When the Hun Pushed
There was little rest for anyone that night. In spite of the outward
show of levity every man realized more or less the gravity of the
situation. Taking advantage of heavy mists that caused the deadly
poison-gas to roll sullenly over the British lines, the Huns were
pushing forward regardless of the cost. Their High Command knew
perfectly well that it was a gambler's last throw. Failure meant a
total and sudden crumpling up of the German Empire on all fronts. It
was a despairing effort to aim a knock-out blow at the British, in
the hope that it would result in a relaxation of the British navy's
strangle-hold upon every subject of the Kaiser.
Yet, although from an Allied point of view the situation was serious,
not for one moment did the British, from the Commander-in-Chief down
to the latest-arrived Tommy, entertain any doubts as to the issue of
the titanic conflict. We were going back, it was true, but sooner or
later the pendulum would swing in the opposite direction, and the
Hunnish hordes would either be smashed by Foch, or else driven
pell-mell across the Rhine.
Already airmen were busily engaged in getting stores and material
away. Rumours, often too true, were coming through of vast quantities
of stores falling into the hands of the enemy, often owing to the
blind confidence of those in charge in the ability of a comparatively
few British troops to withstand ten or even twenty times their
number.
Huge motor-lorries, piled high with material, rumbled away as fast as
they could be loaded up. Wounded men, some "walking cases", others
badly hit, were streaming towards the now perilously-advanced
dressing-stations. Troops, both British and French, were arriving to
succour their worn-out and harassed comrades, while, almost
momentarily, night bombing-machines were either going to or returning
from their destructive missions.
The flashes of countless guns and the lurid flares of abandoned
ammunition-dumps and petrol-stores illuminated the misty sky, while
the sodden earth trembled under the thunder of artillery-fire. At
frequent intervals Hun bombing-'planes, soaring at great heights,
fearful lest their careers might be cut short by the British
machines, dropped bombs indiscriminately, the loud clatter of which
was distinctly audible above the roar of the howitzers and heavies.
It was an inferno into which men, who a few years ago never thought
to handle a rifle and bayonet, plunged bravely and resolutely to give
their lives for their country.
Realizing that Flanders and Northern France were Britain's bulwarks,
and that should the Channel ports be lost the thorny problem of
Ostend and Zeebrugge would be magnified a thousand-fold, every foot
of ground was obstinately contested by the hard-pressed troops.
Isolated battalions deliberately sacrificed themselves on this
account, thus obtaining a temporary respite for their undaunted
comrades, while in countless numbers fresh hordes of field-greys
hurled themselves by day and night against the dauntless khaki lines.
Derek soon found the reason for his hasty flight to France. With
hundreds of other airmen he had been sent across to assist in
stemming the tide of Huns. Success or failure in the present struggle
depended mainly upon superiority in the air. Not only did aerial
combination mean that the enemy's concentration could be clearly
observed--mists and fogs alone preventing--but his lines of
communication could be constantly interrupted, while a new factor,
low-altitude machine-gunning, was "putting the wind up" the German
infantry in no half-hearted fashion.
The young pilot was told off to start at dawn. Provided with a series
of aerial photographs of the enemy's positions, and also a map ruled
off in squares and numbered and lettered, he was able to obtain a
clear idea of the sub-sector over which he was to operate. So
elaborate were the preparations that there was hardly a square yard
of ground captured by the enemy that was not mapped out for
particular attention by the R.A.F. By bomb and machine-gun fire the
Huns were to be unmercifully galled--but at a cost.
With the first blush of dawn, when rosy tints glowing beyond the
flame-tinged clouds of smoke betokened another wet day, GV 7, in
company with others of her kind, was brought from the camouflaged
hangar.
During the night her crew had snatched a few hours' sleep, the work
of replenishing fuel and ammunition being entrusted to the
air-mechanics and ground men. With her cylinders shedding enough
castor oil to dose a battalion at full strength, and every part of
her construction carefully tested, she stood ready to start upon her
errand of death and destruction.
The air was "stiff" with machines as GV 7 began to climb steadily.
Derek's whole attention for the time being was to avoid certain
"unhealthy" spots where high-velocity shells from the British heavies
screeched unceasingly. There were other shells which he might not be
able to avoid--those coming from the opposite direction--for he knew
that it was not an uncommon occurrence for a 'plane to get in the way
of a high-velocity projectile and to vanish into fragments.
In the hollows wreaths of white mist still clung: danger-spots
concealing swarms of German troops who had been rushed up under cover
of night in spite of the terrific barrage of the guns and bombs from
the British air-craft. A few miles beyond the irregular line of
contesting foes a Hun sausage-balloon rose rapidly, swaying and
jerking at the end of a two-thousand-feet length of wire. In less
than three minutes it was spotted and brought down by a direct hit,
while a second, in the act of ascending, was promptly hauled down to
earth.
Suddenly GV 7 side-slipped, pitching violently in a tremendous
air-current. A German eight-inch--a missile that arrived some seconds
before its screech was heard--had passed within a few feet of the
starboard longeron.
The observer turned and grinned at the nearest machine-gunner. It was
his way of expressing the fact that they had had a very narrow shave.
Derek, too, realised the danger, although his attention was mainly
directed towards his task of piloting the battleplane. Occasionally
checking his position by means of his map, he held on until it was
time to dive to the attack.
