THE BOMBING EXPEDITION
OFF Zeebrugge once more. In the pale grey dawn of a November morning
yet another strafing operation was about to take place. The Huns,
who had converted the peaceful little Belgian fishing port into a
hornets' nest, were to be allowed no rest.
Approaching the coast, the undulating dunes of which were just
visible against the pale light of the eastern sky, were eight
monitors, their powerful guns cocked up at a grotesque angle in
readiness to open fire at a six-mile range. At a considerable
distance astern were the seaplane-carriers "Hippodrome," "Arena" and
"Cursus," while in a far-flung line ahead, astern and abeam, were
the swarm of destroyers and patrol boats whose mission it was to
promptly "scotch" any U-boat that, more daring than the rest of the
cowardly crew, might attempt to let loose a torpedo at the converted
liners. Already the Hun had learnt the lesson that it was almost a
matter of impossibility to sink a monitor by torpedo, even though
the weapons were "set" to run only a few feet beneath the surface.
Coupled with the knowledge of the fact that it was "unhealthy" to be
anywhere in the vicinity of craft flying the White Ensign, when
there were others proudly displaying the Red Ensign and which were
practically incapable of defence, the U-boats took good care to give
the bombarding flotilla a wide berth.
Already the "Arena" and "Cursus" had dispatched their complement of
seaplanes for the purpose of registering the result of the monitors'
fire, but up to the present the airmen on board the "Hippodrome" had
received no orders to board their respective "buses" and hie them to
the scene of action.
"They've opened the ball," exclaimed Kirkwood, as the monitor on the
left of the line let fly with her 14-inch gun.
"An obvious performance," remarked Fuller. "Unless one were both
blind and deaf. More to the point: why are we being held in reserve,
I wonder?"
"Dunno," added another flying-officer. "In the case of you three
fellows there might be a plausible explanation. You've been so jolly
keen on getting away from the ship that the skipper won't give you
another chance. By Jove! That was a good one!"
Somewhere in the vicinity of Zeebrugge a dense cloud of black smoke
had been hurled hundreds of feet into the air. One of the British
shells had found a particularly satisfying target, for either a
petrol depot or an ammunition "dump" had been sent sky-high, with,
possibly, a few hundred Huns to boot.
Yet no sound of the explosion could be heard, for the monitors' guns
outvoiced that. The coast-defence craft were letting fly as quickly
as the hydraulic loaders performed their task, and the gigantic yet
docile weapons could be trained upon the practically invisible
objective.
It was by no means a one-sided action. From cunningly concealed
shore batteries, that seemed to multiply with hydra-headed
persistence, German shells hurtled through the air, for the most
part ricochetting harmlessly. A few, however, "got home." One
monitor, listing badly to starboard, was already crawling slowly out
of range. Another had been set on fire, but, the conflagration being
quickly subdued, she "carried on" with calm and awful deliberation.
It had been one of the tenets of war that armoured ships were more
than a match for shore batteries. The mobility of the former and the
knowledge of the fixed position of the latter accounted for the
theory--a theory that had been justified by the bombardment of
Alexandria. But in the greatest war that the world has yet seen this
idea received a rude shock. The skill with which huge guns can be
loaded, ranged and trained upon a moving target rather more than
equalised matters. Thus the old forts on the Dardanelles were
quickly reduced to a heap of ruins by the guns of the "Queen
Elizabeth," but this did not prevent the Turks bringing heavier
ordnance to bear upon the Allied squadrons as they attempted in vain
to force the historic Straits.
But there has been yet another swing of the pendulum. In an
engagement betwixt ships and forts there was a deciding factor--the
command of the air. Provided airmen from the attacking squadron
could assist by observing the hits of the naval guns and by dropping
quantities of powerful explosives on the hostile batteries the
advantage would rest with those who held command of the sea. Nor was
mere observing and bomb-dropping on defended positions sufficient.
It was necessary to harass the enemy's lines of communication and
prevent reserves of men and ammunition being rushed up to the coast.
"Ten to one we're down for a 'stunt,'" hazarded Barcroft. "That's
why we are cooling our heels here. Ah! I thought so," he added, as
the airmen were summoned to receive instructions preparatory to a
flight.
