"Show a leg! Show a leg! Rise up and shine! Lash up and stow! The sun's
burning your bloomin' eyes out!"
So bellows the Master at Arms down the hammock flat, and I awake to see
above, outlined by the edges of the hold, a square panel of burnt blue
Asiatic sky.
Across my hammock strikes a scorching beam of sunlight, and in a few
moments I have pulled over my bare skin a washed-out overall suit and
have put my naked feet into a heavy pair of boots, and I am dressed for
the day. The hammock is lashed up, unhooked, and stowed, and at the
shrill whistle of "Fall in," I hurry up the companion to the blinding
heat of the aft deck of H.M. Kite Balloon Ship _Manica_, which a few
months before was a small tramp steamer. Being but a second-class air
mechanic (general), and so, therefore, in the lowest category, I stand
in the rear line of parti-coloured men,--some in khaki shorts and white
shirts, some in khaki jackets, some in blue naval coats.
"Parade. 'Shun. Answer to your names.... All present, sir. Parade, stand
at ease!"
The duty officer, in white flannel trousers and trim blue-and-gold coat,
calls us again to attention, and tells the master-at-arms to send us to
balloon stations at once.
"Parade--balloon stations--carry on!"
At once we break off, and hurry down the dim crooked gangway connecting
the aft deck with the balloon deck forward. Soon we break once more into
the sunlight, with the tall canvas wind screen on the left, and on the
right the clumsy orange bulk of the kite balloon lying along the wide
wooden deck, on which it is held by rows of canvas bags filled with
sand, which are hooked in clusters, like ripe fruit, to its netting.
My position is No. 1 starboard, so I hurry at once to the forward end of
the deck and stand by to remove the bags. The whistle is blown, and we
lift the bags up, and remove the hooks from the netting, and hang them
lower down. As bag after bag is moved the great bulk of the balloon
begins to rise up, until beneath its body can be seen the men working on
the opposite side of the deck. Now the network is out of reach, and
therefore we hang clusters of bags round the splicing of the ropes. Then
the balloon, its loose underside flapping slightly in the wind, is
allowed to rise sufficiently to permit the basket party to carry the
willow-woven basket to its position in the centre of the deck. As soon
as the basket is fixed to its rigging the balloon is dragged down again
by the men at the ropes, the sandbags are removed, and the balloon is
let up till the basket is just resting on the deck. The two observers,
with their charts and binoculars, climb aboard, and then the order is
given, "Let her up gently!"
We allow the balloon to rise until at last the ropes leave our hands and
hang rippling in the air above us. With a sudden hiss of steam and
clatter of machinery the winch in the corner begins to work, and slowly
the shining cable unwinds from the drum as the quaint orange shape rises
up, up, up, into the pale Wedgwood blue of the sky. At last the whine of
the winch ceases, and far above us the yellow balloon hangs like a
strange fruit, faintly swinging from side to side.
We fall in once more on parade, and I am detailed to the "Spud party,"
and "carry on peeling potatoes." Outside the little galley I sit on an
upturned bucket, peeling rather clumsily the great potatoes, which,
Argus-like, have a thousand eyes. As at ease I carry on this domestic
operation, I see in front of me, like a theatrical panorama, war in full
blast. Rising from the deep indigo-blue of the sparkling AEgean Sea lies
a long line of brown and yellow hills, dappled with the dull green of
scrub. The height of Achi Baba is a darker mass, with a flat top
reminiscent of Table Mountain. To the right the country slopes down to
Cape Helles, which is a biscuit-coloured point of land covered with a
crowded huddle of camps and hospitals, of white rows of tents, of horses
moving in long black lines, of transport waggons rolling up paths
leaving clouds of dust, of batteries of guns which every now and then
flash faintly in the hot sunlight, and from whose muzzles leap little
clouds of yellow smoke. Over this packed scene of activity occasionally
appear the white puffs of shrapnel smoke, which dissipate and vanish,
while here and there a great spurt of yellow smoke and black earth
shoots up as some high explosive shell bursts among the crowded depots
and stores. The air is full of noise--the buzz of aeroplanes; the
clatter of rifle fire; the staccato hammering of machine-guns; the heavy
boom of guns firing; the dull crash of bursting shells; the buzz of
flies on deck; the plop of peeled potatoes falling in a bucket.... So,
sitting at ease in the shade of the deck, we watch War casually, as
though it were a side-show arranged for our benefit, and indeed we are
entirely aloof. It seems incredible that there, a few miles away, on the
sun-baked hills, men are dying--that the leaping upward of that smoke
over on that hill records the scene of tragedy to perhaps a score of
people....
