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"BROTHER BOSCH"
AN AIRMAN'S ESCAPE FROM GERMANY
BY
CAPTAIN KNIGHT, R.A.F.
1919
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
_London: William Heinemann, 1919_
To the Memory of
CAPTAIN MORRITT,
LIEUT. MEDLICOTT,
LIEUT. WALTERS,
AND ALL OTHER OFFICERS, N.C.O.'S AND MEN,
WHO, BEING LESS FORTUNATE,
GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE ENDEAVOUR.
Belovèd Country! banished from thy shore,
A stranger in this prison house of clay,
The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee!
Heavenward the bright perfections I adore
Direct, and the sure promise cheers the way,
That, whither love aspires, there shall my dwelling be.
_Longfellow._
NOTE
"The spelling of the word 'Bosch' was the customary one in the German
prisoners' camps from which the author made his escape, and is
retained for the sake of local colour."
ERRATA
P. 25, line 6 from bottom, _for_ "_weis_" _read_ "_weiss_."
P. 43, line 14, _for_ "balolaika" _read_ "balalaika."
P. 47, line 10 and p. 55, line 16, _for_ "_Weiswein_" _read_
"_Weisswein_."
P. 51, line 7, _for_ "Hammelin" _read_ "Hameln."
P. 126, line 20, _for_ "Pupchen" _read_ "Püppchen."
P. 159, line 16, _for_ "Briefeasten" _read_ "Briefkasten."
"BROTHER BOSCH"
(An Airman's Capture and subsequent
Escape from Germany)
CHAPTER I
CAPTURED
It was November 9th, 1916. I lay in a state of luxurious
semi-consciousness pondering contentedly over things in general,
transforming utter impossibilities into plausible possibilities,
wondering lazily the while if I were asleep. Presently, to my disgust
an indefinable, yet persistent "something" came into being, almost
threatening to dispel the drowsy mist then pervading my brain. The
slow thought waves gradually ceased their surging, and after a slight
pause began to collect round the offending mystery, as if seeking to
unravel it in a half-hearted sort of way. They gave me to understand
that the "something" recurred at intervals, and even suggested that it
might be a voice, though from which side of the elastic dividing line
it emanated they were quite unable to say. With the consoling thought
that voices often come from dreamland I allowed the whole subject to
glide gently into the void and the tide of thought to continue its
drugged revolutions. The next instant a noisy whirlwind swept the
cobwebs away. I knew that the voice was indeed a reality, for it
delivered the following message: "A very fine morning, sir!" Obviously
my dutiful servant desired me to rise and enjoy the full benefit of
the beautiful day. Agreeing with Harry Lauder, that "It's nice to get
up in the morning, but it's nicer to stay in bed!" I am sorry to say I
cunningly dismissed the orderly with a few false assurances, turned
over on my side and promptly forgot all about such trivial matters.
Conscience was kicking very feebly, and just as sleep was about to
return, the air commenced to vibrate and something swept overhead with
a whirling roar--an "early bird" testing the air. Galvanised into
action by this knowledge, I sprang out of bed, and seizing whatever
garments happened to be the nearest, was half dressed before I had
even time to yawn! Then snatching up my map, coat, hat, and goggles, I
burst from the hut and began slithering along the duck-boards towards
the hangars, at the same time endeavouring to fasten the unwilling
hooks of my Flying Corps tunic and devoutly hoping that I should not
be late for the bomb raid. For weeks we had been standing by for this
raid in particular, the object of which was to bomb Douai aerodrome.
This was a particularly warm spot to fly over, for in these days it
was regarded as the home of "Archies" and the latest hostile aircraft.
It is, therefore, not surprising that the general feeling of the
squadron was that the sooner it was over the better for all concerned.
Arrived at the sheds I was relieved to find that I was in good time,
at all events. The machines (two-seater artillery machines, then
commonly known as "Quirks") were lined up on the aerodrome with bomb
racks loaded, their noses to the wind, awaiting the signal to ascend.
I saluted the C.O., waved to a friend or two and climbed into the
pilot's seat of my waiting machine. Then, adjusting the levers, I
signified to the waiting mechanics that I was ready for them to "suck
in" (an operation necessary prior to the starting of the engine).
