AIR RAIDS
When I left the shores of France I thought I was permanently out of
danger from the death-dealing missiles of the enemy; not that I cared
much then; I had received such a blow that I should not greatly have
regretted a stroke that would have ended my earthly career. But the arm
of Germany was long, the ingenuity of the War Lords great; by means of
their magnificent submarines they had carried the war to the shores of
England, so by their superb air force they were to bring it to the heart
of London; indeed, by their Zeppelins, those crowning failures of their
efficiency, they had already done that.
I had been in London but a short time when, on Saturday, July 21st,
1917, I had my first experience of an air raid in a crowded city. At the
time I was in St. Mark's Hospital, undergoing my preliminary training
for St. Dunstan's, at the moment in the ward receiving instruction in
Braille. Shortly before noon some one entered the room and exclaimed
jubilantly that a vast flock of aeroplanes, estimated at from thirty to
sixty, were manoeuvring at a great height in battle formation over the
city, and we were congratulating ourselves that the War Office had at
length aroused itself and was demonstrating its ability to cope with any
attack by heavier-than-air machines that the enemy might send over. As
we listened to the news and longed for our eyes that we might have a
sight of this spectacle, the thunderous report of a bursting bomb
undeceived us. These planes were not marked with the friendly
tricoloured circles, but with the ominous cross. There were cries of
terror, a hurrying of feet, a near panic as bomb succeeded bomb. Many of
us had been disciplined to war conditions, had dodged bombs at the Somme
and Vimy Ridge, dodged them when shrapnel was spraying about us and
machine-gun and rifle bullets made the air hiss on every side; but this
attack in the heart of a great city was not without its terrifying
aspect. After having escaped death on the battle-field, it would be
horrible to have to meet it in the tumbling ruins of a crushed building.
But we faced the situation stoically. London and its suburbs had over
7,000,000 people, and, by the theory of chances, we concluded that we
were not likely to be hit.
This was the first Hun aeroplane success over London, the only one in
which he accomplished anything of value from a military point of view,
one bomb knocking a corner off the General Post Office, St. Martin's in
the Field, and almost disrupting the whole of the telegraph system that
was carrying messages to and from military headquarters. There was, of
course, the usual slaughter of defenceless women and children, deeds
that the Hun hoped would terrorize England, lower the _moral_ of her
people, and keep a large army within the island for home defence. How
little he knew the British race! The deplorable thing in connection with
the raid was that while it was in progress there was not a single
machine in the air combatting the attackers, and not an anti-aircraft
gun in action. The War Office needed to be roused from its slumbers. It
was; and when the next raiders came over they had a warm reception.
My next experience was in the open. One day I was walking through
London's streets when the approach of a raiding force was announced.
Shelters were by this time provided for the citizens, and to one of
these underground bomb-proof spots, a tube, I made my way. At this time,
London was largely a city of women and foreigners--at least so it seemed
to me. I had evidently hit upon a shelter of a most cosmopolitan
character. The place was packed with a frightened mob, trembling and
groaning with terror, and expressing their fears in many tongues utterly
unknown to me. The air was stifling with that distinctive odour that
seems to emanate from the great unwashed; in this case garlic seemed to
be the prevailing perfume. It was a mixed crowd, however, and women in
silks rubbed shoulders with women in tattered gowns, all moved by the
one thought--self-preservation. Most of them, I judged by their cries
and gasps, were almost insane with terror. But there were heroines
among them. Two women near me were holding an animated conversation.
"Say," said one, "ain't it time that this war wuz over? Why don't they
stop? I haven't been in bed to stay for over six nights, and I'm getting
tired of it all."
The answer told the real spirit of the average British woman, a spirit
that was doing much to win the war.
"Liza," replied the first speaker's companion, in a somewhat indignant
voice, "Bill's over there, ain't 'e? 'E's tryin' to stop that ----
blighter from treatin' us like 'e did the women of Belgium and France.
'E's gettin' this every day, and still smiles and sticks it. Yer can't
git me to say stop it. Carry on is my motter till the ---- Hun is
slugged out of existence."
This rough, humble Cockney woman displayed the same spirit that was
being shown by the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps in France. The girls of
this corps took it upon themselves to do the work that was being done by
men who thought themselves permanently installed in bomb-proof jobs.
