"Oh! Not at all nice! But not very near. Not dangerous, you know!" (My
heart had hardly then left my throat.) "I'm going back to the hangars!"
He walked with me. Maybe he felt that I would be some sort of cover if
any more bombs were dropped. I felt the same.
Thereafter the whole night was full of hidden mysteries. In the
direction of Calais, tracer shells, like curving hot coals, moved
through the sky continuously. The air was full of the hum of engines.
There was a talk of Zeppelins. Everything was uncertain.
Then one by one the machines returned and landed with dazzling flares
blazing away beneath their wing-tips.
Before dawn we drove back to our own aerodrome, and went to bed.
Our machine was ready for the next raid, and we were detailed to go to
Ghent.
In order to save repetition I will describe the first raid, and include
in it other incidents which happened during subsequent night trips.
I wish to draw the contrast between the first few flights, when we made
mistakes, and had to find out everything by doing it--and the later
trips, when we had evolved a better scheme of attack, and, knowing what
to expect, countered each move of opposition before it came, almost as
in a game of chess. So in this chapter I will give a composite
description of earlier raids, and in my next chapter give a detailed
account of a cold determined attack on a highly-fortified objective of
whose defences we had gained experience.
The machines are lined up on the seaward aerodrome. I have my celluloid
map-case with its coastwise map on one side, and on the other the more
detailed map of the district round the aerodrome which we are to bomb.
I climb into my seat and sit beside the pilot. The door is slammed
behind us. The pilot blows a whistle, and the chocks are pulled away
from the wheels. With our engines running gently on either side we await
the order to leave. Then, half a mile in front of us, we see the wide
slow flash of a bomb. Another follows it a short time after, and then
another. Each is nearer to us, and I can hear the crash of the
explosions.
"Bombs!" I say to the pilot. "I don't like this! Bit rotten being bombed
before we leave the ground!"
As the last bomb flashes in front of us we receive the order to start
away. On go the engines with a roar, and we move across the grass. The
nose drops down slightly as the tail leaves the ground and we begin to
assume flying position. It is very unpleasant rushing across the dim
aerodrome like this, not knowing when a bomb is going to burst on you
or near you, and conscious of the fact that somewhere in the darkness
above is a German aeroplane, perhaps waiting for you.
Suddenly there is a jerk at my head, and my invaluable fur-lined
mask-goggles have vanished, being snatched away by the rush of air. This
means that I shall have no goggles to wear during the whole raid.
The nose shoots up into the air, and with a vibrant beat from the
engines we mount into the star-bestrewn sky, and turn out over the
sand-dunes towards the sea. We move away from the aerodrome at once, and
the occasional red flashings of bursting bombs show us that we are wise.
Dunkerque passes on our starboard side. Its defences are very
suspicious, and we are taken for a German machine. Shells begin to burst
near us, though we are scarcely a thousand feet off the ground.
I load my Very's light pistol with a cartridge, and fire over the side
"the colour of the night." I continue to do so until the shell-fire
stops. The town lies in darkness, but I am faintly conscious of its
hidden wakefulness as it lies angry and apprehensive. Below can be seen
a few faint specks of light from the ships anchored, for safety's sake,
off the shore.
We fly onwards along the coast, climbing steadily. We keep the pale line
of the beach near enough to our starboard side to be able to follow it
easily. The engines run evenly. The dials are steady. In front of us the
air-speed indicator hardly wavers. It is a time, not of trouble and
anxiety, but of mere waiting. The strain has not yet begun. With the
near approach of the German territory the whole mental outlook of the
airman changes, and every nerve automatically becomes on the alert. Now,
however, there is the same sense of mild interest felt in an ordinary
daytime flight over friendly territory. The country lying to our right
is creditably dark. Not one gleam of light shines in the stretch of
vague shadows, save where at a large coastwise munition plant a red
flame leaps up for a moment and dies away.
In the far distance can be seen an occasional misty flash from the
volcanic region of Ypres. A little nearer a tremulous star-shell glows
white through the haze, and slowly droops and dies.