Suddenly a very loud explosion roars out near us. I nearly fall off my
bucket with the momentary shock, and then walk to the railings. To our
right lies a lean grey cruiser, from whose foremost guns are rising a
great cloud of smoke. Evidently it has begun to fire on some distant
objective, guided by the observations from our balloon. Two swift lances
of flame leap out from the long muzzles, two sharp detonations thunder
past our ears, and we hear the long dying roar of the shell screaming
through the air across the peninsula. Again and again the six-inch guns
crash out, till at the end of half an hour the clamour ceases, and we
hear a whistle sound "balloon stations."
At once we hurry down to the deck, and stand at our posts waiting for
the descent of the balloon. For a time we sit in the shade, idly
talking, when suddenly some one says, "Hello! Look! It's a German!"
High over us, in the pale blue of the zenith, moves a little white
bird-like shape, whose turned-back wing-tips reveal it to be an enemy.
At once we look to the men standing by the two anti-aircraft maxim guns
on the bridge. They have not realised the danger.
"Hi!" we shout. "Look! Up there! He's right above us!"
_Zoop--zoop--zoop_ suddenly wails the ship's syren, sounding the hostile
aircraft signal.
"Take cover!" shouts the master-at-arms, and as the men start running
down the sides of the deck to the gangways, the little twelve-pounder on
the poop crashes out with its first shell; and one of the machine-guns
begins a furious clatter as, with muzzle pointed vertically upward, it
opens a useless fire against the small shape of the aeroplane almost
exactly above us.
Now it is my rather unenviable duty to stand on the deck holding a
little flag with which to signal to the men on the winch, which is in
furious action as it strives to bring the balloon down as quickly as
possible. Owing to the noise of the steam-engine, the men will be able
to hear no shout of command, so it is my task to transmit orders to them
with my flag. The deck is deserted now, save for the few officers and
petty officers. Again and again the anti-aircraft gun on the poop roars
out, the rising shell hurries upwards with an ever fainter scream, until
at last a little white puff of smoke appears in the thin blue sky far
to the right or left of the evil shape which moves forward so
relentlessly, and is now almost over us.
I realise the bombs may even now be dropping. I know that in a few
moments I may be dead. I feel terribly frightened, but glad that I have
something to do. The hand holding the flag shakes a little. I begin to
sing one of the Indian love lyrics:--
"When I am dying
Lean over me, tenderly, softly...."
Crash--_pok_--_pok_--_pok_--_pok_ ... sound the guns. Then with a loud
boom a great column of water, smoke, and steam, nearly ten feet across,
rises up to the right of us near the ship. _Pok_--_pok_--_pok_ sounds
the maxim. I wonder if there is another bomb coming.
"Stoop, as the yellow roses droop,
In the wind from the ..."
_Boom_--the second bomb bursts some eighty feet away to the left. Both
have missed; the menace is passed.
With a feeling of relief I say a short prayer, and watch with an easier
interest the little white puffs of smoke which trail across the sky
behind the rapidly-fading aeroplane, like flowers scattered in the path
of a passing deity. The machine-guns above me at last cease their
clamour. The grey barrel of the gun on the forecastle spits out its
flame and smoke for the last time. The winch ceases its clatter and is
reversed in order to allow the balloon to rise again; for, the danger
being past, it is required to work with the _Queen Elizabeth_.
Now the whistle sounds for breakfast, and soon we sit at our narrow
wooden tables in the afterhold, eating moist bread and terribly yellow
salmon, and drinking washy tea. We talk of food, food, food incessantly,
picturing the glories of past meals in London, the exquisite repasts
which will be ours when we return; we dream of white tablecloths, of
flower vases, of toast-racks, and white china, and bacon, hot, sizzling,
curling.... We are a strange crowd--artists, stokers, solicitors,
clerks, blue-jackets, soldiers, architects, chauffeurs,--all are mixed
together. The better educated men are A.B.'s; the P.O.'s are telephone
operators or old service men. It is as strange a company as any in the
war.
The meal is over, and I climb up on deck, and see that between us and
the long mottled hills of Gallipoli lies the huge but graceful shape of
the _Queen Elizabeth_. Her fifteen-inch guns are tilted at a high angle,
and are turned towards the coast. It seems evident that she is about to
bombard some position, and that our balloon is going to "spot" for her.
I walk down the gangway to the balloon deck and stand near the little
telephone cabin, where the operator sits at a table with the receivers
strapped over his ears, in direct communication with the bridge and the
balloon observer high above. I look through a little glass window, and
become a witness of a stupendous feat which illustrates vividly the
amazing power of destruction of modern artillery.