The Hun Bomber
The Flight-Sergeant surveyed GV 7 dispassionately. It was part of his
job to condemn unserviceable machines, and the frequency of having to
do it bored him.
"It's a wonder you got back, sir," he reported. "Why the motors
didn't konk out puzzles me, and there's hardly a strut that's
perfect. No, sir; I can't pass her. May as well set her on fire and
have done with it."
And so GV 7, after a week of gallant and strenuous service, received
her death-warrant. At the best of times the life of an aeroplane is a
brief one, and in active-service conditions the wastage is simply
astounding. Every machine must be of the very best workmanship
possible and kept in perfect tune, otherwise it must be scrapped and
replaced by another of the vast quantity turned out in the numerous
air-craft factories at home.
Derek heard the mandate, against which there was no appeal, with
genuine regret. In a few days he had gained an affection for his old
'bus, much as a cavalryman does for his charger. Nevertheless he
realized that the verdict was a just one. He, too, could not help
wondering how the badly-scarred biplane had brought down her crew in
safety, for there were thirty-three holes in the wings and
tail-planes and seven perforations of the fuselage, while most of the
struts were chipped and several of the tension-wires severed.
Accordingly the motors were removed, together with the more important
fittings. These towed to a safe distance, the doomed battleplane was
set on fire. Her late pilot watched her burn. It was a sight that
fascinated him. It was as though he had destroyed a favourite dog. He
waited until nothing but a charred mass remained, and then made his
way back to the newly-erected aerodrome--quite twenty miles farther
back than the one abandoned on the night of his first flight across
the enemy lines.
"I'll have to find the Equipment Officer," thought Derek, "and get
him to let me have another 'bus. Wonder where his show is?"
Failing to find the desired officer, Derek turned to enquire of a
goggled and leather-coated pilot who was literally smothered with
grease and castor oil.
"Bless me, Daventry! Who on earth expected to run across you in this
Johnny Horner hole?"
For some moments Derek stared at the apparition in perplexity, unable
to recognize either the voice or its owner.
"Give it up!" he replied. "Hanged if I can fix you, George."
"What! Forgotten poor little Johnny Kaye! An' we vowed life-long
friendship an' all that any-old-thing sort of tosh, old bean!"
The two pilots shook hands.
"I've been here a week on different stunts," continued Kaye. "They
don't forget to work you here, by Jove! Not that I mind though.
Derek, old man, I had the time of my life yesterday, when two Huns
thought they had me cold. Led 'em a pretty dance, and finally
persuaded them to collide. One Boche plopped fairly on top of my
tail-plane, and I had cold feet pretty badly until I looped and let
him slide off. The funny thing was that I hadn't a single round of
ammunition left. How long have you been here? You were asking for the
Equipment Officer, I believe. There's his show. Smithers is his name.
He'll fix you up with anything you want, from a double-seater to a
cotter-pin."
Linking arms with Kaye, Derek made his way by means of a duck-board
track to the Nissen but wherein the Equipment Officer held court.
Smithers was a grey-haired lieutenant of fifty, who, heart and soul
devoted to his work, was obsessed by the idea that he was the one and
only man who did any real work in the aerodrome.
"State your wants briefly," he began, before Derek could say a word.
"I'm terribly busy."
Derek did so. The Equipment Officer consulted a board festooned with
red, blue, and yellow tabs.
"A single-seater is all I can manage just at present. Suit? Good. EG
19's the bird. Mornin'."
Enquiries at the hangars showed that EG 19 had alighted, owing to
slight engine defects, in a field at a distance of two miles from the
aerodrome. That occurred three days previously, and the former pilot
had been sent away to another squadron. Repairs had been effected,
and the machine was now ready for flight.
"I'll take a tender," declared Derek. "Come along, old man, and keep
me company. You can return in the tender, you know."
"Right-o!" agreed Kaye, divesting himself of his flying-coat and
tossing it to an orderly. "Just as likely I'll tramp back after I've
seen you started."
The tender, a covered-in Ford van, was soon forthcoming, and the two
chums seated themselves under the canvas tilt. The view was strictly
limited to the ground already covered, but this mattered little,
since the two pilots had plenty to talk about.
The road was typically French. It ran in a straight line as far as
the eye could see. In the centre was a strip of _pavé_, interrupted
at frequent intervals by shell-holes--some of recent origin, others
filled in with material that was subsiding badly. On either side of
the _pavé_ was nothing more nor less than a morass, the road being
torn up by ceaseless heavy traffic. Bordering the highway on either
hand were tall, leafless trees, many of them having been splintered
and cut down by shell-fire.