Viewed from a height of three thousand feet the battlefield lost much
of its sordid horror. The old trenches, overrun by the Allies some
eighteen months previously, were barely discernible. Hardly anyone
expected that they would again prove to be the scene of a sanguinary
struggle. New shell-holes contrasted forcibly with the older craters,
but of new defensive work there was little to be seen. So rapid had
been the German onrush that the British on the defensive had but
little time to reorganize. They contented themselves by holding
desperately to every bit of cover, receiving and giving hard knocks
in characteristic bull-dog fashion.
Miles behind the opposing line the air was thick with smoke from
burning dumps and stores. Here and there were low mounds of rubble
that once were prosperous villages, some others rebuilt only a few
months previously to suffer again from an advance of the modern Hun.
Here and there guns, scorning the use of camouflage, were firing with
open sights at the dense field-grey masses, while farther back on
both sides the heavies were exchanging tokens of mutual hate.
A streak of flame plunging earthwards within fifty yards of GV 7
attracted Derek's attention. One glance revealed the sad fact that a
British biplane was crashing. He could see the concentric red, white,
and blue circles as the doped canvas glinted in the ruddy light. A
little beyond two British chaser-machines were climbing "all out"
towards a patch of clouds where the Hun who had downed the
unsuspecting biplane was "squatting" in fancied security. His dream
of safety was soon to be rudely shattered, for the Boche 'plane stood
as little chance as a rat when cornered by a trained terrier.
Just as Derek was preparing for a vol-plane, a Hun triplane dashed
blindly athwart his path, followed by a British "Camel". The Boche
evidently "had the wind up" horribly, for he made no attempt to use
his after machine-gun, but merely dodged and banked stupidly in a
forlorn attempt to shake off the pursuit. Then with ostrich-like
tactics he attempted to fly under, and in the same direction as GV 7,
regardless of the fact that the latter could "drop an egg" with
unerring aim upon his broad expanse of planes.
Daventry let him severely alone, knowing that the Boche had all his
work cut out to defend himself without a chance to fire upwards into
the battleplane. It was against the ethics of aerial warfare to spoil
another man's bag.
On came the Camel, her speed being only about five miles more than GV
7, although both were tearing through the air at more than a hundred
miles an hour. Derek could see the hooded and goggled head of the
machine-gunner as he bent over his sights. Then came a rapid burst of
flame from the Lewis gun. Daventry looked over the side of the
fuselage. The triplane, a litter of rents and fluttering canvas, was
plunging earthwards.
Waving his arm in joyous congratulation to the victorious Camel,
Derek turned, and began to swoop down upon his objective. As he did
so he became aware that he was an object of attention from a
particularly-aggressive anti-aircraft battery. The Huns had brought
up several Archibalds, mounted on swift armoured-cars, and were doing
their level best to counteract the demoralizing attack of the "air
hussars".
Banking, Derek brought his machine out of the danger-zone, but not
before the wings showed unpleasant signs of the accuracy of the Huns'
aim. The rotten part of the business was that he was unable to locate
the position of the antis. Right out in the open were several
sky-directed guns surrounded by men, but Derek was becoming a wily
bird. He knew that both men and guns were decoys, and that the actual
battery was some hundreds of yards away and skilfully camouflaged. To
fall into the error of attempting to wipe out the decoy would be an
act of self-destruction.
A battalion in mass formation moving by the side of a straight
stretch of canal afforded fair sport. Derek dived almost
perpendicularly, with engines "all out" until within two hundred feet
from the ground, then, flattening out, made straight for the head of
the field-greys.
At the sight of this startling apparition the Boches were instantly
thrown into a panic. They broke ranks and fled. Barred on the right
by the canal, they were compelled to surge in a disorderly mob across
absolutely open ground. Impeding each other, literally falling over
one another, the wretched Boches were at the mercy of the swift
battleplane. Machine-guns and bombs both took heavy toll, hardly a
shot being fired in return.
Not once, but many times, did GV 7 swing round and return to the
attack, until the thoroughly terrified survivors took refuge in
isolated shell-holes until the immediate danger was past.
Then back to the almost deserted aerodrome Derek flew, replenished
petrol and trays of ammunition, and returned to the fray. He was but
one pilot of hundreds engaged upon the same errand. Truly the
magnificent work was being accomplished at heavy cost, but
temporarily at least the rush was stayed, and the much-harassed
infantry--the troops who invariably bear the brunt of both attack and
defence--were able to take breathing-space.
"We're holding the blighters all right, sir," reported the
Wing-Commander to the General of the Division.
"Quite so," rejoined the other dryly. "Unfortunately, the line is
bending both on our right and left flanks. 'Fraid we'll have to give
the Boche a little more ground."
For three more days the retirement, under excessive pressure,
continued; and during the whole of that time massed squadrons of
air-craft were continuously in the air--bombing, machine-gunning,
undertaking reconnaissance work, and altogether making things very
uncomfortable for the Huns. But there were undoubted evidences that
the greatly-advertised Boche offensive was slowing down. Already the
advance through Noyon towards Paris was an admitted failure, and both
British and French, assisted by small American forces, were preparing
for the gigantic counter-attack. Fritz had shot his bolt and had
missed his target.