Horne laughed uneasily, fumbled through his pockets in a vain search
for matches, filched a box from the tilted tray of our nodding
companion,--leaving a sixpence in its place,--lit his pipe, puffed
pensively for a minute or two; and even after all that preparation
made his beginning apologetic.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever told the yarn from the beginning,” he
said, “and I’m dead sure I’ve never said much about the end. If I
chatter a bit to-night, you’ll please check it up against the good
news I had a while ago--and the air. A man could pretty nearly walk on
the air as it has been to-day, and a machine would slide through it
like tearing silk. Funny thing, but it was in the dawn following
almost just such a night as this that I went off on the flight I have
spoken of.
“There are three main factors in flying,”--Horne spoke more freely
again as he digressed upon generalities,--“the man, the machine, and
the atmosphere. Theoretically, man and machine are supposed to be sent
out in perfect order, ready to take the air as they find it. There
_are_ days, of course, when you are ‘off’, your machine ‘cranky,’ and
the air all ‘heights’ and ‘hollows,’ and at such times there is pretty
sure to be a ‘stormy passage,’ if nothing worse. Usually, however,
it’s a fairly fit man and machine against indifferent air. But once or
twice a year there comes a period, like the last eighteen hours, when
the air is almost absolutely ‘homogeneous,’ and then, with his engine
running ‘sweet,’ the man has spells of fancying himself an ‘air god’
in fact as well as in name, and acts accordingly,--invariably either
to his own or his enemy’s sorrow.
“It was like that on the morning I am telling you about--man, machine,
and air all in harmony--yes, and with the usual result. I would have
remembered this flight for several reasons, even if the Zepp hadn’t
come along; for one, because of our ride down the wake of a ‘42’
shell; for another, on account of the terrific shelling they gave, or
tried to give us, as we passed over the German lines.
“The meeting with the shell was merely one of those freak experiences
that might happen to any one, or, just as well, never happen at all.
It was during the time I am speaking of that the Germans were amusing
themselves by a long-distance bombardment of N---- with their biggest
guns, and we--(I had an observation officer along, a chap named K----,
whom you may have heard of as a long-distance runner)--simply chanced
to meander into the path of one shell somewhere about the last quarter
of its trajectory. Watching from a distance, you can always see one of
these brutes go hurtling along, but this one we only heard,--and
felt,--and it was like two express trains, going in opposite
directions, passing at full speed. There was a strange soft sort of a
buzz, growing into a rushing roar inside of two or three seconds, a
blow from a solid wall of air that was like colliding with the side of
a house, and then, for two or three minutes, a series of bumps like
going over a corduroy road in a springless cart.
“I don’t know whether we interfered very much with the course of that
shell, but the shell pretty nearly brought _our_ flight to an end then
and there. Only the fact that we met the first big rush of air head-on
saved us. I wouldn’t have had one chance in a thousand of ‘correcting’
if it had caught us sideways--and even as it was, the machine, in
spite of its seventy-miles-an-hour headway, was stood up on its rudder
like a rearing horse. After that first ‘collision,’ our fluttering
flight down the wake of the ‘42’ was only ‘queer,’ but withal a
different sensation from anything I had ever experienced.
“I have no idea how close we passed to each-other. My impression of
the moment was that the distance was inside of fifty yards, though it
was doubtless really much greater. We were not, of course, going in
exactly opposite directions, for the shell must have been coming down
at a considerably greater angle than that at which we were going up.
Yet the ‘aerial surf’ stirred up by the passage of the Hun’s little
messenger of goodwill in that smooth stretch of atmosphere was heavy
and persistent enough to keep my machine wallowing for over a mile.
