of our chaps, had a near go coming home yesterday--attacked by five
Boche machines, well over their own territory, of course. They swooped
down on him out of a cloud. C. got one right away, but the others got
him--nearly. They shot his gear all to pieces and put his bally gun
out of commission--bullet clean through the tray. Rotten bad luck! So,
being at their mercy, C. pretended they'd got him--did a turn-over and
nose-dived through the clouds very nearly on two more Boche machines
that were waiting for him. So, thinking it was all up with him, C.
dived straight for the nearest, meaning to take a Boche down with him,
but Hans didn't think that was playing the game, and promptly hooked
it. The other fellow had been blazing away and was getting a new drum
fixed, when he saw C. was on his tail making tremendous business with
his useless gun, so Fritz immediately dived away out of range, and
C. got home with about fifty bullet holes in his wings and his gun
crocked, and--oh, here he is!"
Flight-Lieutenant C. appeared, rather younger than his Captain, a long,
slender youth, with serious brow and thoughtful eyes, whom I forthwith
questioned as diplomatically as might be.
"Oh, yes!" he answered, in response to my various queries, "it was
exciting for a minute or so, but I expect the Captain has been pulling
your leg no end. Yes, they smashed my gun. Yes, they hit pretty well
everything except me and my mascot--they didn't get that, by good luck.
No, I don't think a fellow would mind 'getting it' in the ordinary
way--a bullet, say. But it's the damned petrol catching alight and
burning one's legs." Here the speaker bent to survey his long legs
with serious eyes. "Burning isn't a very nice finish somehow. They
generally manage to chuck themselves out--when they can. Hello--here
comes one of our new machines--engine sounds nice and smooth!" said he,
cocking an ear. Sure enough, came a faint purr that grew to a hum, to
an ever-loudening drone, and out from the clouds an aeroplane appeared,
which, wheeling in graceful spirals, sank lower and lower, touched
earth, rose, touched again, and so, engine roaring, slid smoothly
toward us over the grass. Then appeared men in blue overalls, who
seized the gleaming monster in unawed, accustomed hands, steadied it,
swung it round, and halted it within speaking distance.
Hereupon its leather-clad pilot climbed stiffly out, vituperated the
weather and lit a cigarette.
"How is she?" enquired the Captain.
"A lamb! A witch! Absolutely top hole when you get used to her."
The top-hole lamb and witch was a smallish biplane with no great
wing-spread, but powerfully engined, whose points N. explained to me
as--her speed, her climbing angle, her wonderful stability, etc.,
while the Captain and Lieutenant hastened off to find the Major, who,
appearing in due course, proved to be slender, merry-eyed and more
youthful-looking than the Lieutenant. Indeed, so young-seeming was he
that upon better acquaintance I ventured to enquire his age, and he
somewhat unwillingly owned to twenty-three.
"But," said he, "I'm afraid we can't show you very much, the weather's
so perfectly rotten for flying."
"Oh, I don't know," said the Captain, glancing towards the witch-lamb,
"I rather thought I'd like to try this new machine--if you don't mind,
sir."
"Same here," murmured the Lieutenant.
"But you've never flown a Nieuport before, have you, eh?" enquired the
Major.
"No, sir, but--"
"Nor you either, C.?"
"No, sir, still--"
"Then I'll try her myself," said the Major, regarding the witch-lamb
joyous-eyed.
"But," demurred the Captain, "I was rather under the impression you'd
never flown one either."
"I haven't--yet," laughed the Major, and hasted away for his coat and
helmet.
"Can you beat that?" exclaimed the Lieutenant.
The Captain sighed and went to aid the Major into his leathern armour.
Lightly and joyously the youthful Major climbed into the machine and
sat awhile to examine and remark upon its unfamiliar features, while a
sturdy mechanic stood at the propeller ready to start the engine.
"By the way," said he, turning to address me. "You're staying to
luncheon, of course?"
"I'm afraid we can't," answered our Intelligence Officer.
"Oh, but you must--I've ordered soup! Right-oh!" he called to his
mechanician; the engine hummed, thundered, and roaring, cast back upon
us a very gale of wind; the witch-lamb moved, slid forward over the
grass, and gathering speed, lifted six inches, a yard, ten yards--and
was in flight.
"Can you beat that?" exclaimed the Captain enthusiastically, "lifted
her clean away!"