A quarter of an hour later Billy Barcroft felt like dancing a
hornpipe on the quarter-deck. He had been given a task after his own
heart--to bomb the German hangars at Lierre, a town about six or
seven miles south-east of the fortress of Antwerp and a distance of
eighty miles, as the crow flies, from the position taken up by the
seaplane carriers. To Fuller was deputed the business of wrecking
the important railway station of Aerschot, while the other pilots
were likewise given definite instructions to drop their cargoes of
explosives on specified places of military importance. The airmen
were enjoined to avoid as far as possible encounters with hostile
machines on the outward journey, the importance of reaching their
respective objectives being paramount to the excitement of aerial
duels with Hun flying men.
"We'll be within sight of one another most of the time, Barcroft,
old man," said Fuller, as he signed to his observer to take his
place in the machine. "Now, Gregory, all ready?"
Fuller's companion, a sparely-built sub-lieutenant, whose long,
hooked nose and obliquely placed eyes gave him the appearance of a
bird, nodded assent.
"Well, good luck!" shouted Barcroft.
The words were drowned by the roar of the engine, but the lieutenant
instinctively realised their meaning. With a cheery wave of his
gauntletted hand he started on his long flight.
Thirty-seconds later Barcroft got away, with Kirkwood as his
observer. There had been a slight rivalry between Billy and Fuller
as to who should take the A.P., for the lieutenant had regarded the
latter as his own right-hand man since the night of the encounter
with the Zeppelins, while Barcroft claimed priority. The matter had
been decided by the spin of a coin, with the result that the A.P.
was now on his way to Lierre with Barcroft.
High above the bombarding monitors flew the powerfully engined
seaplane, now nearly half a mile in the wake of Fuller's "bus." At
regular intervals astern came the rest of the aerial raiders, all
rocking slightly in the disturbed air caused by the concussion of
the heavy guns.
Ten minutes were sufficient to bring Barcroft's machine over the
Belgian coast. Acting upon previous instructions he maintained an
altitude of eleven thousand feet, at which height it was practically
invisible from the shore, across which clouds of smoke and dust were
slowly drifting as the British shells burst with devastating effect
upon the Huns' positions.
No Archibalds greeted the raiders; neither Fokkers nor Aviatiks
appeared to bar their way. For the present the flight was nothing
more than an exhilarating joy-ride.
Once Kirkwood turned his head to watch the following seaplanes. Only
one was in sight. The rest had already turned off for their
respective objectives, and even that one was beginning to plane down
towards a broad canal on which were dozens of loaded barges, their
cargoes consisting of heavy gun ammunition destined for the
batteries of Zeebrugge and Ostend.
For the present the A.P.'s task was practically a sinecure. There
was no necessity to use the wireless instrument: two hundred feet of
trail ing aerial wire is apt to be in the way during bomb-dropping
operations; besides, the raiding seaplane, not having to register
for the guns of the fleet, could refrain from reporting progress
until her return to her parent ship. So having made sure as far as
possible that the bomb dropping gear was in working order this time,
and having fitted a tray of ammunition to the Lewis gun in order to
be ready for use in case of emergencies, Kirkwood leant over the
side of the fuselage and contemplated the country beneath; the
features of which as seen from the air he knew better by this time
than any of his native land.
From Ghent Barcroft followed the course of the River Scheldt until
the town of Antwerp appeared in sight. At this point Fuller was
observed to be turning away to the right. Both seaplanes were
approaching their respective objectives.
"Bestir yourself, you lazy bounder!" shouted Billy through the voice
tube. "There's something ahead. Looks like a balloon. Get your
glasses and see what it is."
"It is a balloon," declared Kirkwood after a brief inspection. "A
captive one."
"And right over the Lierre hangars," thought the pilot. "What for?
There's nothing to observe from a belligerent point of view, unless
the bounders are expecting us. It may be that the balloon is in use
for instructional purposes. If so, I'll give the young pups cold
feet, by Jove!"
"They've spotted us," announced the A.P. "They've begun to haul the
thing down."
"Then they are too late," added Barcroft grimly. "Gun all right?
