"Above the hostile lands I fly,
And know, O Lord, that Thou art nigh,
And with Thy ever-loving care
Dost bear me safely through the air.
Thou madest the twinkling Polar Star,
Which guides me homewards from afar;
And Thou hast made my greatest boon,
The radiant visage of the moon."
--_A Night Hymn._ Written sixty miles
beyond the German lines.
Early in the war it became necessary to destroy a railway bridge some
way behind the German lines. This structure was an important link in the
enemy's lines of communication, and its destruction was of vital
importance. The work was given to one of the very early squadrons to
accomplish, and it was carried out in rather an unusual way.
From the moonlit aerodrome there rose into the quiet night a little
two-seater B.E. 2C. machine, with a pilot and an observer as the crew.
Soon this hummingbird of the darkness was winging its steady way across
the German front lines, and met as opposition only the scattered and
inaccurate firing of machine-gunners and rifle-men on the ground.
The observer closely compared his lamp-lit chart, and the pale map of
the moonlit country below him. With unerring certainty the airmen moved
across field and forest, farm and village, till they saw some distance
ahead of them the gleam of a silver streak of water. As they drew nearer
they saw the shining curves of a river, across which, at one point, lay
a straight black line. It was their bridge.
At once the noise of the engine ceased and the machine began to sink
gently on softly singing wires towards the ground. Bigger grew the
woods, wider the thin white roads, deeper the soft and velvety shadows.
Over the tops of some trees they floated. The rolling expanse of a field
rose up to them. The machine quivered and jerked, and soon was rolling
softly along the grass. Before it had stopped the observer had jumped
out, and he hurriedly lifted a bulky package from his cockpit. He waved
to the pilot. He heard the sudden roar of the engine, and the machine
slipped faster and faster across the field and rose up towards the
stars, leaving him alone on the ground in the midst of his enemies, many
long miles from his own lines.
Quickly he ran to the edge of a wood, and he was soon creeping silently
through the dim lattice-work of moonlight and rippling shadows. In a
little while he heard the soft murmur of rapid waters, and he came to
the edge of the river. He followed its course for a time, threading his
way through the trees near the bank. When he could see the bridge some
two hundred yards away he slipped into the river, and wading waist-high
in the water, with his precious packet held well above the surface, he
moved slowly and silently toward the moonlit arches of stone.
Above him he could now hear the hum of his machine, and he saw it sweep
overhead quite low down. It turned rapidly and dived down straight
towards the bridge, and he heard the _pok_, _pok_, _pok_ of its
machine-gun. With a great rush of sound it roared upwards again and
banked steeply almost above him. Now he could hear the noise of an
approaching train, and he saw the restless machine, whose pilot was
deliberately distracting the attention of the sentries by his acrobatics
and the noise of his engine, dive towards it. There was a sudden flash
of light and a very loud detonation. The pilot had released one of his
bombs. Then once more sounded the metallic hammering of his machine-gun.
Meanwhile the observer had reached the base of one of the stone piers
which supported the bridge. The excited sentries had not noticed his
presence, and now he was safely hidden in the gloom of the arch. With
the water swirling round his waist he worked feverishly to remove one of
the stones. At last it was loosened sufficiently to be withdrawn. In its
place he put his precious packet, which was a charge of high explosive.
This he secured firmly in position, and then, having set the fuse, he
began to return, through the water, to his starting place. Another swift
flash illuminated the leaves of the riverside bushes. It was followed by
a second thundering explosion, as another bomb burst near the crowded
troop train which still had not crossed the bridge.
In a few minutes he clambered up the bank and hurried through the magic
beauty of the moonlit wood. He reached the edge of the field where he
had landed, and stood waiting. He looked at the luminous face of his
watch. The pilot was going to allow him fifteen minutes. Fourteen had
passed. He knew his friend would not fail him whatever happened, so
though he stood, soaking wet and alone, surrounded by the now angry
enemy, he did not feel at all alarmed.
Overhead he heard the drone of the engine, which suddenly stopped, to be
followed by the faint, scarcely-heard hiss of the wires as the machine
began to glide downwards to the ground. Soon a shadowy shape moved
swiftly across the ground and stopped. The observer ran over to it and
climbed quickly into his seat. He shouted to the pilot of the success of
his operation, and then with a roar and rush was borne upwards, and to
his relief found himself flying swiftly once more through the friendly
air.
Even as they turned to start on their long homeward journey a great
sullen roar rose to them from below, and they saw that no more across
the silver streak of the river lay a black line, for now it was
obscured by a cloud of smoke, which slowly dissipated and revealed a
great gap in the bridge, near which was the red glow of the locomotive
that no longer could take forward its carriages loaded with troops
destined for a now impossible railhead.
That happened in the early days of the war. Swiftly developed the
powerful arm of the air. Great were the changes in thought. Mighty the
new weapons of destruction....
* * * * *
"C.O. wants to see you at once in the Mapping Office."
It is four o'clock on September 29, 1917.
I hurry to the little hut by the mess and pass through the door. Over
the long desk leans the grave-faced squadron commander, the great
pioneer of night-bombing. With a pencil and a ruler he carefully studies
a map.
"Is that you, Bewsher?" he says. "Look here, I want you to go to Namur
to-night; do you think you can do it?"
"I think so, sir."
"Well! Look! It is a hundred and twenty miles the other side of the
lines. There is a big railway bridge there--the Luxembourg
bridge--here--see! That is the only railway bridge for a hundred miles
of the river. If it is put out of action the German lines of
communication are badly broken. The Army H.Q. are very keen on it. It is
a great chance for the squadron--and a great chance for you. Brackley
will be the pilot. You had better go to see him. How are you going to
find the way?"
"Know the way up to Ghent, sir; shall go by landmarks after that!"
"Hum! Take my advice and fly by the compass, and only use landmarks as a
check! Well, you will see!"
Now ensues three frantic hours of activity. I hurry off to see Brackley,
who has just returned from leave, and at twelve o'clock was in Dover.
The time of preparation is one series of kaleidoscopic pictures--of
crawling inside a machine unfamiliar to either of us: of being taught
the operation of a new petrol pressure system: of watching the loading
of the four huge 250-lb. bombs, fat and yellow, which I have never
before had the opportunity of dropping: of drawing a line from Dunkerque
to Ghent, from Ghent to Namur, across the long green-and-brown map: of
pondering the patches of the forests, the blue veins of the river, and
thinking how in a few hours they will appear for me in reality, lying
below in the moonlight, etched in dim shades of black and dull silver:
of a strange dinner in the mess when semi-seriously, semi-facetiously I
write out my will, leaving to one friend my books, to another friend my
pictures: of having the document properly witnessed, and rushing out
amidst cries of good luck: of the lonely dressing in leather and fur in
my little hut: of the roar of the engines as we rise up at latest
twilight towards the glittering companies of the stars.
It is a quarter to eight. Eight thousand feet above the coast near
Dunkerque we move. My pilot is a senior officer, and I have never flown
with him before, so I sit quietly and do not talk, as I watch carefully
the dials of my petrol instruments, and also keep a careful eye on the
country below. The pilot looks at the engines with a satisfied glance,
and the machine swings round and points east.
Soon the dim pattern of the Dixmude floods lie below, reflecting the
gleam of a quivering star-shell. In the sky above Thorout appears a
dazzling Very's light which drifts and dies--German machines are abroad
in the darkness also. Far below now lies Thorout, and for a minute or
two its pale beam waves vainly and impotent in the moonlit sky, its
strength so dissipated that it is useless. Soon south of Ghent we move,
and see to our right the landing lights of the huge Gotha aerodrome of
Gontrode.