"Good! Good! Things are not so bad after all! The job looks like staying
pretty safe!"
Now some one reports that he can see the lights of a machine far away
near the coast. A renewed activity moves through the quiet band of
watchers.
"White light, sir!" chants the look-out.
Through the silver skies falls slowly a ball of glittering white fire.
There is a short report, and from the upturned pistol of the raid
officer a white light shoots upwards and falls in a graceful curve.
Louder and louder grows the sound of the motors of the returning
Handley-Page. The red and green lights on its wings can be clearly seen.
Then the throbbing sound dies, the lights turn and vanish, and for a
time the sky is silent and empty. A faint hissing is heard, the lights
reappear, and then a dazzling glare breaks out in the sky, lighting up
the underside of the Wing to which it is attached. Lower and lower
floats the machine. Every eye is fixed intently on it as it draws nearer
and nearer the aerodrome. An excited officer, whose invariable habit it
is to land mentally each machine, begins to utter his hurried words of
advice.
"Now then, Andy!" he says, "shove your engines on, boy! Shove your
engines on! That's right! Pull her back! Hold her! Over the telegraph
wires! Throttle! Throttle...! _Throttle!_ That's right! Hold her back!
Hold ... her ... back! Gently! Gently! You're really on the ground, boy!
Take care--you're all right! Gently! On the ground! Thank God you're
safe!"
With a triumphant roar from the engines, the machine sweeps round and
rolls up to the hangar.
We crowd round the nose and greet the furred and helmeted airmen as they
climb down from the bottom of the great machine.
"Yes! Dropped on Zeebrugge! Hell of a time! Caught three times! Yes!
Lots of Archie! Green balls nearly hit my tail! Yes! Ten on the mole!
Coming into the mess, Bill?"
So one by one these adventurers of the night skies, their eyes bright
with excitement, stamp proudly into the mess, and I feel jealous of the
glorious joy of life which is theirs, the sense of safety after passing
through so many great dangers.
The last German machine has long since landed in his distant aerodrome.
Two alone of our machines are to return. I walk casually up and down a
ditch near the "band-stand," throwing stones at shadowy rats playing in
the darkness, when suddenly I hear a voice say--
"There are two lights low down right over there ... yes! I can hear the
engine. He's getting very low! My God! Did you hear that! _He's
crashed!"_
At once a mad wave of activity sweeps over everybody. Being duty officer
I at once rush to the garage.
"Ambulance away at once! Send two tenders with Pyrenes at once! Take
axes and saws--get lanterns--go across the fields!"
Car after car starts up and thunders across the little wooden
bridge. Over the fields hurry the men with saws and axes and
fire-extinguishers. Their lanterns sway and flicker for a while like
fireflies, and then disappear. The cold heartless beam of the aerodrome
searchlight lies parallel to the ground, splitting the darkness in the
surmised direction of the disaster. Somewhere out there in the gloom of
the empty fields lies the wrecked machine. Even as we walk up and down
in restless vain excitement they may be dead, or mangled and dying,
these friends of ours. We do not know who it is. Our one desire is to
save, save, save.
"My God! I wonder who it is! Thank Heaven, there is no fire yet! Can you
see flames, look-out? No? Thank Heaven!"
A terrible and bitter silence lies around. We have no news. Minute after
minute passes with awful slowness. The black night holds a secret which
almost distracts us. Nobody returns. There is nothing we can do. We must
wait, wait. Half an hour passes, and at last we see the headlights of a
car which comes slowly up the road, crosses the bridge, and moves up to
the mess. Carefully from the back seat are assisted two men. One has his
head bandaged with a white linen band. The other, wearing only a tunic
and a shirt, runs into the C.O.'s office on slim white legs.
"No one badly hurt," is the report. "Machine absolute crash. Darley's
head was under one of the engines, which pressed it more and more into
the ground. He was pretty lucky not to be killed! The Wing Commander's
head was under the other engine. It took twenty men to lift it off, and
he was afraid we would lift it before we had enough men. He did not want
it dropped back again! He had petrol pouring over his face, and was
quite drunk when we found him. He was singing! Lucky the machine didn't
catch fire. If it had ... well!"
"The man in the back wasn't hurt.... Yes! They got lost in the mist and
flew right into the ground--nearly a mile away! It was on the other side
of the canal. Two mechanics swam across--one stark naked, in spite of
the cold--plucky devils!" A great reaction follows the strain. Every one
is gay and chatters excitedly, until we remark that there is still a
machine missing.
"Who is it? Booth? His second trip, isn't it? Hope he is all right. Is
he overdue? Been gone three hours. Yes, he was to go to Ghent! I expect
he will be all right!" goes the low murmur of conversation.
Half an hour passes and the anxiety increases. There are more people
standing on the aerodrome looking towards the east in silence. Watches
are consulted rather furtively. Nobody wants to voice his doubt. Forced
laughter sounds here and there. To add to the uneasiness a white mist
begins to creep over the aerodrome. The searchlight is turned on, and
its thin white beam, slanting upward, only penetrates a little way into
the whirling vapour.
"White rocket!" cries the raid officer.
With a rush of noise the rocket passes upward and bursts into a cluster
of liquid-white stars. The searchlight splutters and hisses. The mist
lies cold and white and damp around us. Again and again the rocket
rushes upward with a dying noise, until its very sound makes us surly
and irritable.
Another half-hour passes, and then another. Still the raid officer
stands silent and waiting on his platform, the moisture of the mist
shining in little white drops on his heavy blanket coat. Still the
searchlight hisses. Still the rockets rush and burst. Every heart is
heavy. Every voice is silent. One by one the watchers move wearily to
bed.
Hope of return is now long past. The white beam of the searchlight is
cut off. The rockets no longer drop their white and lovely stars of
useless welcome through the night. I walk tired and miserable across the
aerodrome as in the east slowly spreads the first rosy flush of dawn,
and across my dragging boots the wet blades of grass throw their
sympathetic tears of dew.