“The air was going by us in a swift, steady river as we neared the
German lines, and I never recall having been able to climb so quickly
and easily. Lucky it was, too, for the enemy--probably in anticipation
of a pursuit of their returning raiders--had their whole trench
‘hinterland’ planted with anti-aircraft guns, both stationary and
movable. There was one little strip that blossomed out like a poppy
garden as they opened up on us, and for a minute or so the smoke from
the spreading shell-bursts formed a good-sized little cloud of its
own. But they never had any real chance of getting us. My good little
engine, singing like the wind in the telephone wires, had enabled me
to get up over fourteen thousand feet without turning a hair and at
that height you’re a lot safer from shells in an aeroplane than from
taxis in crossing the Strand. K---- was feeling the altitude a bit, I
think; I saw him wiping blood from his nose and pressing his hands to
his ears, but he gave no signs of real distress. As for myself, beyond
a little swelling of the fingers and a drumming at the temples, I was
quite as usual.
“We passed over the main ‘bouquets’ of the ‘Archies’ without even
feeling the kick of the shells bursting beneath us; but in dropping
down to ten thousand feet a few miles beyond, we encountered an
unexpected ‘plant’ of them and the shrapnel bullets were flying all
about us for a minute or two. A score of neat little holes winked out
in the wings, and one friendly bit of a bullet--spent, but still hot
from its sharp flight--dropped gently into my lap and slightly singed
the fold of my coat in which it found lodgment. Then we left that
mare’s nest behind and the going grew smoother once more.
“It was only a few minutes later, and before any beginning had been
made on the work we had come for, that K---- picked up a Zepp through
his glass and began reporting its progress to me over the telephone.
At first it was flying very high, doubtless to keep above gun-fire in
crossing our lines. Once over, however, it came down rapidly,
probably, as K---- suggested, with the purpose of luring the pursuing
aeroplanes into easy range of the German ‘Archies.’ If that was the
plan, it was eminently successful; for K---- presently reported one of
our ‘chasers’ falling in flames, another planing for our own lines,
and two or three others turning back. I could see the marauder myself
by this time, and noted that it appeared to be heading off about
twenty-five degrees to the west of me, and flying already at a level
considerably lower than the twelve thousand feet I had run up to in
getting away from the last spasm of gun-fire.
“It was this commanding height, together with the fact that my engine
was running as sweetly as when it started, that determined me to take
a hand in the game at this juncture. Still keeping well up, I promptly
headed across to cut off the returning prodigal. For a minute or two
the Zepp either didn’t recognise me as ‘enemy,’ or else ignored me
entirely. But presently a sharp speeding up of its engines was
apparent, and for a moment I thought that it was going to challenge me
for a climbing contest, generally a Zepp’s first resort. But a few
seconds later it had altered its course through nearly half a quadrant
and headed off at top speed, at the same time beginning to descend at
what I figured was about an angle of ten per cent., or five hundred
feet to the mile. The ruse--to draw me down over some concealed line
of ‘Archies’ in that direction--was plain as day; but I had three
thousand feet of altitude to the good, power to burn, and, moreover,
was bitten deep for the moment with that ‘air-god’ bug I have spoken
of. It seemed as natural that I should chase Zepps as that a
fox-terrier should chase chickens. Without further thought, I accepted
the challenge and launched off in pursuit of the speeding ‘sausage.’
“It really never occurred to me to discuss the thing with K----, but,
like the trump he was, he never showed by word or sign that tilting at
airships had not been included in our orders. He, also, twigged the
game at once.
“‘Guns probably in that thick clump of trees by the little pond,’ his
far-away voice said over the telephone. ‘Best catch him as far this
side there as you can. One of his engines missing badly, and he’s not
going very fast.’
“With a quarter of an hour instead of a couple of minutes to work in,
I would have preferred to keep along on a comparatively high level,
and only descend, to drop my bombs, at an angle that would have kept
me pretty well out of the range of the Zepp’s guns. But K----’s
warning was too sound to be disregarded and, in this case, the
quickest way was also the only way. As it was, it was really almost a
nose-dive, and I did the first half of it with the throttle wide open.
So fast did we come up with the Zepp that it seemed almost as if a
giant had taken the big gas-bag in his hand and thrown it at us.