Stand by to give 'em a tray."
Tilting the ailerons the pilot swooped down towards the unwieldy,
tethered gas-bag. As he did so mushrooms of white smoke burst into
view all around the descending seaplane. The German anti-aircraft
guns were firing upon the British raiders.
Barcroft held steadily on his course. He was quite used to shrapnel
by this time. He knew, too, that soon the Hun gunners would have to
cease fire for fear of hitting their own captive balloon.
Already the German officers in the car of the balloon realised that
it was impossible for the gas-bag to be hauled down in time. Three
of them leapt into space. The fourth remained, grasping the edge of
the basket-work and staring terror-stricken at the approaching
seaplane.
In spite of the tax upon his mental energies Barcroft watched the
descent of the three. For nearly two hundred feet they dropped like
stone, then they were hidden from his view by three umbrella-like
objects. Before taking their desperate leap the Germans had provided
themselves with parachutes.
Apparently there was not one left for the remaining Hun. Suspended
betwixt earth and sky he realised the horror of his position, until,
seized by a forlorn resolve, he clambered over the side of the car
and began to swarm down the wire rope that held it in captivity.
It was hopeless from the first. In spite of the protection afforded
by the leather gloves. The metal wire cut into his palms like hot
iron. Before the luckless German had lowered himself fifty feet his
grip relaxed. Like an arrow he crashed to the ground, a thousand
feet below.
"Don't fire!" ordered the flight-sub, realising that if merely
perforated by small-calibre bullets the gas-bag would fall
harmlessly to earth. "Stand by to drop a plum--now."
The A.P. jerked the releasing lever. As he did so Barcroft set the
seaplane to climb steeply. Ten seconds later the bomb hit the
balloon fairly in the centre of its convex upper surface. The next
instant there was a vivid flash, followed by a crash that was
audible above the roar of the seaplane's engine. Sideslipping the
machine dropped almost vertically. Not until she had passed through
the outlying portion of the dense cloud of smoke from the destroyed
balloon did the pilot regain control.
A hurried glance showed that the flaming wreckage of his victim was
plunging earthwards, leaving a fiery trail in its wake. It was
falling upon the triple line of sheds in which German aeroplanes
were stored.
Like a swarm of ants the air mechanics scattered right and left to
avoid--in many cases ineffectually--the gigantic falling firebrand.
If Barcroft had any qualms concerning the fearful havoc he was about
to create upon the throng of human beings he showed none. He
remembered those bombs dropped upon the defenceless civil population
of Barborough.
"Let 'em have it hot!" he shouted.
At that comparatively low altitude there was little chance of
missing the expansive target. The ground was literally starred with
diverging jets of flame. The burning sheds collapsed like packs of
cards, the debris bursting into a series of fires. In half a minute
the hangars ceased to exist save as a funeral pyre to the mechanical
birds that would never again soar through the air.
A severed tension wire, one end of which cut Billy smartly on the
head despite the protection afforded by his airman's padded helmet,
reminded the flight-sub that again the Archibalds were having a chip
in. The planes, too, were ripped in several places, while jagged
holes through the sides of the fuselage marked the accuracy of the
shrapnel. It was, indeed, a marvel that either pilot or observer
escaped injury.
Barcroft heaved a sigh of relief as the seaplane drew away from the
shell-infested zone. In the heat of the bombing business his blood
was tingling through his veins; he was excited almost to the point
of recklessness; the risk of being "winged" by a bursting projectile
hardly troubled him. But once clear of the scene of action he
realised what a tight corner he had been in, and, although all
immediate danger was at an end, he let the motors "all out" in
desperate haste to gain a safe altitude.
He found himself comparing the recent situation to a cat and dog
encounter. So long as the feline faced the dog the latter generally
contents itself by barking and making "demonstration in force"; but
directly the cat turns tail it tears away at full speed, its sole
anxiety being to get away from its assailant for which, up to a
certain point, it had shown contemptuous bravery.
The flight-sub's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Kirkwood
shouting through the voice-tube.
"There's Fuller a couple of miles on our left," announced the A.P.
"What's more, he's tackling three Hun machines."