'MIDST THE SCENE OF RED RUIN
FIVE minutes before the fall of the first bomb,
Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft alighted from a tram-car in the
market square of Barborough.
The stopping of the railway service had upset his calculations, for
instead of the train running into Barborough Station it had come to
a stand still at Wolderton, a little town five miles from his
destination.
"Can't go no further yet awhile, sir," replied a porter in answer to
the flight-sub's enquiry. "They say as 'ow Zeps is about, though I
fancy they won't come to Lancashire, sir. Don't hold wi' these silly
scares mysen."
"Where are we?" asked Barcroft, striving vainly to read the name of
the unlighted station. "Wolderton, sir; if you're for Barborough you
can get a car just outside. They are runnin', Zep, or no Zep."
The young officer alighted, made his way out of the station and
boarded the first northbound car, which in due course deposited him
at Barborough--a stranger in a strange land.
"For Tarleigh, sir?" rejoined a policeman to his question. "Matter
o' four or six miles. No, sir, you'll not be findin' a taxi
to-night, I fancy. Just you go along yon road, take first on your
right then straight on till you come to Chumley Old Road. There
you'll find a car that'll take you as far as Black Pit Brow, and
it'll be forty minutes sharp walking to Tarleigh."
Somewhat bewildered Barcroft set out to follow the constable's
directions. He found himself slipping on the rough and greasy setts,
jostling people in the darkened streets, and barking his shins
against obtrusive door steps. The road was a mean and narrow one--a
short cut to a main thoroughfare. A dank unwholesome smell permeated
the misty air. It struck the young officer as being worse than the
atmosphere of the lower deck of a battleship battened down during a
three-days' gale.
Suddenly the darkness was rent by a terrific flash. The light was so
dazzling that Barcroft was under the impression that it came from
the centre of the street. Stunned by the deafening crash he felt
himself lurching against a wall, amidst a shower of broken glass.
Another explosion followed and then two more. The flight-sub felt
the wall of the house rock with the concussions. He was quite
prepared to see the building collapse under the impact of the
displaced air. Fragments of slates and tiles, mingled with shattered
woodwork, hurtled overhead. Glass tinkled upon the setts. The rumble
of falling masonry was added to the uproar, while flames shot up
from a mound of debris that a brief instant earlier had been the
homes of three English families, and threw a fitful glare upon the
scene of destruction.
"Factory explosion, I suppose," thought Barcroft. "Can't be a Zep.,
or I should have heard her engines."
He put his hand to his cheek. It was warm and moist. Blood was
welling from a deep gash. He hardly noticed it. His attention was
attracted by the shouts and screams of the terrified inhabitants of
the neighbourhood--those whose houses having escaped annihilation
but were within the danger zone, had fled pell-mell into the
streets.
Other crashes followed, but at a greater distance.
"Then it is a Zep., by Jove!" declared the young officer. For the
first time he realised his helplessness. He was virtually one of the
thousands of civilians unable to raise a hand in self-defence
against the cowardly night-raider. A Tommy in a trench with only a
rifle--an almost useless weapon against an aircraft of any
description--has the satisfaction that he is armed. He is willing to
take his chance. But here the townsfolk were utterly at a loss to
defend themselves, and it was sorry consolation to be told by the
authorities that the inhabitants of raided districts are only
sharing the dangers to which the troops in the trenches are exposed.
"If only I were up aloft with young Kirkwood," thought Barcroft.
"We'd make the beggars skip out of that gas-bag. Perhaps some day--"
A woman, with her shawl wrapped tightly round her head, came
hurrying in the opposite direction to which the stream of terrified
people forced its way.
"Eh!" she exclaimed. "An' I left t'owld mon's supper on t' stove.
I'll be fair angry if 'tis spoilt."
It was genuine anxiety. Even in the midst of the scene of
destruction her thoughts dwelt upon the little cares of everyday
domesticity.
With the sailor's typical eagerness to render aid Barcroft hurried
down the street. Already the ebb-tide of fugitives was thinning and
giving place to the flood-tide of willing helpers. Here and there
men staggered and groaned, bleeding from serious wounds caused by
the flying fragments of the deadly missiles. Here and there came
others supporting or carrying victims unable to help themselves--
stalwart men, frail women and puny children reduced in the fraction
of a second to mangled wrecks.
Pungent, asphyxiating fumes drifted slowly down the narrow
thoroughfare, while the glare of the burning buildings threw an
eerie light upon the surroundings.
In the street not one panel of glass remained intact. Cast-iron
stack-pipes were riddled with holes cut as cleanly as with a drill.
Brick walls were perforated like paper; stone-steps--the "scouring"
of which is a solemn rite with Lancashire folk--were chipped and
splintered like glass. Doors were burst open as if with a
sledge-hammer. And this was fifty yards or more from the scene of
the actual explosion.
Where the first bomb had fallen nothing remained of the house except
a mound of smoking rubbish. The two adjoining buildings were cut
away from top to bottom almost as evenly as if severed by a saw. In
one the roof was exposed on the underside. The slates were still in
position but riddled like a sieve. So violent was the force with
which the flying fragments were projected upwards that the fragile
slates were perforated before they had time to crack or be dislodged
from the rafters.