Having made sure that everything was O.K. and waited for the others to
ascend, I took off and, after climbing steadily for some time, took up
my specified position in the formation. For some time we circled about
over a pre-arranged rendezvous, until joined by an escort of fighting
machines and another squadron of bombers, and then settled down to
business. Flying straight into the sun we soon arrived at and passed
over the irregular spidery lines of trenches (those on Vimy Ridge
showing up particularly clearly), and continued forging ahead, past
many familiar landmarks, always in the direction of Douai. I for one
never dreamt of being taken prisoner and had every intention of making
a record breakfast on my return. My engine was going rather badly, but
the odds were that it would see me through. Only too soon the
anti-aircraft started their harassing fire, throwing up a startling
number of nerve-racking, high explosive shells, each one a curling
black sausage of hate and steel splinters. When we were some way over
my machine lagged behind the rest. The engine spluttered
intermittently and could not be induced to go at all well. As my
machine became more isolated I cast anxious glances about and was soon
rewarded by seeing two wicked little enemy scouts waiting for an easy
prey (at that time they did not usually attack a formation, but waited
behind for the likes o' me). While one scout attracted my attention on
the left and I was engaged in keeping him off by firing occasional
bursts, a machine gun opened fire with a deafening clatter at
point-blank range from behind. In an instant the surrounding air
became full of innumerable tiny, brilliant flames, passing me at an
incredible speed like minute streaks of lightning, each one giving
forth a curious staccato whistling crack as it plunged through or
beside the tormented machine, leaving in its wake a thin curling line
of blue smoke. I was in the middle of a relentless storm of burning
tracer bullets, vying one with the other for the honour of passing
through the petrol tank, thereby converting my machine into a seething
furnace. Having no observer to defend my tail I turned steeply to meet
my new adversary. However, before completing the manoeuvre I
received another deadly burst of fire, which, though it somehow missed
me, shot away several of my control wires. What happened next I cannot
be sure, but the machine seemed to turn over, and my machine gun fell
off with a crash. This took place at an altitude of six thousand feet.
My next impression was that I seemed to be in the centre of a whirling
vortex, around which all creation revolved at an extraordinary speed,
and realised that my trusty steed was indulging in a particularly
violent "spinning nose dive." A "spin" at the best of times rather
takes one's breath away, so, shutting the throttle, I endeavoured to
come out of it in the usual way. To my surprise, the engine refused to
slow down, or any of the controls to respond, except one, which only
tended to make matters worse.
The one thing left to be done was to "switch off" and trust to luck.
This, however, was more easily decided on than accomplished, for by
this time the machine was plunging to earth so rapidly, with the
engine full on, that I felt as if I were tied to a peg-top, which was
being hurled downwards with irresistible force. Fighting blindly
against the tremendous air-pressure, which rendered me hardly able to
move, I forced my left arm, inch by inch, along the edge of the
"cockpit" until I succeeded in turning the switch lever downwards. A
glance at the speedometer did not reassure me, the poor thing seemed
very much overworked. Descending very rapidly I kept getting a glimpse
of a pretty red-roofed village, which became ominously more distinct
at every plunging revolution.
I vaguely thought there would be rather a splash when we arrived at
our destination, but at eight hundred feet Providence came to the
rescue. I heard the welcome cessation of the wild screaming hum of the
strained wires. After switching on, the engine informed me with much
spluttering that it was sorry that I should have to land on the wrong
side, but it really had done its best. I had just managed to turn
towards our trenches, when the scout pilot, seeing I did not land, at
once followed me down and with its machine gun impressed on me that
the sooner I landed the better. As I was then a long way over the
lines, sinking fast towards the tree-tops, I had no alternative, so
endeavoured to reach the village green. By this time the machine was
literally riddled with bullets, though, luckily, I had not been
touched. Before landing I overtook a German horseman, so thinking to
introduce myself I dived on him from a low altitude, just passing over
his head. Well, scare him I certainly did, poor man; he was much too
frightened to get off, and seemed to be doing his best to get inside
his would-be Trojan animal. The machine landed on a heap of picks and
shovels, ran among a number of Huns who were having a morning wash at
some troughs (or rather I should say, a lick and a promise!). They
scattered and then closed in on the machine. I ran one wing into a
post, and tried the lighter, which did not work. I was a prisoner.
Undoubtedly, the next German communique announced that the gallant
Lieutenant X. had brought down his thirtieth machine; it is probable
that this gallant officer had heard strange rumours of what lay behind
the British lines, but preferred cruising on the safer side. I could
hardly believe that these grey-clad, rather unshaven men who jabbered
excitedly were genuine "Huns." I was furious and very "fed-up," but
that did not help, so turning in my seat and raising my hand I said,
"_Gutten Morgen_." This surprised them so much that they forgot to be
rude and mostly returned the compliment.