Swinging along the mud-covered _pavé_ was a battalion newly arrived
from the base--men with shoulders hunched under the weight of their
equipment. They were marching at ease--incongruous term. Most of them
were smoking. Some were carrying their comrades' rifles in addition
to their own. Others were tugging at their new equipment to ease the
cutting strain upon their shoulders. Few, very few, were limping. It
was not the fault of the army that they limped, for the army takes
particular pains to equip the men with good marching-boots. It was
the neglect of ordinary precautions that was punishing them.
They marched well notwithstanding. Weeks of hard training were
apparent in the bearing of the Tommies, as, with tunics unbuttoned
at the neck, revealing bronzed throats that blended with the sombre
khaki uniforms, they moved along the highway at the regulation pace
of three and a half miles an hour.
"Those fellows will give a good account of themselves, I guess,"
remarked Kaye. "Sometimes, old thing, I almost wish that I were in
the infantry."
"They get all the kicks," rejoined Daventry. "Our guns start strafing
the Boche. Boche gets angry and starts to shell back. Shell what? Not
our guns so much as the poor beggars of infantry in the trenches.
They always get it in the neck."
"All the same, I envy 'em," continued Kaye. "We don't get a chance of
surging over the top in a yelling, cheering mob. That's life, if you
like. Were you ever in the neighbourhood of Courcelette? If----
Hallo! What's this? A Boche?"
High over--three thousand feet--a large German biplane was circling
as if looking for a quarry. The Hun was alone, for practically every
available machine was up and away from the aerodrome. Either the
hostile airman was engaged in taking aerial photographs of the "back
areas", or else he had spotted the battalion moving slowly in column
of route.
The troops were fully aware of the undesirable presence of the Boche
airman, and now came a test of discipline. It was one of those
occasions when a British soldier must not look danger in the face,
for a quadruple line of upturned faces would be clearly visible to
the Hun pilot, while the battalion might escape notice by keeping
their heads bent down.
Derek and his companion remained perfectly still, taking doubtful
cover under a gaunt tree. From where they stood they could watch
practically the whole of the now motionless column. Officers and men,
although tempted to see what was going on up above, were standing
rigid, not knowing whether a bomb might scatter wounds and death
amongst the compact crowd of troops.
"Good heavens!" whispered Derek, although there was not the slightest
reason why he should have lowered his voice. "I believe Fritz has
spotted the column. He's coming down to make sure."
"You're right, old man, I think," agreed Kaye. "There'll be an unholy
mess of things in----"
Bang.
A violent concussion almost deafened the two airmen. It was only a
paramount feeling that the Tommies might roar at them that prevented
Derek and his companion from throwing themselves flat upon the
ground. Turning, they heard the metallic clang of a breech-block
being swung home, and were just in time to see the long pole-like
chase of an anti-air-craft gun rise from a cleverly camouflaged pit
not twenty yards from where they stood.
There was no need for a second shot. The shell from the "anti" burst
with mathematical precision right in front of the black-crossed
aeroplane, and the next instant the machine began to fall earthwards.
It was not until the enemy biplane crashed that the Tommies were
aware of the turn of events, and a roar of cheering burst from eight
hundred throats.
"Pretty shot that," remarked Kaye approvingly. "Hanged if I knew that
there was an A.A. battery about here."
The appearance of half a dozen men wearing crested steel helmets
helped to solve the problem. It was a French anti-air-craft gun,
cunningly concealed in a camouflaged shell-hole, that had scored the
direct hit, and the Frenchmen showed their delight with typical
Gallic exuberance.
Within a few minutes the highway resumed its usual war-time aspect.
The battalion moved on; horse and motor transport scurried to and
fro; while a gang of Chinese coolies set to work to remove the debris
of the crashed Hun machine, and to mend the hole in the _pavé_ where
the raider's bomb had fallen.
EG 19 was found at the indicated spot, the air-mechanics having
completed the slight adjustments necessary for the machine to resume
flight.
Derek examined his new steed critically. The biplane showed signs of
being a "flyer" in the truest sense of the word. With a comparatively
short fuselage and wing-spread, it looked a businesslike craft. Being
a one-seater, the pilot had to do everything necessary when in
flight, even to work the two automatic-guns, one of which was mounted
in front of the "office", the other, for use when being pursued, was
immediately in rear of the seat.
"Nice little 'bus," declared Kaye, as he helped his chum to don his
leather coat. "I've had 'em, and know what they'll do. Well, good
luck, old man. S'pose you'll get back to the aerodrome before me.
Gadfathers! I guess we'll be on the same patrol to-morrow, and then
there'll be dirty work at the cross-roads."