In the house on the other adjoining side the parting wall had
vanished, leaving the remaining walls and flooring practically
intact. A fire was still burning in the kitchen grate, and on it an
iron pot was simmering. In front of the fire were three pairs of
"clogs" of varying sizes--the footgear of a family that was no
longer in existence.
It was the same story. The raid from a military point of view was of
no consequence. The munitions factory, in spite of von Loringhoven's
assurances, had been missed--missed handsomely.
The flight-sub did not linger at this particular spot. Human aid was
unavailing as far as those ruined houses were concerned, but on the
other side of the street groans and cries of pain told him that here
at least there was work to be done.
Through an open doorway Barcroft dashed. The woodwork of the door
was in splinters. Part of the floor had vanished. The place was full
of smoke, while gas from a severed pipe was burning furiously.
Grasping a large fragment of paving-stone the flight-sub battered
the pipe.
"Iron, worse luck," he exclaimed. "Wonder where the meter is?"
He discovered it just above the door. In the absence of a key to
turn off the inflammable gas he knocked the lead pipe flat. The
flame began to die down until it gave a fairly safe illumination.
Up the rickety stairs the young officer made his way. With smarting
eyes and irritating throat he groped through the stifling smoke,
guided by the cries of the injured victims. The room was feebly
lighted by a nightlight set in a basin of water. The light flickered
in the breeze that swept in through the glazeless window, while its
intensity was even more diminished by the eddying smoke. Yet it was
sufficient to enable Barcroft to take in his surroundings.
The ceiling had fallen. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor,
and every object presented a flat, face-upward surface. On the walls
were crude prints hanging at grotesque angles and ripped by flying
fragments. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere in evidence.
In one corner of the room was a bed. One leg had been torn off,
causing it to touch the floor. On the bed was a grey-haired woman,
groaning feebly and with her forehead dabbled in blood.
She opened her eyes as Barcroft approached, then raising one hand
pointed to the side of the bed. There was a cradle that had hitherto
escaped his notice, and in it was a baby of but a few months old.
Although the old woman could not speak she made it known that the
rescuer should first save her grandchild.
Even in that scene of desolation Barcroft could not bring himself to
lift the baby from its cot. Dimly he fancied that he might harm it.
He hadn't the faintest notion how to hold an infant of tender years.
Lifting the cot bodily he bore it with its contents down the stairs
and out into the night. By this time other rescuers were hard at
work. Two of them seeing the flight-sub issuing from the house came
up to him.
"D'ye want a hand, sir?" they asked.
The uniform imparted an air of authority, and instinctively the men
realised the fact. True the naval rig was foreign to them. For all
they knew Barcroft might be a sanitary inspector or a
school-attendance officer, but his peaked cap and naval blue coat
denoted an official of some sort, and, in cases of this description,
the distinction carries weight.
"Yes, there's a woman injured in that house," replied the
flight-sub, setting down his burden. One of the men bent over the
cradle and drew back the covering. Then he hastily replaced it.
"Might have saved yourself the trouble, sir," he gulped. "Those
baby-killing swine! If that cursed Zep, should happen to fall
anywhere round about and any of the devils are left alive, I bet my
last shilling the women-folk o' Barborough 'ud tear 'em limb from
limb. An' serve 'em right. Lead on, sir."
Not until the last of the living victims of the outrage had been
removed from this section of the bombed district did Barcroft and
his willing helpers desist from their arduous labours. Nothing more
could be done until daybreak. Police guarded the approaches to the
devastated street, while firemen stood by, ready at the first sign
to tackle a fresh outburst from the still smouldering ruins.
"Suppose I ought to try for an hotel," soliloquised the flight-sub.
"I don't know. I'm in a horrible mess. Feel like a dustman or a
scavenger. Perhaps I'd better carry on. The governor might be a bit
anxious if I don't."
Receiving fresh directions Barcroft stepped out briskly. Taxis and
even tramcars were now out of the question.
"Most confusing place I've struck for many a day," he muttered. "I
feel completely out of my bearings. I'm supposed to be going north;
it's my belief I'm making in a southerly direction."
Vainly he looked aloft to "verify his position by stellar
observation." Not a star was visible. He was now clear of the town.
The road ran steeply up a bleak hillside and was bounded by rough
stone walls. Doubtless there were plenty of houses scattered about
in the surrounding valleys, but these were not in evidence. Every
light still burning had been carefully screened. It was a case of
shutting the stable door after the horse had been stolen.
Presently he reached the junction of two fork roads, either of which
might lead to Tarleigh. A tantalising sign-post afforded no
information, for upon swarming up the post the flight-sub was unable
to read the weather-beaten directions.
"What on earth possessed the pater to hang out in this benighted
spot I cannot imagine!" exclaimed Barcroft disgustedly. "Suppose I
must wait here in the hope that some one will be passing this way.
It seems the safest chance."