La Panne is passed, and we begin to turn out at an angle away from the
coast. We are nearly six thousand feet from the ground, and are still
climbing. We sweep round in three or four wide circles to gain a little
more height, and then fly straight ahead.
At the end of the lines by the piers of Nieuport we are six miles or so
from the coast. At Ostend I can see a vague cluster of searchlights
moving restlessly and rather undecidedly across the sky, dredging the
sky with their slim white arms in an evil and terrifying manner. I ask
the pilot to turn out at a sharper angle, in order that he may pass
Ostend quite ten miles out to sea. There is a visible menace in
searchlights, and we avoid them like poison unless it is essential to go
near. It requires a very strong nerve to fly right ahead to a thicket of
moving beams of light. We used to allow six or seven miles margin, and
would willingly add several miles to our journey on the wrong side of
the lines in order to make a detour.
As we are passing Nieuport I see two small points of light suddenly
appear. They rise up and swell into two bright flares--one scarlet and
one emerald. These flares die away, and at once several more
searchlights become active near Middelkerke. It is the German "hostile
aircraft" signal. Off Middelkerke itself we see two more flares, and
when Ostend, with its forest of moving beams, lies far to our right, yet
another sinister group of red and green lights rises up as we are
"handed" along the coast from point to point.
Below us now is the expanse of sea. Above us are a few scattered stars,
which have challenged the radiance of the moon. To the right lies the
dimly seen line of the coast, fringed, as far as we can see, with a line
of searchlights waving outwards over the sea. At Ostend an aerial
lighthouse flashes at a regular interval, giving signals of guidance to
the German aircraft abroad in the darkness. Slightly behind us are the
occasional star-shells, and a hurried flash gives evidence of military
activity on the land.
We are almost 8000 feet up, and with the fringe of searchlights as a
barrier I am not easy in my mind.
"Pull her up to nine thousand, if you can, Jimmy; it's hardly high
enough yet! Try and pull her back a bit! We'll have to cross the coast
in about ten minutes."
I am feeling that my scheme of going to the objective by land was by far
the best one. The coastal section of Belgium had two fronts--the
trench-line from Nieuport to Ypres, and the coast-line from Zeebrugge to
Nieuport. There was a strong searchlight barrier by the sea; there was
none behind the German front lines. Therefore, if you were to proceed to
a land objective by the sea route you had to face two organisations of
defence--first at the coast, and then at the objective. If you went by
the overland route you had only the searchlights at your objective to
tackle. The fewer obstacles there were to meet, the better I was
pleased; and I felt that it was bad management if in an attack on an
objective I was troubled by the defences of any other point.
Thereafter I used the overland route, even when attacking places on the
coast, until my final accident. It was as much a question of morale as
anything. If you crossed the German lines about Nieuport there was no
opposition. Your lights were extinguished. You moved into an unopposing
darkness. You never felt that the people below knew that you were
there. Ghistelles on the left shot up a couple of towering lights,
which moved vainly towards you. Thorout gave birth to one pale beam,
which you might ignore. If, on the other hand, you moved down the mast,
you saw that cruel waiting fence of white weeds stretching up into the
dark pool of the night--a visible and threatening sign of hostile
activity.
So, as we pass Ostend, I look along the coast-line with a feeling of
fear. We are going to cross the shore between Zeebrugge and Ostend, at
Blankenberghe, which is the most weakly defended spot.
Suddenly my pilot strikes my arm.
"Look! There's one of their patrol machines with a searchlight!
There--_there_--to the left!"
I turn and see, moving very swiftly, half a mile in front of us, a
brilliant light. The pilot shouts again.
"It's turning towards us! Get in the front, quick!"
I crawl through the small wooden door into the nose of the machine, and
unstrapping the Lewis gun get it ready for action. The light sweeps
round to the right, but it is going downwards, and the German airman
has evidently not seen us. I wait a minute or two and examine the sky
all round us, but can see nothing. With a feeling of relief I kneel on
the floor and wriggle back into my seat behind.
"By _Jove_! Did you see that, Bewsh?" says the pilot. "The devil! We'll
have to look out."
