The Shell-crater
There were many vacant places that evening in the building that
served as a mess. Youngsters who, a few hours previously, had left
the aerodrome like modern knights of the air, were lying crushed
beyond recognition amidst the wreckage of their trusted steeds. The
price of victory was a heavy one; the toll of airmen's lives
enormous; yet the sacrifice had not been made in vain. The soil of
Flanders and Picardy, drenched with British blood, was hourly
becoming a wider and stronger barrier between the modern Hun and the
shores of Great Britain--shores that, held inviolate from the feet of
a would-be invader, had nevertheless felt the effect of German shells
and bombs.
The worst was over. Fritz was done. The stranglehold of the British
fleet had paralysed the most highly-trained military nation in the
world, and now the civilian armies of Britain, France, and the United
States were reaping the benefit, and were steadily driving the Hun
towards the Rhine. No longer was it possible--thanks to the
ever-increasing efficiency of the R.A.F.--for German machines to bomb
the capital of the British Empire, or even to make "cut-and-run"
raids upon the south-eastern ports. Outclassed and outnumbered, Fritz
was a back number on land, on the sea, and in the air.
There were constant rumours of the Huns clamouring for an armistice,
and the fear of an armistice filled the Allies with alarm. They felt
themselves in the position of a man who, having caught a burglar on
his premises, is compelled to hand the criminal over to be tried by a
notoriously lenient judge. They realized that Germany might come to
terms that would undo the result of four years' fighting. The
diplomat would upset the carefully-laid plans of the soldier;
therefore it was imperative to continue to strike hard while there
was yet time.
From the North Sea to the Swiss frontier the German line had cracked.
British and Belgian troops were in possession of Bruges; Ypres was no
longer a salient; Cambrai, the scene of a grave reverse that paved
the way for a gigantic German offensive, was in British hands; the
French had overrun the debatable Chemin des Dames and had put Rheims
beyond the range of the German heavy artillery; Big Bertha and her
sisters could no longer disturb the equanimity of the citizens of
Paris; while the Americans had flattened out the Saint Mihiel
salient, and were enveloping the fortress of Metz. After years of
trench warfare, the news seemed too good to be true.
Secret orders taken on the captured ground gave abundant evidence of
the effect of the predominating weight of the Allies. Frantic appeals
for reserves and munitions--appeals that, read between the lines,
showed a mistrust between German officers and men--orders for the
strictest conservation of shells; these and a hundred other signs
told of the crisis through which Imperial Germany was passing--a
crisis which was bound to tell against her.
Derek Daventry's period off duty was of short duration. In the
circumstances he reckoned himself lucky to have twelve hours, most of
which he spent in sleeping soundly. In those strenuous times, when
every available man and machine had to spend hours in the air with
but brief intervals of rest, it was only through sheer exhaustion
that pilots and observers were excused duty.
He was off again at five in the morning, flying in another EG
machine, almost identical with his much-regretted No. 19. The
biplanes composing the "flight" were ordered to harass the Germans
holding a series of defensive works at a distance of about five miles
farther back than the ground captured by the tanks on the previous
day.
In the present phase of the operations the employment of tanks was
out of the question. Tanks are capable of surmounting many obstacles;
those they cannot surmount they can frequently demolish; but the
mastodons have their limits. They don't like marshy, boggy ground;
while a canal or river offers an impassable barrier unless a bridge
is available.
Eight hundred yards in front of the Huns' position ran a broad canal,
seventy-four feet in width and six feet in depth. Every swing-bridge
had been blown up and the lock-gates destroyed.
Earlier in the day British and French infantry, under cover of a
strong artillery-barrage, had succeeded in crossing the canal by
means of pontoons, and had established themselves securely on the
opposite bank; but so severe was the German machine-gun fire that the
advance was held up and the troops compelled to dig themselves in.
Already thousands of sand-bags were being dropped into the canal to
form a means of getting the tanks across, but a considerable time
would necessarily elapse before the work, carried out under fire,
could be perfected; while it was evident, from the determined
resistance of the enemy, that the attackers were being held up by a
crack Prussian division.
The attacking 'planes flew well to the east of their objective, and,
turning, bore down, with the light of the rising sun well behind
them. It meant flying against the wind, but when engaged in raking a
trench, speed is not of paramount importance.
