A NIGHT RAID
Every precaution having been taken, the engines run, the controls
tested, the compasses swung, the courses made out, the charts prepared,
and the drift figured, the Bedouins sat down to dinner free from care or
worry. The dinner hour was always set, winter or summer, at least two
hours before the night's raid was to start.
A guest of the Bedouin mess on the night of an important raid would have
been surprised if told that the jolly, laughing officers, who apparently
had no thought in the world other than the enjoyment of various wines
and viands, were soon to set out on a pioneer raid against a far-distant
German industrial centre. For the Bedouins made the best of the
present; they all knew what a long-distance raid over Germany usually
meant; many of their jolly comrades would not be seen again. So they
made merry at dinner and drank each other's health. The wine, however,
was light, and even the most reckless Bedouin drank it in tiny sips, for
the work to be done was important. The personal dangers of the raid the
reckless Bedouins might ignore, but they knew that these raids fitted
into the general tactical plan of operations; consequently, every
Bedouin was imbued with a spirit of determination in spite of an
apparent frivolity.
On entering the ward-room a few moments before dinner, the guest of the
Bedouin mess would have been greeted joyfully by the officers who were
singing lustily in perfect tune with a piano which was very much out of
tune. A few moments later he would see these rollicking fellows stand
silently at attention on the entry of the Commanding Officer until
"Good-evening, gentlemen," from the C.O. granted them permission to
"carry on."
Before the chief steward announced dinner, "aperitifs" were passed
around; then the C.O. led the way from the ward-room into the adjoining
mess, where the officers stood at attention on each side of the long
table until the C.O. said, "Gentlemen, be seated." If any one came in
late to dinner, he apologized to the C.O. before taking his place at the
table; and no matter how oily and dirty he may have been a few moments
earlier, he entered the mess clean, freshly shaven, and in neat uniform.
This mess etiquette, as it was called, did not interfere in any way with
the good-fellowship existing between the C.O. and his junior officers;
but it prevented men who had been away from home and the society of
ladies for many years from growing lax in manners and careless of
personal appearance.
After dinner, decanters of port were passed around and the King's health
was drunk: "Gentlemen, The King."
This toast means nothing to us Americans unless we have drunk it among
British officers at the front. Under such conditions, "Gentlemen, The
King," is a call to patriotism, a spur to endeavor, and an ideal of
courage which must be lived up to. We Americans are so apt to think of a
king as a despot or tyrant that it takes us a long time to understand
the love which the Englishman has for his King. The King of England is
as much of a symbol to Englishmen as the Stars and Stripes are a symbol
to us. The King, as an individual, has no power, except the power of
influence. This power is great when the influence exerted is in the
right direction, but the King has no dictatorial power similar to that
which may be granted to our Presidents. The King is merely a symbol
which stands in the minds of Englishmen for patriotism, justice,
democracy, and humanity. So when the Bedouins raised their glasses to
the toast, "Gentlemen, The King," they paid a tribute to all that Great
Britain and her Allies were fighting for--democracy, justice, and
freedom of the individual from oppression.
After this final toast, every aviator went to his quarters and clambered
into his bulky but warm flying clothes. There was no hurry or bustle,
but each aviator, thoroughly equipped for the raid with maps, charts,
and instruments, arrived at the map-room on a definite moment. Here he
received a few final instructions from the Commanding Officer; then,
smoking a last cigarette, he made his way through the dusk to his own
aeroplane.
While the aviators drank to "Gentlemen, The King," the mechanics were
warming up the twin motors of each aeroplane, the bomb-racks were being
filled with fourteen one-hundred-and-twelve-pound bombs, the guns were
being mounted, and by the time the aviators arrived on the aerodrome the
huge Handley-Page bombing planes were in readiness for a nine hours'
flight over Germany.
After climbing up a ladder to their respective positions, the aviators
made a final survey of the machine on the reliability of which depended
the success of their adventure. The engines were again run up to see
that they gave the proper revolutions, the gauges inspected, the
controls tested, and the return spring of each gun weighed. When
thoroughly satisfied, each aviator took his place and his pilot
signalled for the "chocks" to be withdrawn from in front of the wheels.
While the aviators carried on this final inspection of their machines,
the aerodrome officer, stationed on a high platform situated in one
corner of the field, awaited the signal to light the "landing T"; i.e.,
a huge "T" of electric lights headed into the wind, which shows to the
aviators the taking-off and landing path. Each machine is given its
respective letter for the day, which is flashed in Morse code on the
navigation lights by the aviator when ready to leave the ground; he then
awaits an answer from the directing stand. Simultaneously with the
lighting up of the huge "landing T," the letter flashed from the first
machine ready is repeated by the signal officer. The answer received,
the machine taxies across the aerodrome to the starting-point, turns,
hurtles down the flare-path and leaves the ground at the head of the
"T." Under this simple method of direction I have seen twenty aeroplanes
leave an aerodrome on a pitch-black night in twelve minutes without a
single mishap.