Ahead of us now we can see the tall powerful searchlights of Zeebrugge
moving in slow sweeps over the sky. Under our right wing lies Ostend. We
are off Blankenberghe, and the time has come to cross the coast. We are
eight thousand five hundred feet above the sea, and are not likely to
gain much more height, and, at any rate, we are anxious to get the work
done and to return home.
To the right we turn and move steadily towards the waiting coast. In
front of us lies the waving line of searchlights. Inland, to the left,
can be seen in the distance the turmoil of Bruges. The beams of light
sweep across the stars; shells burst in the sky; and now and then there
float upwards strings of fantastic green balls, sparkling like gems as
they bubble towards the upper levels, where they float gaily for a
moment parallel to the ground before they fade away.
Below, near the coast by Blankenberghe, an aerial lighthouse flashes and
flashes--_Four shorts_--_one long_--darkness: _four shorts_--_one
long_--darkness. Now we are getting near to the restless weeds of light
which begin to move outwards in search of us. The pilot throttles the
engines slightly, for we are getting within the range of these clutching
tentacles. I feel very nervous and frightened.
On either side of us now move the slow gliding beams--broad and pale
shafts of light stretching high, high up above us in the darkness,
blotting out the stars, and stretching far, far beneath us to a tiny
spot of light on the black edge of the coast.
With these arms of light coming up to us from the ground we begin at
once to have a sense of height, which normally you never have when in
the air. The searchlights, running from the earth to our level and past
us, join us to the ground and give us a measure of distance and an
opportunity of contrast. With these tall, enormously tall, thin pillars
of light near us moving to and fro in a hypnotising swing, we feel
very, very high off the ground, and realise how remote from the earth we
sit on our little seats in the fragile structure of linen and steel and
wood.
Beneath us now lies the vast and bottomless pool of the night sky. From
the blue depths there comes pouring up, like the exhalations of some
sinister sea creature in the primeval ooze, bubbles of green fire.
Suddenly in the darkness appears a round bead of emerald light, another
one appears beneath it, and then another, and a whole necklace pours
upwards as though a string of gems had been pulled out of a fold in a
black velvet cloth. In simple curves they soar past us into the upper
sky, where perhaps they die out on their upward rush, or turn over and
begin to drop downwards before they fade into mere red sparks falling
swiftly.
Now are we towering high over the black edge of the coast in the
pinnacles of the slim searchlights which challenge us in front, and move
to the right and left of us. We are conscious of our hostility to those
below, and rejoice to creep unseen, unnoticed, across this sentinel
barrier. Around us the occasional ropes of brilliant emeralds wander
upwards in regularity and silence, and for a rare moment we are
conscious of being in the air at night. To our left Zeebrugge flings
into the sky a dozen beams of powerful light, fortunately too remote to
challenge us. To our right Ostend echoes the threat. We are just between
the two danger zones, unassailable, but by a short distance only, by
both of them.
I am learning the mistake of crossing the enemy's sea frontier instead
of his land frontier. I am worried and harassed at the very beginning of
my travel across his territory, instead of becoming settled down and
used to being in an enemy sky before the visible danger of searchlights
appear to challenge my passage.
We pass slowly, silently, through the suspicious beams of light. To the
right and left we twist and turn as one of the swords cuts the sky near
us. I draw my arms to my side to make myself smaller so that I may
wriggle through the sharp edges of danger without being touched. Apart
from the risk it is exciting, though very nerve-trying. When at last we
are through the barrier, and regain the undefended inland region, there
is a great feeling of relief.
Our engines are opened out, and we fly level again. Beneath us are the
pale roads, and the dark lines of canals, and the chiaroscuro of
villages and forests. Five or six miles to our left we look down into
the cauldron of Bruges. It is a wonderful and awe-inspiring sight, and
as it does not threaten us to-night we look at it with keen interest.