Five thousand feet above the machine-gunning biplanes hovered a
squadron of battleplanes, ready at the first appearance of a Hun to
swoop down and wipe him out of existence should he have the temerity
to attack. But not a German machine showed itself, and the huge
battleplanes had to be content with affording moral support to their
smaller sisters of the air.
The German infantry had no stomach for the swift death that
threatened from the sky. At the first appearance of the biplanes, the
field-greys promptly abandoned their fire-steps and dived into their
dug-outs. This was hardly what the British airmen expected, since it
is to little purpose to fire thousands of rounds of small-arm
ammunition into an empty trench.
Almost simultaneously three batteries of Archies opened fire, and
soon the biplanes were rocking, lurching, and side-slipping in the
air-eddies caused by the bursting shrapnel.
It was now the battleplanes' opportunity. Leaving two of their number
to wireless the news that the enemy trench was no longer held, the
remainder dived steeply at the troublesome anti-air-craft batteries.
Although one British machine was shot down completely out of control,
the remainder attained their objectives. With bombs of terrific
explosive power they wiped the Archies out of existence, and then
proceeded to drop more bombs upon the dug-outs in order to induce
Fritz to bolt from his lair.
Meanwhile the British infantry were advancing in open order with
fixed bayonets and preceded by bombers. Viewed from aloft, the
movement lacked vigour. A battle photograph, taken from an aeroplane,
is a very tame picture compared with the results obtained by daring
cinematographers, who frequently film the process of "going over the
top". The absence of sound--or rather the drowning of it by the roar
of the engine--the grotesque foreshortening of the figures, and their
relatively slow rate of progress all fail to convey any picturesque
aspect of a modern battle when observed from a machine flying high
overhead.
Derek was describing a series of circles, ready to traverse the line
of trenches at an instant's notice, when he saw a sight that bore
testimony to the stubborn nature of the Prussian infantryman. It was
not without a set purpose that the German High Command had manned
this sector with picked troops. Apparently the underground works were
of a very extensive nature, and concealed not only the troops
presumably in the trench, but very stiff reserves as well. At a
signal, the Prussians issued in swarms from their subterranean
retreats. Along the parapet flashed a crackling line of fire, as
machine-guns by scores and hundreds of rifles loosed their leaden
hail upon the advancing khaki troops.
No living creature could last for long in that fire-swept zone. The
ground was dotted with dead and wounded, many of the latter still
using their rifles against their foes. Individual courage was of no
avail against the diabolical scientific devices of the Huns, who used
petrol-bomb, flame-thrower, and poison-gas with horrible effect.
Stolidly the khaki-clad infantry retired to their former positions.
Here, on the defensive, and with their backs to the broad canal, they
must wait and sit tight until heavy artillery and tanks turned the
scale of battle.
It was a chance for the airmen. Up and down, often at less than
twenty feet above the densely-packed German lines, they flew, their
machine-guns cutting broad swaths in the field-grey masses. Often
hidden in clouds of smoke, risking collision with other British
machines, the biplanes soared and swooped until red-hot guns and
empty ammunition-trays called a halt.
Derek had just fired his last round, and was preparing to climb and
fly back for more ammunition, when, like a blow from a titanic
hammer, a fragment of shell shattered the swiftly-revolving blades of
the propeller. Other pieces of flying metal severed the
aileron-controls, cut jagged rents in the doped canvas fabric, and
damaged the tail planes.
Switching off the now useless motor, which had begun to race
furiously, Derek vainly endeavoured to glide back to the other side
of the canal. The effort was beyond the power of the crippled 'bus.
It was evident that, if not exactly out of control, there was very
little tractability in its nature.
"She's bound to crash," thought Derek. "Hope to goodness I can get
clear of Fritz's line."
In spite of imminent peril, and the possibility of a tremendous
crash, the young pilot's nerve did not desert him. Bullets were
flying past in showers of metal, for nothing pleases the Hun better
than to riddle a tricolour-circled machine that is falling helplessly
to earth.
The actual fall was of short duration, although to Derek it seemed of
interminable length. He mentally marked the spot where the ill-fated
machine would crash--a shell-pitted piece of ground about one hundred
and twenty yards from the first-line German trench.