On leaving the ground the aeroplanes fly dead into the wind for a couple
of miles, circle back to the left around the aerodrome, and head into
the wind again until the height at which the flight is to be carried out
is reached. The first aeroplane to reach this height passes directly
over the aerodrome and then steers a course to the first lighthouse. A
comparison of this course with the previously figured course, and a
comparison of the previously calculated ground speed with the time taken
to travel from the aerodrome to the lighthouse enables the aviators, by
the use of instruments and a few simple calculations, to gauge their
drift. This process is continued on another course to the next
lighthouse and the previously tested direction and velocity of wind are
accurately checked in this way and future courses altered accordingly.
These calculations are all important to the long-distance night bomber,
for although roads show up in the moonlight like white threads, they are
too numerous and interwoven to be followed for great distances, and
although rivers and lakes look like silver ribbons and blotches, the
moon may be obscured at any moment or the ground itself may be
obliterated by low clouds or mist. Accuracy in aerial navigation,
therefore, is of the utmost importance in long-distance night flying.
The night aviator, however, has many things to think of besides a
constant checking and readjustment of his course according to variations
in direction and velocity of wind. On his own side of the lines he is
constantly challenged by searchlights which must be answered immediately
if the aviator wishes to avoid the risk of being shot down by his own
anti-aircraft guns or of being attacked by his own night-patrol
machines. The method of answering these challenges is extremely simple.
All that is required of the aviator is to shoot at the searchlight with
a large pistol loaded with an enormous cartridge. The aviator, intent on
his calculations and annoyed by any interruption, often wishes that this
pistol was a deadly weapon, but it is not. It merely fires a certain
colored light which floats slowly down changing in its descent to
certain other colors, which prove to the officer in charge of the
challenging searchlight that an Allied aeroplane is above him. The
colors which are shown on one night, however, will not do on another,
for these "colors of the day," as they are inappropriately called, are
changed every night and the utmost secrecy is maintained in regard to
them. Even the aviators do not know the "color of the day" until ten
minutes before the start of a raid, neither do the officers in charge of
the anti-aircraft batteries. The reason for this secrecy became
apparent to the Bedouins one night when a Hun flew over our aerodrome
shooting down our "color of the day," blinking his navigation lights,
and finally firing down a red light which was our prearranged
forced-landing signal. The aerodrome officer, believing that one of the
Bedouin machines was returning from that night's raid with engine
trouble, lit up the "landing T" and brought upon himself a shower of
bombs which carried him into the Unknown.
After crossing the lines the aviators are intent on steering an accurate
compass course, checking their position from time to time by various
landmarks such as canals, rivers, cross-roads, and woods, and figuring
changes in wind. The bursting shells of the enemy anti-aircraft
batteries must be disregarded, for a slight detour around a particularly
heavy barrage might mean an error of several degrees in their course
which, unless corrected, would bring them twenty to thirty miles away
from their objective after a flight of one hundred and seventy miles or
more, and an accurate correction of a compass course after a wide detour
is always difficult and sometimes impossible. Therefore, it is of the
utmost importance for long-distance night bombers to hold their course
regardless of the enemy's efforts at destruction.
The hatred in the hearts of the Huns, expressed by the constant "whonk"
of bursting anti-aircraft shells, contrasts disagreeably with the
loveliness of the moonlit panorama. All man's disfigurements of the
earth are obliterated by distance and nothing but a scene of inspiring
beauty is in view from the aviaors' lofty outlook at a height of several
thousand feet.
The flashings of the guns, the "flaming onions,"--i.e., strings of
phosphorus balls shot up to light the sky and to ignite any inflammable
substance with which they come in contact,--and the black puffs of smoke
from the bursting shells add a weird and startling brilliancy to the
surroundings. No matter how many times a man may fly at night the
immensity of the heavens above him, crowded with unknown worlds, cannot
fail to impress him with his own insignificance in the general scheme of
the universe, and Death itself appears of small importance compared to
the way in which he faces it.
The aviators, however, have little time for reflection, for on a long
flight they must keep a constant outlook for such landmarks as will
enable them from time to time to mark their exact position on the chart
and by comparison with their compass course and "ground speed" vary
their course according to changes in direction and velocity of wind. An
instrument called the "pitot tube" indicates the speed at which the
aeroplane passes through the air, but the speed at which the plane
travels in relation to the ground depends on the direction and velocity
of the wind. They must also watch the flashes from anti-aircraft
batteries and pin-point them on their maps if possible; aerodromes which
are lit up, train movements, the lighting of towns, the blaze of steel
factories; in fact everything of military importance must be recorded
and reported upon, if accurately located. The night aviator, however,
must be extremely careful in his observations, for it is very easy to
get lost and it is extremely difficult to keep an accurate check, on the
charts, of your exact position over the ground, even after long
practice; especially is this true when the flight covers three to four
hundred miles in distance and lasts from eight to nine hours.