“The patter of machine-gun bullets sounded only for a second or
two--it wasn’t unlike walking over a lawn-sprinkler--and, so far as I
could see, did no harm. Then, cold as ice for the work in hand, I shot
straight down along the yellow spine of the airship, letting go a
couple of bombs before my terrific speed carried me beyond my mark.
“Now a perfect torrent of shrapnel burst out around me--the
smoke-tufts made the still distant clump of trees look like a cotton
field--and almost at the same instant there was a strong rush of air
from below. The machine teetered giddily on one wing-tip for a moment,
and I just managed to right it in time to free a hand to grab the tail
of K----’s coat as he, apparently unconscious, started to lurch over
the side. I don’t seem to have any very clear recollection of being
able to get him back into his seat at all.
“I didn’t have a chance for another good look at the Zepp; I only know
that it descended rapidly, although apparently not entirely out of
control. My machine, badly shot up as it was, still seemed to have a
good deal of ‘kick’ left, though the reek of petrol in the air wasn’t
an encouraging indication that its ‘vitality’ would continue. The
impetus of my descent quickly carried me out of range of that spiteful
but isolated little battery of ‘Archies’--luckily, too, in just the
direction I wanted to go.
“Just before I flew over the Zepp--it was while the machine-gun
bullets were still pattering, I have since recalled--K---- ’phoned me
the compass bearing of the nearest point of the Dutch boundary, and
said something about it being our only chance if things went wrong.
(That they had already ‘gone wrong’ with him he gave no hint.)
Strangely, the figures had stuck in my head, and it was in that
direction I sheered as soon as the machine was on an even keel again.
It was not far, thank heaven, and, partly planing, partly under the
power of that brave little half-fed engine, I somehow managed to keep
up long enough to clear the top wire of the boundary fence and pile up
in a heap in the hospitable silt of good old Holland.”
A dozen questions tumbled after each other off the tip of my eager
tongue, and the old “match dame,” who had snored peacefully all
through Horne’s even narration, stirred and muttered petulantly at the
unwonted disturbance. But Horne, rising and working his stiff joints,
essayed to answer all in a single breath.
“I don’t know how much harm was done to the Zepp, or whether it was I
or the Hun’s own ‘Archies’ that did it. K---- died in a Dutch
hospital, without regaining full consciousness, two days later. (It
was a bullet from one of the Zepp’s machine-guns that did for him.) I
can’t tell you how I managed to get out of Holland; and”--as a low
whistle sounded from Charing Cross and a hooded eye peeped cautiously
out of the black shed--“the trains are running again; so we may take
it that the little visitor we were watching is now out over the North
Sea and on its way home to bed. I think it’s high time that we
followed its good example on the latter score. Good-night and sweet
dreams, mother.” And he took my arm and began piloting me back to the
Strand to waylay a taxi.
* * * * *
Horne has been back at work for a month now, and, so far as I have
heard, with no recurrence of ill luck. Last week I met another friend
from Argentina--a doctor, returned to “do his bit” with the Red Cross.
“Horne has made a brilliant success of his flying,” he said; “did he
tell you anything of his exploits?”
“Only a little about a brush with a Zeppelin,” I replied, “and scant
details of that.”
“That’s all he has ever told any one. Yet the Dutch patrol swear that
he came down in Holland with the tail of his half-dead observation
officer’s coat in his teeth (only thing that kept the chap from
falling out); and there is also every reason to believe that it was
his bombs that brought that Zepp down, and badly knocked up, too.
Either one of them would bring him anything from the Military Cross to
the V.C. if he would tell even the plain, unvarnished tale of it. But
the quixotic idiot made his report so confoundedly non-committal that
there was simply nothing for his commander to go by. Was hardly enough
to merit mention in dispatches the way it stood, much less to award a
decoration on. Queer thing, but they say they’ve had the same sort of
trouble with a number of the flying chaps. Seems to be a sort of cult
with them. Can’t say it’s a wholly bad one, either.”