"Now for it!" muttered Derek, as the ground appeared to rise to greet
the disabled mechanical bird. "What an unholy mess of things there'll
be!"
Relaxing his hold of the now useless joy-stick, and unfastening his
quick-release belt, Derek raised both hands above his head, grasped
and bore down the muzzle of his after machine-gun. Then, sliding
under the decking of the fuselage, he waited.
With a thud that shook every bone and muscle of his body, and
well-nigh wrenched his arms from their sockets, the biplane struck
the ground obliquely and nose first. The under-carriage splintered
into matchwood, while both tyres burst with reports like that of a
six-pounder gun. Then, rearing until the damaged tail stood
completely on end, the distorted fuselage poised in the air like a
grotesque obelisk, while the pilot, shaken and bruised, but otherwise
unhurt, scrambled as quickly as he could from the wreckage and
literally rolled into a shell-hole.
For some considerable time Derek lay motionless, listening to the
rattle of musketry and machine-gun fire, and the crackling of his
burning 'bus, until the increasing heat compelled him to make for
another crater.
Somewhat to his surprise, he found that he could move; he could even
have walked, but for the fact that it was highly desirable to keep
close to Mother Earth. So close together were the craters that at one
place their lips interlocked and formed a shallow gap. Through this
passage Derek began to make his way, noiselessly and stealthily.
If he had hoped to escape detection by the alert and vengeful Huns,
he was vastly mistaken. Already streams of bullets from half a dozen
machine-guns were playing upon the calcined earth that formed the
rims of the craters, while bombs were being lobbed into the burning
debris of the crashed biplane on the off-chance of "doing in" the
pilot should he have escaped being battered to death by the fall.
Even as he crawled a hot searing pain swept across his forehead.
Involuntarily he clapped one hand to his eye. His fingers were wet
with a warm fluid. It was his blood welling from a wound. A
machine-gun bullet had inflicted a clean gash on the lower part of
his forehead, completely cutting away the left eyebrow. It was a mere
scratch, but very painful, the worst result being the flow of blood
that, running into his eyes, temporarily blinded him.
It was some moments before Derek realized the comparatively slight
nature of his wound. Many a man has been hit in action, and regarded
his wound as slight when he has actually been hit in a vital spot.
Numerous instances have been recorded of a mortally-wounded man
"carrying on" in ignorance of the fact that in a very few moments his
name will have to be added to the list of "killed in action". On the
other hand, there have been cases of men but slightly hit, writhing
and squealing and moaning in the genuine belief that their "number is
up".
Finding himself hit, Derek lay motionless, his face buried in the
soft earth. Presently the hot stabbing pain diminished. A sense of
numbness that was almost soothing, compared with the searing throb of
the bullet-wound, began to assert itself. Even the cold ground seemed
like a downy pillow.
The while Fritz in the nearmost trench was indefatigable in his
efforts to complete the strafing of the crashed pilot. Thousands of
pounds of machine-gun ammunition were practically thrown away in
sweeping the dun-brown ridge of earth that encircled Derek's place of
concealment. Bombs, too, were continually being thrown, only to
explode harmlessly in the crumbling, carbonized soil, for beyond
sundry and various showers of dirt, the effect of these missiles was
negligible.
A quarter of an hour elapsed. Then Derek bestirred himself. It was
not the thought that he was lying in a somewhat exposed position, and
that a safer retreat in the bottom of the second crater was within a
few yards, that urged him to move. It was the sudden realization that
every second he was lying with an open wound in contact with the
earth he was running the greatest possible risk of septic poisoning
from the highly impure soil. He had known several cases where men
with chilblains had knocked the open sores against the side of a
trench, and the momentary contact with the septic soil had been
sufficient to cause acute blood-poisoning, resulting, in several
instances, in loss of a limb. On the other hand, the extreme velocity
of a bullet generates heat to such a degree that the missile is
sterilized before it hits a man, and, provided that no vital spot is
touched, the chances of complications arising from a bullet-wound are
very slight. With shell-wounds there is a difference. Minute
particles of German shells frequently cause slight wounds that,
unless carefully treated, become septic.