What is more, they did it well. Take this one instance. During the
German drive of 1918, some of these girls were working in canteens a
short distance behind the front line. As the Germans swept forward with
irresistible might, and had almost reached the camps and billets where
the W.A.A.C.'s were, the girls were ordered to leave the danger zone in
motor lorries. They refused, saying: "Those waggons can be used to carry
wounded men back; we can walk." And walk they did; slinging their packs
on their backs and marching nineteen miles over rough, muddy roads. But
not all of them; some of the boldest stayed behind to see that the boys
got hot tea or coffee to revive their tired, in most cases, wounded and
broken bodies. Their courage brought them under shell-fire; but they
carried on dauntlessly. During my last days in London, when I was
singing at one of their hostels, I met four of these women, each of whom
had lost a leg, and one was proudly wearing a Military Medal.
The woman of the tube and the refined W.A.A.C.'s were "sisters under the
skin." Had the former had her way, she would have been at Bill's side,
handing him cartridges while he potted the enemy.
While I was at the Bungalow, we had a somewhat thrilling experience from
air raids. In September, 1917, the raiders were exceptionally bold, and
during the first ten days of the month visited London no fewer than
eight times. Night after night we were roused by the whistling of sirens
and the bursting of maroons, thin shells that made a big noise, warning
all that an air raid was in progress, and giving pedestrians and others
a chance to take shelter from enemy bombs and the shrapnel of the
anti-aircraft guns, the latter even a greater menace to those in the
open than the former. On one of these nights I, with two Canadian chums,
sightless like myself, had just entered the Bungalow when the maroons
began to explode and the whistles to shriek. Bed was out of the
question. Besides, the matron, Mrs. Craven, would be up on the instant
to look after her boys. True to form, the matron appeared, and we drew
up one of the Davenports in front of a cheerful grate fire.
"Are all you boys feeling right?" asked the matron.
Before we had time to answer, the anti-aircraft guns opened up their
barrage. They seemed to be shooting right over the Bungalow, for pieces
of shrapnel clattered on the roof like great hailstones. One piece,
about a pound in weight, smashed through the roof and into the matron's
room. As we sat there, overhead we could hear the angry droning of the
Hun planes and the whistling rush of the dropping bombs, each moment
expecting one to crash among us. A bomb that dropped near by, in St.
John's Wood, sounded as it if were going to pay us a visit, and I
nervously remarked: "This one is ours, Matron!"
"Well, Rawlinson," she replied, without a quiver in her voice, "we are
still soldiers, you know, and if it comes, what better could we ask than
a soldier's death."
That night four bombs dropped in the grounds within a radius of four
hundred yards, but fortunately none of them did any material damage.
On another night we were being entertained at one of the delightful
concerts arranged for us by the staff. The concert was at its height
when the guns opened up. Our entertainers suggested stopping the
performance, but we objected to having such a trifling matter as an air
raid interfere with our fun, and the concert went merrily on, and before
it was over the Huns were beating it for home, chased by daring British
aviators.
On several occasions the raiders hove in sight after the inmates of the
Bungalow were all in bed. But Sir Arthur had seen to it that we should
be warned in time, so that in case we received a direct hit we should
not be caught like rats in a trap. News of the approaching raiders was
sent in by the telephone simultaneously with its receipt by the police
authorities, and one of the orderlies on watch visited the rooms and
roused the men, instructing any who so wished to take refuge in the
shrapnel-proof cellars over at the House. Needless to say, none of the
boys rushed for shelter--not from our ward, at any rate. We either got
up and dressed to enjoy the thrill of listening to the droning planes,
bursting bombs, and clattering shrapnel, or lay in bed, quietly taking
the whole matter with philosophical indifference. The danger signal came
as soon as the raiders crossed the East Coast, and then all was hubbub
and excitement in London until the "all clear" was sounded by that
gallant little--little in body, but big in heart--band of boys known as
the Boy Scouts, who were posted at every police station.
No doubt many of us felt a bit "windy" during these raids, but in the
presence of the other fellow we would not show it. Our buildings and
grounds, right in the heart of London, were most conspicuous; and,
besides, Regent's Park was not without its military importance, for in
it were kept the aerodrome stores. Its lake and the canal which runs
between it and the Zoo, made it a shining mark for the Hun bombers. But
we stood our ground fearlessly through all these raids, listening to the
din of this aerial warfare, awed not so much by the explosions as by the
bedlam created in the Zoo, where, as soon as a raid was on, the lions
roared, elephants madly trumpeted, monkeys chattered, parrots shrieked,
and wolves howled dismally.