THE RAID ON ESSEN
A new triplane of great climbing power and high speed came to the
airdrome. Joe Little fell in love with it. Twice he took it on
bombing expeditions and twice returned with reports of real damage
to enemy supply stations and communications.
One night round the dinner table the boys of Joe's squadron planned
a raid of some magnitude, and later asked permission to carry it into
effect. It was a scheme to drop a load of bombs on the great Krupp
works at Essen. This had been done by one or two individual fliers
from Allied units, but the boys planned that with six of the new
type triplanes, if they could be procured, a really effective raid
on the great German productive center could be carried out.
The commanding officer did not disapprove the idea, but passed it
above him for approval from headquarters. The boys had worked out
the details carefully, and were keen on their project. At last
permission came. Booth, one of the most experienced aviators on
the western front, was to pilot one of the two triplanes of the
new type that had been allotted to the airdrome, and Joe Little
the other. The four other big bombing machines that were to go
on this mission were to be sent from another air station nearby.
Joe was pleased to be able to take Harry Corwin as his companion,
and none of the twelve men who had been selected for the expedition
worked harder over the plans and the maps than these two Brighton
boys.
At last the night selected for the raid came. It was a study to
see Joe Little inspect a machine before a flight, but on this occasion
he went over the big plane with extra care. He stood by the right
side of the tail for a minute chatting to Harry and then the two
boys went over every detail of the machine. While one fingered the
tail skid bolt the other examined the safety cable on the tail skid.
Stabilizer, elevator, and rudder were gone over carefully. Control
wires were gone over for their full lengths and their pulleys tried.
Brace wires were felt for slackness, from the tail to the inside of
the fuselage. The control wires to the ailerons, the pulleys and
the hinges, nothing escaped the eyes of Joe Little.
Each blade of the propeller he searched for a minute crack. Every
nut and bolt on the propeller he tried.
When in the machine and safely buckled to their seats, Joe ran his
engine a bit, to satisfy himself that she was producing just the
right music. The other five triplanes had been waiting. When Joe
had satisfied himself that his machine was in perfect condition the
word was given for the start. A series of staccato pops announced
that the whole fleet was getting under way and they were soon circling
the hangars and climbing off in the direction of the trenches. The
long journey had begun.
The night was moonlit and the stars were bright. Not a cloud was to
be seen. A fog obscured some of the low ground over which the
squadron had to pass, but they steered by compass, keeping perfect
formation. Finally the silver Rhine wound below them. Turning,
they followed the river until Coblenz was reached, then turned north
again. Germany's great manufacturing centers were passing below
the squadron now, one after another. The countless fires of monster
furnaces and factories, thousand upon thousand, glared into the night.
The tall chimneys and furnace stacks belched forth red, yellow, and
white flame as the munition works were pressed to their utmost to
produce the sinews of war for the guns along the line over which
the squadron had come.
By a certain point of identification all of the fliers knew Dusseldorf
when that large factory center was reached. So far they had not seen
an enemy plane. Essen was not far ahead now. Searchlights had been
semaphoring over more than one town they had passed, but not until
they had come over Dusseldorf did any of the Hun eyes from below
see them. At Dusseldorf they were spotted and a veritable hail of
anti-aircraft shell was hurled skyward. The signal to climb higher
was given and they were soon out of reach of the "Archies."
As they approached Essen the fires from thousands of furnaces lit up
the whole country round. Below them was the very heart of
shell-production and gun-making. The sight was an awe-inspiring and
magnificent one. The lights were so bright that the pilots and
observers could hardly distinguish the flashes of the guns which were
firing hundreds of shells at the menacing squadron.
Hovering but a few seconds above the scene of so much activity, guided
by the flaring furnaces and the blazing chimney stacks far beneath,
the signal was given to release the bombs, and down through the night
air, into the fire and smoke, dropped bomb after bomb.
As they fell and exploded their flashes could be seen distinctly in
spite of the blaze all about them. Great tongues of flame licked
up heavenward as if trying to reach the aircraft that had hurled the
destruction down upon the seething hives. A dull boom told of an
explosion, and the air rocked with the disturbance.
Hundreds of pounds of high explosive fell on Essen that night. Great
fires started here and there, visible to the Americans long after
they had started for home, which they did as soon as their loads
of bombs were loosed on the factories and munition plants beneath.
Enemy planes had begun to climb up to engage the daring raiders, but
the triplanes were well away before the German fliers reached anything
like their altitude. Not one of the six bombers had been hit. Back
they flew, satisfied that damage had been wrought to the enemy plants,
back by the Rhine and the Moselle, back safely to their aviation base.
At last, ahead, the pilots could see the flares lit to guide their
return. Each flier switched on his little light to see his
instruments, and gracefully dropped nearer the ground. A night
landing is always interesting. The familiar points near the airdrome
have a strangely different appearance at night. Everything is vague in
outline---indistinct. Down the six machines dropped to the rows of
lights, flickering in the night breeze. A last moment, then the
instant for raising the elevator, then the gentle, resilient bump as
the wheels touch the level floor of the airdrome, and the fleet is home.
It was a fine raid, well planned and splendidly executed. It did not
cost our side a man nor a machine, and it spread death and destruction
among the centers that turned out the means of destruction that had
made the world-war a thing of horror. To bomb Krupp's works! The
very thought had a ring of retribution to it! The very name Krupp
had so sinister a sound. Well might the Brighton boys be proud of
Joe for the part he had played in the inception of the idea and the
work of carrying it through. They were proud. So was Joe's mother
when she heard of it. Harry Corwin wrote home about it. He wrote
three times, as a matter of fact, before he could concoct an account
of the night flight that would pass the censor. Finally he
accomplished that feat, however, and thus Joe Little's mother heard
of what her boy had done. The brave woman cried a little, as
mothers do sometimes, but her eyes lit up at the thought of the
lad distinguishing himself among so many brave young men. Such a
son was worth the sacrifice, she thought, with a sigh. "He is his
father's son," she said to herself. And to her came his words,
spoken many months before, "And my mother's," and her heart swelled
with pride.