"Half dropped, sir. 'Fraid they will not get it. Oh! I am sorry, sir! I
am sorry! We drifted!"
One, two, three red flashes leap up in the water of the river some
hundred yards to the south of the bridge. One, two more flashes, more
rapid and brilliant, leap up on the moonlight embankment, leaving large
white clouds of smoke.
"Jolly good! You didn't miss by much!" he says encouragingly.
Boom--boom--BOOM--boom--BOOM! sound the five explosions as we turn. It
is strange to look at Namur--still sparkling beautifully with a wealth
of light under the stars--still unchanged, though we know that the
thundering clamour of these five unexpected explosions must have stirred
up the placid life of the little tranquil town till it is seething like
an ant-hill upset by the wayside. In the squares and streets must run
the alarmed population, rushing to and fro aimlessly, utterly terrified.
In the military headquarters the telephones and telegraphs must have
burst into a sudden activity. The vibrant roar of the explosions must
have been heard for a great distance. Even in remote Aix-la-Chapelle
the strolling Germans must have wondered at the far-away sound drifting
to them under the stars.
Again we fly to the south: again we turn and start on our second "run"
over the target: again I crawl into the back, steeled this time by a
great anxiety and a great determination, for I realise the enormous
responsibility which is mine. With the five remaining bombs behind me I
have, if possible, to destroy the great railway bridge, which to me will
appear only a small black match laid across the silver ribbon of the
river. If the bridge is destroyed or damaged the German communications
will be vitally interfered with, the moving of their troops will be
interrupted, the pressure on the British lines will be relieved. If I
fail, that much-desired relief will not take place, and therefore many
more British soldiers may be killed. That is not all, however--for
failure means that this expensive raid is wasted; the reputation of the
squadron is tarnished; the official approval of Handley-Pages as
long-distance night-bombers is reversely affected; and, least of all,
though of great importance to myself, my splendid opportunity for a
great achievement is lost. With this sense of responsibility weighing
heavily on me I lie down, peering through the little square hole. My
face is wet with the perspiration of anxiety in spite of the intense
cold of the biting wind: my hands shake with excitement. I decide to
take the machine to the river along the railway line, and slightly to
the east of it, and then to judge the wind drift so that the machine is
turned by it to the left, when I will press the starboard signal button
and swing the machine at an angle across the bridge, and then drop my
bombs. It is a great risk, and unless I judge exactly I will not
succeed.
In a fever of apprehension, and with my whole being concentrated on the
relation of the fine wires and bars of my bomb-sight with the black
thread of the railway far below me, I lie on the varnished strips of
wood on the floor of the machine, my legs flung wide apart behind me, my
bare hands and face frozen with the icy blast of wind, my uncovered eyes
running with water. Nearer and nearer to the bridge draw the two
range-bars. Gently and rarely do I touch the starboard signal button,
to swing the machine again and again to the right as the wind drifts it
to the left. We are near the bridge--we are almost over it. I press the
starboard button determinedly, and I see the glow of green light
illuminate the dashboard. To the right swings the machine. White glows a
light as I press the central button. I look below quivering with
anxiety. The machine ceases its leftward drift and swings to the right,
and the two luminous range-bars are in line with the bridge. I grasp the
bomb-handle and once, twice, press it over. I look behind--the bombs are
all gone. It is all over! The irrevocable deed has been done! The
failure or success of the long raid is sealed. I climb clumsily to my
feet and look through the door beside the pilot.
"All gone, sir, I ... Oh! look, _look_!"
Upon the thin black line of the bridge leap out two great flashes,
leaving a cloud of moonlit smoke which entirely obscures one end of it.
"Oh--damn good--damn good!" yells out the pilot excitedly. "Hit it! _Hit
it!_ You've hit it! Oh--priceless--priceless!"
"Good--oh, sir! I am glad. It is hit, isn't it, sir? Two of them. I _am_
bucked!"
Almost crying with joy we shake hands, and he thumps me cheerfully on
the back.
"Something for you for this when we get back!" he says. "Oh! damn
good--damn good, Paul. Priceless--priceless!"
I look round, and in the back of the machine I see a sight which left
the clearest image of this raid in my mind. There stands the moonlit
figure of the tall good-humoured gunlayer, and with a characteristic
gesture I see him put out his arms with the thumbs pointing upwards--the
most sincere expression of congratulation he can deliver. My heart goes
out in gratitude to this solitary man who already, for nearly three
hours, has stood alone on a thin platform in the back of the machine,
watching and eager, knowing that he has no control over his destiny,
that his life lies in the hands of the little figure whose black head he
can see so far away from him in the nose of the machine.
Now we turn at once and start on our long homeward trail. Exhilarated
with a glorious feeling of success, so contented and glowing with joy
that I am not affected by the fact of being over a hundred miles from
friendly territory, I sit on my seat with legs gaily swinging, and read
Dickens, write letters and verses, drink tea and eat sandwiches, and
chatter incessantly to the pilot, who, in his satisfaction, does not
mind.
"You'll get something for this--if we cross the lines all right!" he
says with his usual restrained optimism.
Charleroi sparkles on our left. Near it at La Louviere flashes an aerial
lighthouse, whose presence I record on my note-book. Having found our
way to Namur by map, we seem to return by a curious kind of homing
instinct. We know where we are as if by second nature. Indeed so little
do I trouble that I mistake Courtrai for Roulers, but it makes but
little difference. Such confidence have I in our safety, so lovely is
the moon-drenched night, so friendly are the undefended skies, that we
fly on and on as in a stupor of utter bliss. We know that if we return
we are famous, and we know we will return. Song and laughter, and rich
thoughts of far-distant London and its proffered glories when next comes
leave, fill my drowsy brain. I hug the pilot's arm affectionately. At
twelve o'clock he was at Dover, now scarcely eleven hours after he is
coming back from Namur. How wonderful it is--how wonderful he is!
Ypres flickers to the left with its ever uneasy artillery fire. In our
ease we do not even trouble to cross the lines as soon as possible, but
fly on parallel to them, some five miles on the German side. At last we
turn and cross slowly over the white blossoms of the ever-rising,
ever-drooping star-shells.