After several hours of intense concentration the aviators approach their
target, and although they have charted the course constantly they now
spend some time in flying back and forth while they check off on a
large-scale map the landmarks about the target and satisfy themselves
that their long flight will not be valueless if the bombs are dropped
with accuracy. In the meantime the sound of the motors, together with
the telegraphed intelligence from other Hun towns, tells the enemy that
Allied night bombers are in the vicinity. The Huns in charge of the
anti-aircraft defences stationed about the target direct huge beams of
numerous searchlights toward the sky and an intense barrage is put up
above and around the target by the Hun batteries. The air is filled with
shrapnel from bursting shells at the altitude at which the machine is
flying, for the Huns have accurate instruments which gauge the altitude
of an aeroplane from the sound vibrations of its engines. The aviators,
however, are still intent on picking out their target (probably a
factory which manufactures war material) and have not yet entered the
barrage. The Huns, I imagine, often wondered why British bombers flew
about a town for such a long time before bombing; the inhabitants always
had more than enough time to enter the dug-outs before the bombs
dropped. The British bombers, however, were not making war on women and
children; they were intent on destroying a poisonous gas factory or
other targets of military importance; so they flew about the town until
the target was accurately located; then and not till then, they
throttled down their engines and glided swiftly down between the
searchlight beams and below the barrage of bursting shells, for once the
engines are throttled down the enemy's sound instruments are valueless
and the anti-aircraft barrage ranged at the previous altitude of the
aeroplane fills the air with shrapnel far above the rapidly descending
plane. A quick adjustment of bomb-sights to compensate for the altitude,
speed, and drift of the plane and the front fore-sight soon is in line
with the target, and after a pause the back fore-sight coming in line
with the back-sight gives, with the previously adjusted stop-watch, the
exact moment for releasing the first bombs. The plane passes over the
target and turns on a steep "bank," while the aviators watch for the
burst of the bombs. The bomb-sight is readjusted to the reduced
altitude, another sight taken, the remainder of the bombs released, and
then, nose down, engine "full out," the huge plane rushes through the
lowered barrage for more congenial surroundings.
Great care must be taken when bombing a factory, for usually very close
to it the Hun has located an unprotected prison camp filled with Allied
prisoners, and we have official information that prisoners have so
infuriated the Hun guards by singing "God save the King" or the
"Marseillaise" during a bombardment of the near-by factory that they
have been bayoneted to punish them for their "insolence." As soon as the
aviators are away from the barrage, they steer a straight course for
home, and again an intent outlook is kept for landmarks which will
enable them to mark their position on the charts and figure their ground
speed and drift. If their course is correct, they will see after a few
hours a lighthouse several miles away dimly flashing a letter in Morse
code. They head straight for this, and when over it they steer a course
which will bring them to the lighthouse situated near their aerodrome.
As they approach the aerodrome they fire down the "color of the day" and
if the aerodrome is not under bombardment by the Huns the flare-path is
lighted and the pilot spirals slowly down while the allotted letter of
the plane is being flashed in Morse code on its navigation lights; as
soon as this signal is answered from the ground, the pilot glides
swiftly down to the flare-path. When fifteen to ten feet from the ground
the Holt's flares attached to the wing tips of the planes are lit by
electrical contact and the landing is made in a momentary but brilliant
blaze of light.
It is interesting to sit in the officers' mess of a night-bombing
squadron and watch the returning aviators enter. They are cold and stiff
and all are very tired, for no man can fly without fatigue from dusk to
dawn under conditions which demand intense concentration and entail a
considerable amount of nervous strain, but now is shown the difference
in temperament; some return with bloodshot eyes and haggard faces which
indicate a condition of intense fatigue; others come in gaily as though
home from a late dance; still others thoughtfully quiet. All of them,
however, show signs of nervous strain and mental tension and they must
relax their taut nerves before going to bed, especially if the raid was
but another similar to those that had been carried out on several
previous nights. So, while relaxing they eat bully beef sandwiches and
drink hot chocolate or beer or, if the night has been particularly cold,
a glass of hot rum. Deafened by the roar of the engines and the sudden
change in atmospheric pressure they either whisper or yell if they speak
at all, during the first few minutes after entering the mess. But the
raid is over, so very little is said about it; every now and then some
one looks at his watch and sees that nine hours have elapsed since the
raid started; he says nothing but he and all realize that the machine
which has not returned has used up its supply of petrol and that the
fate of a dear friend will remain unknown perhaps for weeks, perhaps for
all time.