Derek freely admitted to himself that he "had the wind up" over the
possibilities of tetanus. Even as he resumed his tedious crawl he
incautiously showed the top of his head above the frail cover
afforded by the ridge. The Huns, quick to perceive something in
motion, swept the spot with their machine-guns. As a result Daventry
ducked, but not before there were three or four bullet-rents in his
leather flying-cap, while his triplex goggles, which he had pushed
back just before he had been hit, were cut away by a piece of metal.
Into the second crater he dropped, his legs buried above the knees of
his fleece-lined flying-boots in the soft soil. Here he was
relatively safe. He sat up and took stock of his surroundings: a
circular sloping wall of debris descending to a pool of stagnant
water eleven feet below the ordinary ground level. Here and there
were coils of rusty barbed wire and the remains of calcined posts,
while a Hun's "Dolly Varden" tin hat, sporting a bullet-hole front
and back, and a battered dixie, alone served to break the monotony of
the limited expanse of landscape.
Derek's wound was still bleeding freely. He made no attempt to
staunch the flow, knowing that there was a chance of the cut
cleansing itself. His old 'bus had practically burnt itself out. The
fierce flames were succeeded by a thick, oily smoke that drifted in
clouds across the crater and eddied down the slope, as if reluctant
to soar and dissolve in the comparatively pure air above. It was with
the greatest difficulty that the pilot managed to refrain from
coughing. Temporarily the musketry-fire had ceased and comparative
silence reigned. Any noise coming from the crater would inevitably
betray the presence of a yet-living man to the vigilant Huns. Yet, on
the other hand, the smoke was of service. It acted as a screen and
prevented the Germans seeing their foes; and behind this pall of
smoke fresh British troops were massing for another attack, while the
methods adopted for bridging the canal for the passage of the tanks
were being carried out at high pressure.
Then ensued a tedious period of inactivity. Both British and German
guns were firing desultorily, the former putting over heavy stuff,
while the Huns contented themselves by "watering" the back-areas with
high-velocity shells of medium calibre. Overhead British aeroplanes
passed and repassed--big bombing-machines, intent on their ceaseless
task of harrying Fritz's lines of communication.
The crashed pilot was now almost unmolested. The tic-tac of the
German machine-guns had ceased, but, with their customary cunning,
the Huns would, after a period of inactivity, suddenly send over a
number of bombs. As long as they had the faintest suspicion that
somebody was alive in the crater they meant to continue the strafing.
A remorseless resentment towards the British airman who had so
effectually machine-gunned their trenches urged them to complete
their task of wiping out the cause of their discomfiture. Just as
likely as not, the moment darkness set in Fritz would dispatch a
party to search thoroughly the scene of the biplane's crash.
Fervently Derek hoped that the tanks would be in action before night
fell.
The misty sun sank lower and lower in the western sky. Steadily and
stealthily the shadow of the lip of the crater rose higher and higher
upon the opposite slope. Evening mists were rising from the dank,
unwholesome soil. Then, as the sun set, away to the north-east, and
again to the south-west, a steady rumble, and the glare of numerous
searchlights and star-shells, betokened considerable activity; while
behind the German lines the sky glowered in the light of dozens of
burning ammunition-dumps. Notwithstanding the determined resistance
offered in this sector of the line, the Germans were preparing for a
further retreat and abandonment of ground implacably held by them for
more than four long years.
Listening intently, Derek heard slight, but unmistakable sounds of
movement in the Hun trenches. Keenly alive to his chances of being
carried off as a prisoner by a raiding-party, the pilot began to
climb on hands and knees up the slippery, sliding soil of the crater
in the direction of the British lines. It was a dangerous business,
for, in the open, he would be exposed to the fire from friend and
foe, but that was preferable to being hauled off to a German prison
camp.
Literally worming his way, Derek slid over the top of the crater and
gained the comparatively level ground beyond. Here he lay, inert and
silent, his ears strained to catch the faintest sound. He was not
mistaken. Even as he was crawling from his place of concealment a
number of Huns were, with equal caution, descending into the crater
to search for a possible prisoner.
"I'll have a say in the matter," thought Derek, as he loosened his
automatic-pistol in its holster. "If they wander round this way I'll
give them a few rounds and then run for it. There'll be a risk of
being strafed by our own people, but that's preferable to being done
in by a Boche."