"I rather fancy he's about as good as they're made!" observed the
Captain. Meanwhile, the witch-lamb soared up and up straight as an
arrow; up she climbed, growing rapidly less until she was a gnat
against a background of fleecy cloud and the roar of the engine had
diminished to a whine; up and up until she was a speck--until the
clouds had swallowed her altogether.
"Pity it isn't clear!" said the Captain. "I rather fancy you'd have
seen some real flying. By the way, they're going to practise at the
targets--might interest you. Care to see?"
The targets were about a yard square and, as I watched, an aeroplane
rose wheeling high above them. All at once the hum of the engine was
lost in the sharp, fierce rattle of a machine gun; and ever as the
biplane banked and wheeled the machine gun crackled. From every angle
and from every point of the compass these bullets were aimed, and
examining the targets afterwards I was amazed to see how many hits had
been registered.
After this they brought me to the workshops where many mechanics were
busied; they showed me, among other grim relics, C.'s broken machine
gun and perforated cartridge-tray. They told me many stories of daring
deeds performed by other members of the squadron, but when I asked
them to describe their own experiences, I found them diffident and
monosyllabic.
"Hallo!" exclaimed C., as we stepped out into the air, "here comes the
Major. He's in that cloud--know the sound of his engine." Sure enough,
out from a low-lying cloud-bank he came, wheeling in short spirals,
plunging earthward.
Down sank the aeroplane, the roaring engine fell silent, roared again,
and she sped towards us, her wheels within a foot or so of earth.
Finally they touched, the engine stopped, and the witch-lamb pulled up
within a few feet of us. Hereupon the Major waved a gauntleted hand to
us.
"Must stop to lunch," he cried, "I've ordered soup, you know."
But this being impossible, we perforce said good-bye to these
warm-hearted, simple-souled fighting men, a truly regrettable farewell
so far as I was concerned. They escorted us to the car, and there
parted from us with many frank expressions of regard and stood side by
side to watch us out of sight.
"Yesterday there was much aerial activity on our front.
"Depôts were successfully bombed and five enemy machines were forced to
descend, three of them in flames. Four of ours did not return."
I shall never read these oft recurring lines in the communiqués without
thinking of those three youthful figures, so full of life and the joy
of life, who watched us depart that dull and cloudy morning.
Here is just one other story dealing with three seasoned air-fighters,
veterans of many deadly combats high above the clouds, each of whom has
more than one victory to his credit, and whose combined ages total up
to sixty or thereabouts. We will call them X., Y. and Z. Now X. is an
American, Y. is an Englishman, whose peach-like countenance yet bears
the newly healed scar of a bullet wound, and Z. is an Afrikander. Here
begins the story:--
Upon a certain day of wind, rain and cloud, news came that the Boches
were massing behind their lines for an attack, whereupon X., Y. and
Z. were ordered to go up and verify this. Gaily enough they started
despite unfavourable weather conditions. The clouds were low, very
low, but they must fly lower, so, at an altitude varying from fifteen
hundred to a bare thousand feet, they crossed the German lines, Y. and
Z. flying wing and wing behind X.'s tail. All at once "Archie" spoke,
a whole battery of anti-aircraft guns filled the air with smoke and
whistling bullets--away went X.'s propeller and his machine was hurled
upside down; immediately Y. and Z. rose. By marvellous pilotage X.
managed to right his crippled machine and began, of course, to fall;
promptly Y. and Z. descended. It is, I believe, an unwritten law in
the Air Service, never to desert a comrade until he is seen to be
completely "done for"--hence Y. and Z.'s hawk-like swoop from the
clouds to draw the fire of the battery from their stricken companion.
Down they plunged through the battery smoke, firing their machine guns
point blank as they came; and so, wheeling in long spirals, their guns
crackling viciously, they mounted again and soared cloudward together,
but, there among the clouds and in comparative safety Z. developed
engine trouble. Their ruse had served, however, and X. had contrived
to bring his shattered biplane to earth safely behind the British
lines. Meanwhile Y. and Z. continued on toward their objective, but
Z.'s engine trouble becoming chronic, he fell behind more and more,
and finally, leaving Y. to carry on alone, was forced to turn back.
