"Eight on each side--two red at the west!" I say.
"I make it more," he comments. "Count again!"
I make sure of my accuracy, and draw in my note-book a detailed sketch
of the landing arrangements.
"Look!" cries suddenly the pilot. "We've been heard!"
I peer down once more and see only the two red lights glowing on the
ground. The two lines of white electric lamps have been switched off,
for the drone of our engines has been heard high above the aerodrome.
Suddenly I realise that we will be heard through the whole of our long
journey. The absence of searchlights and shell fire in these undefended
regions makes one forget that from town to town, from village to
village, the report of our progress is sent to a thousand military
centres in a vast radius. Already our passage into virgin territory (for
not for years has country east of Ghent been bombed at night) must be
causing a sensation. Brussels must be apprehensive: Aix-la-Chapelle is
feeling anxiety: Cologne is uneasy.
Now ahead of us I can see what never before have I seen--the lights of
villages shining clearly in scintillating groups here and there across
the pale moonlit country. With my map on my knees I pick up and check
every railway and crossroad and forest below me in turn, and manage to
keep the machine exactly over the line marked on the map.
"We're all right, sir!" I say to the pilot. "See this straight road on
the map. There it is--there--see! See that forest crossing
it--well--there it is! I am quite sure of our position. We come to a
river soon ... look! look! do you see it--that silver streak over
there?"
The pilot nods, looks at my map, and turns on the bright engine lights
in order to examine the dials. To my slight discomfort he leaves them on
as he flies ahead, evidently feeling confident of our safety.
Far ahead I can see a light flashing and flashing in a regular code. I
presume it to be near Brussels, and point it out to the pilot. In a few
minutes through the slight haze of the distance appears a great number
of twinkling lights, and soon to our left I see a vast sea of
glittering, shimmering gems, with lines of lights radiating outwards
from it like the tentacles of an octopus. I suddenly realise that it is
Brussels, and with a cry of utter delight stand up to look down more
clearly at it. It is a wonderful spectacle. There, in one wide sweep
before my eyes, lies the whole city, triumphantly blazing out into the
night. I can see the long lines of the boulevards stretching through the
mass of lights, on the outskirts of which glitter little villages, from
which also radiate the lines of street lamps, as though illuminated
starfish lay here and there across the country. _Brussels_--_Brussels_,
beats through my brain as I see the Belgian capital, feeling safe in
its remoteness from the lines flaming bravely in the darkness. I live
through one of those rare moments of divinity which come to men when
they see before them for the first time some sublime spectacle which
perhaps has never been seen before.
In the middle of the town there flashes an aerial lighthouse. This is
rather puzzling, as the German night-bombing aerodromes are many miles
to the west, near the coast at Ghent and Bruges. I wonder for whom this
light flashes and blinks. Then I suddenly realise that perhaps one of
the infrequent Zeppelin raids is being carried out against England on
this wonderfully clear night.
Brussels passes. Road and forest and village flow beneath us in a
regular and expected stream. Slowly the minutes go by. Ten minutes to
ten says the watch. For over two hours we have been in the air, and our
engines show no signs of wavering. On them alone now depend our chances
of return. Soon I see far ahead of me the silver ribbon of the Meuse
shining in the haze of the horizon, and then the lights of Namur, cold
and sparkling, appear by the side of the river. I examine every tiny
landmark on the ground below, and check it with my map. There is no
doubt. There lie the lights of the town--there lies the forest on its
outskirts--there lie the two bridges, from one of which the thin black
line of the railway trails off into the distance.
"Namur!" I say to the pilot.
He looks down and flies round in a wide circle in order to examine every
point, and to ensure for himself that no doubt whatever exists as to the
identity of the place. He is quite satisfied, and turns the machine
towards the south-east. We cross the river south of the town as I
explain to him my intentions. I want him to turn north-west, against
wind, and to throttle the engines. We will glide down parallel to the
railway line, which will help me to get a good line. We will reach the
bridge at a low altitude, and I will drop my bombs. We will turn quickly
down wind to escape.
Before I crawl into the back I point out to him some very bright lights
in the direction of the Namur Zeppelin sheds, which seem to confirm my
supposition of the activity of German airships to-night. Then, with a
final word of explanation, I stoop through the door behind my seat and
lie on the floor of the machine. I slide open the little trap-door
beneath the pilot's seat, and see a small square picture of moonlit
country. Ahead there is just visible the curve of the river, and the
black line of the bridge across it. Beneath me runs the railway track
which is to be my guide. To my joy I can see, at one place upon this
thin dark line, the intermittent red glowing of an engine's fire-box. In
a swift moment I realise the actuality of the country below. For a
second it ceases to be a map and becomes peopled with busy human beings.
Oh, Namur (think I), ablaze with lights, you enjoy this moonlight night
of late September, far, far from the turmoil of war, little conscious
that overhead this very moment lies a fur-clad airman peering down at
you, preparing to drop his terrific missiles, packed with fierce
explosive! Laugh on in your cafes, you exquisitely-clad German
ambusques! For me this moment is rich and ecstatic. Then the difficulty
of the task absorbs my mind. The noise of the engines has ceased.
Through the machine sounds the faint rush of wind hissing and sighing
round the tight-strung wires and planes as we sink lower and lower. My
bomb-sight draws nearer and nearer to the bridge. Pressing the buttons
of the direction indicator I steer the machine to right and left, as
green or red glow the lights before the eyes of the pilot. The direction
bar touches the bridge and drifts off to the left. I swing the machine
round quickly, again the bar crosses the bridge, again it drifts off. We
are flying slightly side to wind, and I can scarce keep the head of the
machine on a straight course. The pale-glowing range-bars draw nearer
and nearer, with a slow progression, to the black edge of the silver
river. Again I press the right button; again a green light glows; again
the machine swings towards the bridge. The range-bars cross the base of
it. I press over the bomb handle quickly, ... and again.
Clatter--click--clatter--click--click--clatter sound the opening and
closing bomb doors behind me as bomb after bomb slides out into the
moonlight depths below. For a moment I see the fat yellow shapes,
clear-lit in the pale light beneath me, go tumbling down and down
towards the dim face of the country.