated lower and lower towards the soil of
France. Gently over the trees we glided; above the grass we swept a
moment; the machine shook a little, and came to rest below the level of
the tall hangars.
A crowd of British and French mechanics and airmen came streaming from
all sides to the machine, as minnows dart and cling to a fragment of
food which drops into a pool. We climbed out, gladly stretched our legs,
and were soon in a car, driven by a French chauffeur in a black leather
coat, on the way to Paris.
I mention the French driver and his coat because, in spite of what I
have said about the disillusion of approaching a great city by air, yet
aerial travelling does at least accentuate a change of country. Just as
gradually approaching a city, or a new country on the ground, makes it
seem more far-flung and mysterious, so does it introduce you step by
step to its personality and language. If you go to France by boat you
feel, even at Dover, that you are approaching a foreign country. You
hear French spoken, and see French people during the crossing. At Calais
you see the strange uniform of the Custom officers and policemen, and a
notice in English and French greets you at the side of the quay with its
warning against pickpockets. So you gradually become acclimatised to
French ideas before you go ashore.
If, on the other hand, you fly to a foreign country, you are, until the
moment when you land, attached by a thread to the place you have left.
You dressed there, you breakfasted there, you shaved there, your
sandwiches were cut there, and the hot tea in your Thermos flask was
heated there--the aeroplane is merely a detached, floating piece of
Margate or Broadstairs, or wherever it may be. So when you land the
change is abrupt. A man in a curious dress shouts up to you--
"_Ah, Monsieur! C'etait bien la-haut?_"
The thread snaps: England recedes a hundred miles in an instant. You are
French, and the aeroplane becomes Villacoublay!
We spent several days in Paris. Every morning our car awaited us
outside the hotel. Bills were paid; bags were packed; we inserted
ourselves into the car and drove to Villacoublay. The weather would be
bad, and (to our secret delight) we returned. I got very used to this
life after a time. I have left so many various hotels in France, day
after day, in the morning, and have returned two hours afterwards,
looking foolish, that the proprietors must have thought that it was a
British custom.
At last the machine started once more--unfortunately without the kitten.
She was seen just before we left, but I think she had friends on the
aerodrome who hid her at the critical moment. We delayed our departure
while a search was made. It was in vain. We left without the kitten, and
(superstitious people note!) were dogged by misfortune until six months
later when we acquired a black cat at Dunkerque.
The aerodrome to which we were flying was at Luxeuil, near Belfort, in
the foot-hills of the Vosges. We left Paris and flew towards the East.
Slowly the character of the country changed, and the towns and villages
grew different. I had a roller map, and as I lay on my chest in the back
of the machine, I wound forward the map just as the living map beneath
unrolled itself. On the paper would be marked a little white line, a
little black blob, and a little dark-green patch. Below, in a square
frame of wood, I could see a little white road, a little red village,
and a little dark-green forest. Sometimes I read for a quarter of an
hour and forgot my surroundings entirely, and then I would suddenly
become conscious that I was in the air and would look below. There lay a
curving river, and a canal beside it, across which was a grey stone
bridge.
I would wind my map forwards, and would identify the river and the canal
and the bridge. North of the river would be, perhaps, a forest and a
railway line. I would look below me; there would be the forest and a
thin black line near it, on which was a puff of white smoke coming from
a railway engine. The little village which lay near the canal would be
marked on the map--_Pont St Maure_, or something similar. It was to me a
name. The red mark below had to me no more reality than the black mark
on the map, yet at that very moment it must have been full of housewives
cooking fish. Its shoemaker, and farrier, and priest, and mayor must
have been busy. Maybe a marriage, the most wonderful incident of some
simple country girl's life, was in progress, and as the wedding party
walked in a procession they looked up to see the great bird with the
shining wings which boomed overhead. To me it was only a little red
patch which had appeared above the pages of 'The History of Mr Polly.'
Flying is a strangely aloof business, and gives the aerial traveller at
times an almost divine point of view.
Three hours slowly passed. Dusk began to creep across the land. The
country below changed more and more. Forests became frequent, and the
scenery grew wilder and more interesting. Suddenly the noise of the
engines died away. I quickly stood up and looked below. We were just
over a quaint town with a curious church tower. I looked round and could
see no aerodrome. Lower and lower we glided. The wind whistled and
moaned in the wires. I could see no field in which to land. Over the
tops of some trees we drifted. A great cluster of shrubs appeared ahead
of us above the level of the machine. We swept over it, dropped down
again, and I saw we were a few feet above the uneven ground. I shouted
to the other man in the back to hold on, and got myself ready to take a
shock. We touched the ground, bounced up a little, ran along, and
stopped in a sloping field near a road.