And now it was, that, in the mists ahead, he beheld another machine
which, coming swiftly down upon him, proved to be a German, who,
mounting above him, promptly opened fire. Z., struggling with his
baulking engine, had his hands pretty full; moreover his opponent,
owing to greater speed, could attack him from precisely what angle he
chose. So they wheeled and flew, Z. endeavouring to bring his gun to
bear, the German keeping skilfully out of range, now above him, now
below, but ever and always behind. Thus the Boche flying on Z.'s tail
had him at his mercy; a bullet ripped his sleeve, another smashed his
speedometer, yet another broke his gauge--slowly and by degrees nearly
all Z.'s gear is either smashed or carried away by bullets. All this
time it is to be supposed that Z., thus defenceless, is wheeling and
turning as well as his crippled condition will allow, endeavouring to
get a shot at his elusive foe; but (as he told me) he felt it was his
finish, so he determined if possible to ram his opponent and crash down
with him through the clouds. Therefore, waiting until the Boche was
aiming at him from directly below, he threw his machine into a sudden
dive. Thus for one moment Z. had him in range, for a moment only,
but the range was close and deadly, and Z. fired off half his tray
as he swooped headlong down upon his astonished foe. All at once the
German waved an arm and sagged over sideways, his great battle-plane
wavering uncertainly, and, as it began to fall, Z. avoided the intended
collision by inches. Down went the German machine, down and down, and,
watching, Z. saw it plunge through the clouds wrapped in flame.
Then Z. turned and made for home as fast as his baulking engine would
allow.
These are but two stories among dozens I have heard, yet these, I
think, will suffice to show something of the spirit animating these
young paladins. The Spirit of Youth is surely a godlike spirit,
unconquerable, care-free, undying. It is a spirit to whom fear and
defeat are things to smile and wonder at, to whom risks and dangers are
joyous episodes, and Death himself, whose face their youthful eyes
have so often looked into, a friend familiar by close acquaintanceship.
Upon a time I mentioned some such thought to an American aviator, who
nodded youthful head and answered in this manner:
"The best fellows generally go first, and such a lot are gone now that
there'll be a whole bunch of them waiting to say 'Hello, old sport!'
so--what's it matter, anyway?"
XIII.
YPRES.
Much has been written concerning Ypres, but more, much more, remains
to be written. Some day, in years to come, when the roar of guns has
been long forgotten, and Time, that great and beneficent consoler, has
dried the eyes that are now wet with the bitter tears of bereavement
and comforted the agony of stricken hearts, at such a time someone will
set down the story of Ypres in imperishable words; for round about
this ancient town lie many of the best and bravest of Britain's heroic
army. Thick, thick, they lie together, Englishman, Scot and Irishman,
Australian, New Zealander, Canadian and Indian, linked close in the
comradeship of death as they were in life; but the glory of their
invincible courage, their noble self-sacrifice and endurance against
overwhelming odds shall never fade. Surely, surely while English is
spoken the story of "Wipers" will live on for ever and, through the
coming years, will be an inspiration to those for whom these thousands
went, cheering and undismayed, to meet and conquer Death.
Ypres, as all the world knows, forms a sharp salient in the British
line, and is, therefore, open to attack on three sides; and on these
three sides it has been furiously attacked over and over again, so very
often that the mere repetition would grow wearisome. And these attacks
were day-long, week, and sometimes month-long battles, but Britain's
army stood firm.
In these bad, dark days, outnumbered and out-gunned, they never
wavered. Raked by flanking fire they met and broke the charges of
dense-packed foemen on their front; rank upon rank and elbow to elbow
the Germans charged, their bayonets a sea of flashing steel, their
thunderous shouts drowning the roar of guns, and rank on rank they
reeled back from British steel and swinging rifle-butt, and German
shouts died and were lost in British cheers.
So, day after day, week after week, month after month they endured
still; swept by rifle and machine gun fire, blown up by mines, buried
alive by mortar-bombs, their very trenches smitten flat by high
explosives--yet they endured and held on. They died all day and every
day, but their places were filled by men just as fiercely determined.