The most noteworthy feature is a vicious-looking row of four
searchlights, near together and spaced at even intervals, like a line of
footlights at a theatre. These four beams of light move across the sky
in strange and unpleasant formations. Now the two end ones stand upright
while the two central ones sweep forward. Now the whole four move to and
fro in a determined and formidable sweep. Now the two middle ones cross
each other in a gigantic X of light, and the two outer ones sweep to and
fro with the beat of a mighty metronome. We called these four lights the
"Lucas Cranwell" lights, as they were like a landing light set of this
name which we were experimenting with on our machines. Later on in the
year, to our great relief, they were removed. The moral effect of a
group of lights like that is very great. You were frightened before you
approached the objective. They were a clever set of lights, too, because
on one occasion they were _switched_ right on to our machine and held
it, without any preliminary groping in the sky.
In addition to the "Lucas Cranwell" lights are five or six other
powerful searchlights standing in a circle round the town, moving to and
fro in a languid and sensuous way. Ferocious little spurts of light on
the ground in a dozen places indicate the position of anti-aircraft
guns, and here and there in the sky appear the quick and vivid flashes
of the bursting shells. To complete the picture of activity the lovely
necklaces of flaming jade rise up in great curves--sometimes only five
or six in a string--sometimes twenty or thirty at once.
Now comes the time when I have to begin to seek my objective. Up to the
present, the coast-line and the centres of activity at Ostend,
Zeebrugge, and Bruges have rendered the use of a map unnecessary. I
have scarcely had need to look over the side. Now, however, I have to
begin to do some work.
I know by the waving searchlights that I am about six miles south of
Bruges. I look over the side and see a main road running S.S.E. I
identify it on the map and see that a railway should shortly appear.
Soon I distinguish, with difficulty, the thin line of a railway track,
which is a difficult thing to see by night or day--the best guide being
any kind of water--canals, rivers, or lakes--then a good white road, or
a forest, and lastly a railway line.
We cross the railway, and I identify a branch line running away from it.
We turn N.E., and at the end of seven or eight minutes I see the bold
black line of a canal whose peculiar curves it is very easy to identify.
The volcano of Bruges flames up into the night to our left, while beyond
it we can see the aerial lighthouses of Ostend and Blankenberghe
flashing regularly on the hazy horizon. Flushing sparkles cheerfully
ahead of us, and along the Scheldt glitter the Dutch villages.
We turn round to the right and fly on. We are now moving on a straight
course, and I identify in turn each bend in the canal, each thin road,
each queer-shaped forest. The aerodrome draws near. I see in the
distance the little wood near which it lies. Then I can see the pale
shape of the landing-ground, which looks slightly different to the
surrounding fields owing to its made-up surface. We sweep round in order
to be able to face the wind and to approach it in a good line. We turn
again and begin to fly straight ahead.
"I'm getting in the back now, Jimmy," I shout. "Fly straight on. If I
give two greens or two reds swing her round quickly. Turn very slowly
for one green or one red!"
I crawl into the back, throw myself on the floor, kick my legs out
behind me, and slide to the right the door beneath the pilot's seat. A
biting wind beats on to my face, making my eyes water and blowing dust
all over me. I remove a safety-strap from the bomb handle to my right
and look below. There lies a square of pallid moonlit country. The
aerodrome is not in view yet. I push my head out, turn it sideways, and
look forward.
A mile or two ahead I see the little forest. I try to calculate whether
we are steering straight for it or not. It seems to me that we are
flying too much to the left. I pull myself inside the machine again,
take off a glove, shine a torch on a little row of buttons on the frame
of the door, and press the button on the right. A green light glows in
the cockpit, and, looking at the bomb-sight, I see that the machine is
swinging towards the right.
I poke my head through the bottom of the machine again and see the
position of the aerodrome a good deal nearer. Now, however, we are too
much to the right. Inside I pull my head and press the left-hand button.
A red light glows in front of the pilot. I look down again. The small
wood is in view, but even as I look the bomb-sight travels across it
from the right well over to the left as the pilot swings the machine
round in obedience to my signals.
Anxiously I press the button to the right again. Five or six times I
press it quickly. Across the aerodrome the sight swings toward the
right. Just before it crosses the middle of it I press the middle
button. A white light glows before the pilot--the "straight ahead"
signal. I have not given it soon enough, however: the machine is not
checked on its rightward swing in time. It stops the turn with the sight
well to the right of the aerodrome. I look at the luminous range-bars of
the sight. We are almost over the objective. If I do not alter the
direction I shall not be over the aerodrome when the time has come to
drop the bombs. I flash the red light a second. The machine flies on. I
press my finger on it and hold it there. Round to the left it swings. I
look carefully down the range-bars of the sight. They are almost in
line.
