"One, two, three ..."
Then rises up with an awful splendour and a strange deliberation a tall,
coiling column of fire, which, like a swiftly-growing tree, opens and
expands until it is nearly five hundred feet high--a huge fountain of
flame. Some oil dump has been struck. It is an amazing sight. Every
face, with open mouth and wondering eye, is lit for a moment in its red
light, and then it slowly fades and dies away, leaving a steady glow
behind the dark houses to show that a great conflagration is now in
progress.
"Nine ... ten ... eleven ... twelve!" ends the count.
Then crash after crash of ear-splitting noise sounds on our ears as the
noise of the twelve bursting bombs comes to our ears. The anti-aircraft
guns bark and crash stupidly round us, and among the stars appear the
quick and random spurts of the bursting shells. Aimless searchlights,
pale and puerile, move irregularly over the sky. Still there is no sound
above us.
"Keep throttled, Finkelbaum! Jolly good shooting. You push off to dinner
at Ghistelles; you've done your bit to-night," comments the wit.
Bavoom--_bavoom_--suddenly sounds the engine right above us, as the
machine opens out its engines as it escapes southwards from the
Dunkerque defences. Some of us stroll over towards the edge of the
canal. Of course there is no danger--he has dropped all his bombs--yet
there may be a "hang-up," and the back gunlayer may only just now be
finding it out.
Crack, crack--crack, crack, crack, clamours the machine-gun over by our
mess. Up rush the red sparks of the tracer-bullets.
"There he is--there--_there_--to the left of those two searchlights.
Open fire!" calls the C.O.
With a flash and a roar the little three-inch gun speaks out, and the
clatter of the falling shell-case can be heard above the scream of the
whining projectile. More machine-guns start their staccato tumult.
Tracer-bullets rush upward from a dozen places. The gun roars again. The
aerodrome is now thoroughly enjoying itself. Pale in the moonlight a
little bird-like shape on the dim blue tapestry of the night sky, I can
see the German machine moving swiftly eastwards to the lines. The guns
and machine-guns in a radius of five miles fire frantically and
erratically towards it, and in the midst of this discord is heard a fast
whistle which quickly develops into a scream. I slide down the side of
the canal in a cloud of pebbles and dust. The sound of a very near
explosion crashes on to my ear. I crawl up the canal and see a cloud of
black smoke not many yards away in the ploughed field beyond the canal.
The "hang-up" has been dropped. "Finkelbaum" has had his subtle revenge.
One after one now the twin-engined machines come roaring up the coast.
One after one they lay across the docks their deadly line of bombs. Fire
after fire is started, and in many places beyond the roofs can be seen
the red glow of the flames. Each attacker in turn is greeted with the
useless activity of the searchlights and the erratic flashes of
scattered shells. "Mournful Mary" wails and wails in miserable and
unavailing fear. One after one the great bombers, lightened of their
loads, sail lightly homewards to rest in the distant aerodromes of
Ghistelles or Mariaalter, followed, to be frank, with our
congratulations on their success, for we have too much a fellow-feeling
with them to wish them ill on their dangerous journeys.
It may seem strange, but if it was reported that eight Gothas had been
lost on a raid in England, the instinctive feeling was--
"Rotten! Poor devils! This job is getting dangerous!"