And ever as the countless German batteries fell silent, their troops in
dense grey waves hurled themselves upon shattered British trench and
dug-out, and found there wild men in tunics torn and bloody and mud
bespattered, who, shouting in fierce joy, leapt to meet them bayonet
to bayonet. With clubbed rifle and darting steel they fought, these
men of the Empire, heedless of wounds and death, smiting and cheering,
thrusting and shouting, until those long, close-ranked columns broke,
wavered and melted away. Then, panting, they cast themselves back into
wrecked trench and blood-spattered shell-hole while the enemy's guns
roared and thundered anew, and waited patiently but yearningly for
another chance to "really fight." So they held this deadly salient.
Days came and went, whole regiments were wiped out, but they held on.
The noble town behind them crumbled into ruin beneath the shrieking
avalanche of shells, but they held on. German and British dead lay
thick from British parapet to Boche wire, and over this awful litter
fresh attacks were launched daily, but still they held on, and would
have held and will hold, until the crack of doom if need be--because
Britain and the Empire expect it of them.
But to-day the dark and evil time is passed. To-day for every German
shell that crashes into the salient, four British shells burst along
the enemy's position, and it was with their thunder in my ears that I
traversed that historic, battle-torn road which leads into Ypres, that
road over which so many young and stalwart feet have tramped that never
more may come marching back. And looking along this road, lined with
scarred and broken trees, my friend N. took off his hat and I did the
like.
"It's generally pretty lively here," said our Intelligence Officer,
as I leaned forward to pass him the matches. "We're going to speed up
a bit--road's a bit bumpy, so hold on." Guns were roaring near and
far, and in the air above was the long, sighing drone of shells as we
raced forward, bumping and swaying over the uneven surface faster and
faster, until, skidding round a rather awkward corner, we saw before
us a low-lying, jagged outline of broken walls, shattered towers and a
tangle of broken roof-beams--all that remains of the famous old town of
Ypres. And over this devastation shells moaned distressfully, and all
around unseen guns barked and roared. So, amidst this pandemonium our
car lurched into shattered "Wipers," past the dismantled water-tower,
uprooted from its foundations and leaning at a more acute angle than
will ever the celebrated tower of Pisa, past ugly heaps of brick and
rubble--the ruins of once fair buildings, on and on until we pulled up
suddenly before a huge something, shattered and formless, a long facade
of broken arches and columns, great roof gone, mighty walls splintered,
cracked and rent--all that "Kultur" has left of the ancient and once
beautiful Cloth Hall.
"Roof's gone since I was here last," said the Intelligence Officer,
"come this way. You'll see it better from over here." So we followed
him and stood to look upon the indescribable ruin.
"There are no words to describe--that," said N. at last, gloomily.
"No," I answered. "Arras was bad enough, but this--!"
"Arras?" he repeated. "Arras is only a ruined town. Ypres is a rubbish
dump. And its Cloth Hall is--a bad dream." And he turned away. Our
Intelligence Officer led us over mounds of fallen masonry and débris of
all sorts, and presently halted us amid a ruin of splintered columns,
groined arch and massive walls, and pointed to a heap of rubbish he
said was the altar.
"This is the church St. Jean," he explained, "begun, I think, in the
eleventh or twelfth century and completed somewhere about 1320--"
"And," said N., "finally finished and completely done for by 'Kultur'
in the twentieth century, otherwise I guess it would have lasted until
the 220th century--look at the thickness of the walls."
"And after all these years of civilisation," said I.
"Civilisation," he snorted, turning over a fragment of exquisitely
carved moulding with the toe of his muddy boot, "civilisation has done
a whole lot, don't forget--changed the system of plumbing and taught us
how to make high explosives and poison gas."
Gloomily enough we wandered on together over rubbish-piles and
mountains of fallen brickwork, through shattered walls, past unlovely
stumps of mason-work that had been stately tower or belfry once,
beneath splintered arches that led but from one scene of ruin to
another, and ever our gloom deepened, for it seemed that Ypres, the
old Ypres, with all its monuments of mediæval splendour, its noble
traditions of hard-won freedom, its beauty and glory, was passed away
and gone for ever.
"I don't know how all this affects you," said N., his big chin jutted
grimly, "but I hate it worse than a battlefield. Let's get on over to
the Major's office."
We went by silent streets, empty except for a few soldierly figures
in hard-worn khaki, desolate thoroughfares that led between piles and
huge unsightly mounds of fallen masonry and shattered brickwork, fallen
beams, broken rafters and twisted ironwork, across a desolate square
shut in by the ruin of the great Cloth Hall and other once stately
buildings, and so to a grim, battle-scarred edifice, its roof half
blown away, its walls cracked and agape with ugly holes, its doorway
reinforced by many sandbags cunningly disposed, through which we passed
into the dingy office of the Town-Major.