I press the central again and again, trying to judge the moment when I
can check the pilot, so that the swing of the machine will stop as we
come over the aerodrome. I misjudge it. The bomb-sights are in line with
the aerodrome, but we are swinging rapidly to the left. I press the bomb
lever once quickly to release two bombs. If I released any more they
would straggle in a line right off the objective. My hands are almost
frozen, my eyes are running. I feel discouraged and unhappy. Down below
I see two red flashes appear near the hangars, leaving two round
moonlit clouds of smoke on the ground.
I climb up beside the pilot, but before I have time to speak he asks
eagerly--
"Dropped them all, old boy? How did you do it?"
"Couldn't do it, Jimmy. I'm _awfully_ sorry. It's this beastly signal
light system. It isn't direct enough; I wish I could guide you better.
It isn't your fault, but I can't stop you in time. I'll try again in a
second if you swing her round."
In a great circle we sweep round to our old starting-point, and I get
ready to make another attempt.
"I'll try very hard this time, old man. Let's get into the wind as near
as we can, and you steer by some light, and I'll try to give as few
changes in direction as I can. The worst is, I can't see the beastly
aerodrome till we are almost on top of it, and then I can't get a decent
'run'. We must get that front cockpit position!"
I stand up and look over the front, and try to fix the exact position of
the aerodrome and its surroundings in relation to the machine.
I hurry into the back and look through the trap-door again. I can
hardly see, owing to my running eyes; but I wipe them dry, and look
intently ahead in a horribly uncomfortable position, my head and
shoulders hanging out of the bottom of the machine. Right ahead of us is
the pale shape of the aerodrome. The pilot is flying magnificently. We
are moving steadily forwards. As we draw nearer, I wriggle back into the
machine and look down the bomb-sight. The thin direction-bar lies right
across the aerodrome. I joyously press the middle button, so that the
white light laughs out: "Good! Good! Good!" into the pilot's face. We
begin to drift slightly to the right. I do not touch the key-board, but
stand up and push my body forwards beside the pilot and shout
furiously--
"Turn her very slightly to the left, Jimmy! We're doing fine! We'll get
her this time! I'll press central when we're on it."
In a flash I am underneath the seat and looking at the bomb-sight. It
swings slowly, slowly to the left. Just before it arrives over the
aerodrome I press the white light button deliberately. The movement
stops, and the bomb-sight begins to creep steadily forwards over the
hangars and surface of the aerodrome. With my anxieties past I have a
wonderful feeling of relaxation and happy excitement. Just before the
two luminous range-bars actually touch the edge of the line of hangars,
I grasp the bomb-handle and begin to press it forward slowly. I hear the
sharp clatter of opening and closing of the bomb-doors behind me, and I
see two plump bombs go tumbling downwards below the machine. Again, and
a third and a fourth time, I press forward the bomb-handle, and can feel
the little drags on it as I release bomb after bomb. I look behind, and
see that they are all gone. I shine my torch through the racks to make
sure, and I see the gunlayer busy with his torch also. I look below
through the door, and see four or five bomb-flashes leap out across the
aerodrome, while behind them lies apparently the smoke of others near
the hangars. I slam the door to with a feeling of thankfulness, and get
back to my seat.
"All gone, Jimmy! No 'hang-ups.' You did jolly well; they went right
across the aerodrome. Let's push north-west back to the coast. I'm
absolutely frozen."
I have a hurried look at my pressure-dials, to see that they are all
right; and when I have adjusted them, I uncork my Thermos flask, have a
comforting drink of hot tea, and eat some chocolate. I beat my gloved
hands together and try to restore the circulation, and stamp my feet on
the floor. Feeling tired and cold, I sit on my seat with my head on my
breast, feeling languid and limp after the subconscious strain.