Fortunately the necessity of having to use his pistol did not arise,
for the Huns, having made a survey of the wreckage of the EG machine
and the interior of the two craters, were evidently satisfied. No
doubt they were "jumpy", groping about in the darkness, for after a
few minutes they cleared off as silently as they came.
Waiting for another quarter of an hour Derek resumed his way on all
fours towards the British trenches. It was a tedious journey, for
wherever, as frequently happened, a star-shell lit up the ground he
had to remain immobile, simulating one of the many corpses that
littered the ground. The slightest movement would have brought down a
hail of machine-gun bullets and possibly a few unpleasantly-accurate
rifle-shots from the alert Tommies, and, having gone thus far, Derek
was becoming more and more anxious not to receive these attentions.
At length he reached a shell-hole within ten yards of the
hastily-improvised parapet of sand-bags. Here he lay listening to the
men conversing in low tones. Much of their language was lurid, but
nevertheless it was like music to hear English voices again after
hours of mental and bodily tension.
He whistled softly. Then a voice hissed out a challenge.
"It's all right," replied Derek. "I'm one of the R.A.F. Can I make a
dash for it?"
A consultation between several of the men followed, then a voice
spoke:
"In you come. Take your chance; but Heaven help you if you try any
monkey-tricks. We'll riddle you."
The pilot waited till the blinding glare of a star-shell gave place
to opaque darkness. Then, judging his direction, he made his way to
the line of sandbags and crawled over the top.
Into the trench he rolled, to find himself confronted by the dull
gleam of a bayonet.
"Looks all right, Sergeant," reported one of the men.
"Maybe," replied a non-com. "At anyrate take him along to the
Platoon-Commander."
The subaltern was frankly sympathetic.
"You've had a rotten time, old man," he observed. "We'll send you
back as soon as poss. There'll be a tender waiting on the other side
of the canal, and you'll be in the dressing-station in half a jiffy.
Risky work, yours."
"I wouldn't change jobs," replied Derek, striving to raise a smile,
but disastrously. It was a difficult matter to use his facial muscles
when an eyebrow was missing. "Yours is a sticky business, and, by
Jove! a fellow can't help admiring the infantry. They've all the hard
work to do."
"Collar-work, perhaps," agreed the Platoon-Commander. "But the way
you fellows do stunts over Jerry's lines gives me the creeps."
"Safe enough," protested Derek, "except, of course, when Fritz gets
one in with his Archibalds. I'm going in for a soft job after the
war."
"What's that?" enquired the infantry officer.
"Flying," replied the R.A.F. officer. "You mark my words, it'll be
one of the safest things going. I think I'll sign on as pilot to a
fat city alderman. Take him every day from Hyde Park to the Mansion
House in a 240-h.p. Scout. Jolly sight healthier than skidding all
over the shop in a car."
"Glad you think so," rejoined the subaltern. "Well, here you are.
This Corporal will guide you past our reserve trenches. Good luck!"
Without mishap Derek followed the Corporal through the maze of
hostile-constructed trenches and across the canal by means of a
barrier of sandbags covered with "corduroyed" timber. In a sunken
lane were several A.S.C. motor-vehicles which had just brought up the
rations.
"Here you are, sir!" exclaimed the Corporal. "This tender's just
off."
"Not so fast, mate," protested the driver, who was sweating profusely
in his efforts to start the engine. "She's a fair mule. Come and bear
a hand."
Even as the obliging Corporal grasped the cranking-handle a shell
burst within twenty yards of the stationary motor-vehicle. Derek
ducked involuntarily as he felt the blast of the explosion and the
screech of the flying fragments. He was untouched, but the luckless
Corporal was lying motionless on the ground, while the driver of the
tender was swearing softly as he fumbled for his first-aid dressing.
"I've copped it, sir," he reported. "Got it somewhere in the thigh.
It's a Blighty for me, I reckon."
He paused, then, producing a knife, began to cut away his clothing
with the deftness acquired by experimenting on his comrades.
"Now if I could get hold of a mate to start her up," he continued
ruminatingly, "I'd soon drive the pair o' us to the
dressing-station."
"I'll have a shot at it," volunteered Derek, and grasping the handle
he swung it vigorously.
The next instant he was nursing a broken arm.