As we stood in that gloomy chamber, dim-lighted by a solitary oil lamp,
floor and walls shook and quivered to the concussion of a shell--not
very near, it is true, but quite near enough.
The Major was a big man, with a dreamy eye, a gentle voice and a
passion for archæology. In his company I climbed to the top of a high
building, whence he pointed out, through a convenient shell hole, where
the old walls had stood long ago, where Vauban's star-shaped bastions
and the general conformation of what had been present-day Ypres; but
I saw only a dusty chaos of shattered arch and tower and walls, with
huge, unsightly mounds of rubble and brick--a rubbish dump in very
truth. Therefore I turned to the quiet voiced Major and asked him of
his experiences, whereupon he talked to me most interestingly and
very learnedly of Roman tile, of mediæval rubble-work, of herringbone
and Flemish bond. He assured me also that (Deo Volente) he proposed
to write a monograph on the various epochs of this wonderful old
town's history as depicted by its various styles of mason-work and
construction.
"I could show you a nearly perfect aqueduct if you have time," said he.
"I'm afraid we ought to be starting now," said the Intelligence
Officer; "over eighty miles to do yet, you see, Major."
"Do you have many casualties still?" I enquired.
"Pretty well," he answered. "The mediæval wall was superimposed upon
the Roman, you'll understand."
"And is it," said I as we walked on together, "is it always as noisy as
this?"
"Oh, yes--especially when there's a 'Hate' on."
"Can you sleep?"
"Oh, yes, one gets used to anything, you know. Though, strangely
enough, I was disturbed last night--two of my juniors had to camp over
my head, their quarters were blown up rather yesterday afternoon, and
believe me, the young beggars talked and chattered so that I couldn't
get a wink of sleep--had to send and order them to shut up."
"You seem to have been getting it pretty hot since I was here last,"
said the Intelligence Officer, waving a hand round the crumbling ruin
about us.
"Fairly so," nodded the Major.
"One would wonder the enemy wastes any more shells on Ypres," said I,
"there's nothing left to destroy, is there?"
"Well, there's us, you know!" said the Major, gently, "and then the
Boche is rather a revengeful beggar anyhow--you see, he wasted quite a
number of army corps trying to take Ypres. And he hasn't got it yet."
"Nor ever will," said I.
The Major smiled and held out his hand.
"It's a pity you hadn't time to see that aqueduct" he sighed. "However,
I shall take some flashlight photos of it--if my luck holds. Good-bye."
So saying, he raised a hand to his weather-beaten trench-cap and strode
back into his dim-lit, dingy office.
The one-time glory of Ypres has vanished in ruin but thereby she has
found a glory everlasting. For over the wreck of noble edifice and
fallen tower is another glory that shall never fade but rather grow
with coming years--an imperishable glory. As pilgrims sought it once to
tread its quaint streets and behold its old time beauty, so in days to
come other pilgrims will come with reverent feet and with eyes that
shall see in these shattered ruins a monument to the deathless valour
of that brave host that met death unflinching and unafraid for the sake
of a great ideal and the welfare of unborn generations.
And thus in her ruin Ypres has found the Glory Everlasting.
XIV.
WHAT BRITAIN HAS DONE.
The struggle of Democracy and Reason against Autocracy and Brute-force,
on land and in the air, upon the sea and under the sea, is reaching its
climax. With each succeeding month the ignoble foe has smirched himself
with new atrocities which yet in the end bring their own terrible
retribution.
Three of the bloodiest years in the world's history lie behind us;
but these years of agony and self-sacrifice, of heroic achievements,
of indomitable purpose and unswerving loyalty to an ideal, are surely
three of the most tremendous in the annals of the British Empire.
I am to tell something of what Britain has accomplished during these
awful three years, of the mighty changes she has wrought in this
short time, of how, with her every thought and effort bent in the one
direction, she has armed and equipped herself and many of her allies;
of the armies she has raised, the vast sums she has expended and the
munitions and armaments she has amassed.
To this end it is my privilege to lay before the reader certain facts
and figures, so I propose to set them forth as clearly and briefly as
may be, leaving them to speak for themselves.