Towards the distant coast-line, with its steady flickers of lights at
Ostend and Blankenberghe, we move, forgetting already the place on which
we have just dropped our bombs. The turmoil of Bruges has subsided--only
two wary searchlights stand sentinel at either side of the town, alert
and scarcely moving. Those two are enough to give us warning, however,
and we sweep to the left to leave the simmering inferno well to our
starboard.
Below lies the pallid moonlit country,--field and forest, chateau and
canal,--clearly etched in a soft black pattern of shadows and dim light.
Far, far to the south Ypres flashes and flares on the horizon, with its
night-long artillery fire.
Now that our job is done, we are not so fearful of being over enemy
country, partly because we are used to it by now, and partly because we
are leaving the interior farther and farther behind us, minute by
minute, as the coast-line draws nearer.
Unexpectedly I notice below the machine a curious white patch on the
face of the country. Then I see others behind it, and realise that the
coast-line is becoming swiftly blotted out under a layer of clouds.
"Jimmy! Look--clouds! We'll have to go carefully," I remark, and have a
look at the compass. "Let's turn a bit more south-east, and we are bound
to see Ostend."
We turn swiftly, and in a few minutes are above a white carpet of cloud,
through which, to my joy, I can see very hazily the flashing light of
Blankenberghe to my right. Over towards Zeebrugge rise a few parting
strings of green balls as the last British machine turns out to sea.
For ten minutes we fly on by compass, which I check by the coldly
glittering North Star, that shines faithfully for us high in the deep
blue of the sky.
Then I see, running to and fro, and round and round, on the carpet of
the clouds, little circles of light. Now and then one comes to a rift
on the bank, and for a moment a beam of light shoots up into the sky,
only to vanish again. The Ostend searchlights are vainly looking for us;
our engines have been heard.
Now we are approaching a new formation of clouds, lovely towering masses
of cumulus, pearl-white in the light of the moon. Over an unreal world
of battlement and turret, of mountain summit and gloomy valley, we move
in a splendid loneliness beneath the scattered stars. This billowy world
of soft and silvery mountain ranges is made the more strange by the
restless discs of radiance which run and swoop and circle and dance in a
mad maze of movement across the curving pinnacles and ravines. Now and
again a searchlight, striking into the heart of some towering summit of
cloud, illuminates it with a glorious radiance, so that it seems for a
moment to be woven of the fabric of light.
Suddenly the scene becomes even more fantastic, for in one place on the
clouds appears a spot of vivid green. The spot of light spreads and
spreads until it is a circle of emerald light, a mile or more in
diameter, and from the extreme centre appears a ball of brilliantly
green fire which pops out of it quickly, to be followed by another and
another, until the whole chain of beads have freed themselves from the
entanglements of the vapour and rush gaily upwards high over our heads,
to end their brief career in a lovely splendour above the milk-white
billows of the cloudy sea.
Another point of cloud glows green, there is another swiftly expanding
circle of colour, and another string of these quaint gems float upwards
in a swaying curve. The sight is one of such exquisite loveliness that
it is difficult to describe it. It is all so beautiful--the
star-scattered vault of night, gold flowers in a robe of deepest blue:
the soft white wonder of the rolling clouds, mile upon mile, as far as
you can see, moonlit and magic, a playground for the gambolling figures
of light which, like a host of Tinker Bells, rush deliriously from side
to side, climb up hills and slide down valleys, and jump excitedly from
peak to peak: the expanding flowers of emerald light from whose heart
rise the bizarre bubbles of scintillating brilliance, to live through a
few glorious seconds of ecstatic motion before they die in the immensity
of the night.
It is a scene of a strange and ever-altering beauty, and one that very
few eyes have seen. It is a world beyond the borders of the unreal.
Forgotten is the material country of fields and forests far below--as
forgotten as it is unseen. To a paradise of vague moon-kissed cloud we
have drifted, and float, dreaming, between the stars of heaven and the
purgatory beneath.
Then for a moment a great rift in the barrier appears beneath us. Across
the dark space with its edges of ragged white lie two hard beams of
light. Then we see, far below, a chain of green balls rush up from the
darkness, and as they appear they light up a great circle of the earth,
and slowly there appears nearly the whole of Ostend lit up by a ghostly
greenish light. I see the shining sea, the line of the shore broken by
the groins, and the huddled roofs of the houses. For a moment the scene
is clear and distinct, then with the upward course of the balls of light
it dies away, and the two searchlights throw blinding bands across a
pool of obscurity.
What we have seen, however, is a sufficient guide. We know we are above
the coast. The machine swings to the left, and above the rippling
spots of light we roar on westwards. Soon we leave this fantastic
dancing floor behind us, and, seeing through the misty curtains a watery
glow of white light blossom out into a hazy gleam and fade away, we know
that we are somewhere near the lines.
Onwards we fly, watching the compass, watching the North Star, watching
the pale veils of vapour beneath us. The cloud barrier grows thinner,
and more and more rifts appear in it. About ten minutes after we have
passed the lines, we see ahead of us a pale searchlight flash in the
masses of cloud, now shooting up through a gap, now losing itself in the
lighted edges of a floating wisp. It flashes three times, and stops.
Again it appears, three times stabbing the sky, challenging us with the
"letter of the night" in Morse code.
I load my Very's light pistol and fire it over the side. A green light
drifts down and dies. The searchlight goes out; we fly on.
"That light is somewhere near Furnes, Jimmy. Let's put our navigation
lights on now; I'll try and pick up some landmark below,--the coast if I
can ... it's awfully thick to-night!"
Beneath in the murk I can see now and again a twinkling light, and then,
to my delight, I pick up the shore. We fly on above it for a quarter of
an hour. Then the pilot begins to get anxious.
"Can you see Dunkerque yet, old man? We ought to be there!" he asks.
I look below, and see sand-dunes and the unbroken coast running a little
way on either side into the mist, which has now taken the place of the
cloud.
"Can't quite make out, Jimmy. We had better fly on a bit. We must be
past La Panne!"
For four or five minutes we fly on. Once I lose sight of the coast, and
ask the pilot to turn to the right, not telling him the reason. To my
relief I pick it up again before he suspects that I am lost.
"Anything in sight yet, Bewsh?" he asks. "We must be up near Dunkerque
by now. We can't have passed it!"
Still the unbroken coast below.
"I'd better fire a light," I suggest.
"All right," he says. "Carry on--stop a minute, though! We _are_ over
the lines, aren't we?"
"We _must_ be ... I think. We passed Nieuport miles back. I can't make
out where we are. I'll give a white!"
I load my Very's light pistol and fire it over the side. A ball of white
fire drifts below towards the mocking emptiness of the mist. I stand up
and look all around. Through the haze comes no welcome gleam.
"No answer, Jimmy! What _shall_ we do? If we go on we'll get miles down
towards Calais! If we go back, we get over the lines. Go up and down
here, and I'll try to find Dunkerque--it _must_ be somewhere near!"
I fire another white light, and then another. No answer comes from the
ground. No searchlights move across the sky. All we can see is a vague
circle, bisected by the coast-line--one half being sea, the other half
sand-dunes.
Then, in my excitement, I accidentally fire a Very's light inside the
machine. The ball of blazing fire rushes frantically round our feet and
up and down the floor. I hurriedly stamp it out amidst the curses of the
pilot, who says later that in my eagerness I picked it up and threw it
over the side.
Now I press a brass key inside the machine which operates our big
headlight. R-O-C-K-E-T-S, I flash piteously; and again, _Rockets_.
Another Very's light I fire, and then click and clatter the key,
"_Please fire rockets_"; and again, "_Rockets--we are lost!_"
"What shall we do?" asks the pilot in a hopeless voice. "Shall we land
on the beach? I am getting fed up!"
"Just a second--I'll ask Wade."
I climb into the back and flash my torch through the bomb-racks. I see
the face of the gunlayer in the ray of light. Pushing my head and
shoulders into the maze of framework, I shout out at the top of my
voice. The gunlayer shakes his head. I go forward and ask the pilot to
throttle down a little.
The noise of the engine dies away. I hurry back and shout out again.
"Can you make out where we are, Wade? I'm quite lost. Have we got to
Dunkerque?"
"Don't know, sir. I don't think so! I can't make out at all!"