Transcriber's notes:
Normalised hyphenation and punctuation. Obvious typos corrected, but
all other spelling errors (especially in dialogue) have been left
unchanged.
Italicised text is surrounded with _underscores_.
AIR MEN O' WAR
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AIR MEN O' WAR
BY
BOYD CABLE
AUTHOR OF "BETWEEN THE LINES," "ACTION FRONT,"
"GRAPES OF WRATH," "FRONT LINES," ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 Fifth Avenue
Copyright 1919
By E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved_
_Printed in the United States of America_
TO ALL
AIR MEN O' WAR
AND ESPECIALLY TO THOSE WHO ARE OR HAVE BEEN ON THE WESTERN FRONT,
WHOSE HOSPITALITY AND FRIENDSHIP I HAVE ENJOYED, AND TO WHOSE HELP
AND INTEREST THESE TALES ARE LARGELY DUE, THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED AS A
TRIBUTE OF ADMIRATION AND A TOKEN OF CHERISHED FRIENDSHIP BY
The Author.
In the Field,
_September 5th_, 1918.
FOREWORD
It has been my endeavour throughout these tales not only to chronicle
some of the wonderful work done in the air, but also to show the
connection between it and that of the Armies on the ground, the
assistance rendered in so many ways by the air arm, and its value in
a battle and in a campaign. I hope that my stories may show something
of the skill and daring of the air men and--what is less well known to
the public--how much they are doing to save the lives and cut down the
casualties of the men on the ground, and to help our arms to victory.
Already I have been rebuked for exaggerating and making my characters
perform impossible feats, so I may forewarn the reader that I have
written nothing here for which I cannot find an actual parallel--and
in some cases even more wonderful--fact. Practically every incident I
have pieced into my tales has, to my own knowledge, occurred, and I
have left untold many which for sheer sensationalism would beat these
hollow. There are many in the Air Force who will recognise incidents
and feats, but will not recognise the characters I have attached to
them, because--mainly at the urgent wish of the men themselves--I have
used entirely fictitious characters and names throughout. Because most
of the writing was done while the R.N.A.S. and R.F.C. were still in
existence I have left this as written.
I ask the indulgence of critical readers amongst the air men to any
technical errors they may discover (knowing how keenly they will look
for them). I make no pretence to being a flying man myself, but because
I have done flying enough--or rather have been flown, since I am not
a pilot--to know and appreciate some of the dangers and risks and
sensations of the work, and have lived for over a year in the Squadrons
at the Front, I cherish the hope that I have absorbed enough of the
nature and atmosphere of the work to present a true picture of the
life. I shall be very well content if I have been able to do this, and,
in any slightest degree, make plain how vital to success a strong Air
Force is. I have had experience enough of the line, and have gained
enough knowledge of the air, to be tremendously impressed with the
belief, which I have tried in this book to pass on and spread, that
every squadron added, every man trained, every single machine put in
the air, helps in its own measure to bring us to final victory, more
quickly, and at a less cost in the long and heavy "butcher's bill" of
the war.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Silver Wings 1
II. Bring Home the 'Bus 14
III. A Tender Subject 32
IV. A Good Day 46
V. A Rotten Formation 57
VI. Quick Work 68
VII. The Air Masters 80
VIII. "The Attack was Broken" 94
IX. If They Knew---- 107
X. The Fo-fum's Reputation 120
XI. Like Gentlemen 131
XII. "Air Activity" 146
XIII. The Little Butcher 164
XIV. A Cushy Job 178
XV. No Thoroughfare 185
XVI. Thrills 196
XVII. The Sequel 212
XVIII. The Raid Killers 232
I
SILVER WINGS
An old man working in one of the aircraft factories once complained
that he was not very satisfied with his job. "I've got three boys
out Front, all in the infantry; and I keep thinkin' to myself, Why
shouldn't I be doin' some sort of munition work that 'ud help my own
three boys? I don't know a livin' soul in the Flyin' Corpse; why should
I be workin' for them, an' not makin' shells or bombs or suthin' that
'ud be helpin' my own three boys?"
And then somebody told him how he _was_ helping his boys, what the
work of the air services really meant, how the artillery observation,
and photographing, and bombing, and directing the guns on to hostile
batteries and machine-gun emplacements, and so on, all worked up to the
one great end, to making the task easier for the infantry, to saving
the lives of the men on the ground; and told a few stories of some of
the ninety and nine ways this help works out.
The old man was fully satisfied and grateful for all that was told
him, and declared he'd go back to his job with twice the heart--"just
knowin' I'm doin' mebbe the best work I could, and that I'm givin' real
help to my own three boys."
Amongst the tales told him the one of "Silver Wings" perhaps impressed
him most, and that, probably because it bore more plainly its own
meaning of help to the infantry, was more easy to make clear than the
technicalities of artillery observation and the rest.
And just because it is such a good instance of how, after all, the
chief or only end and aim of the air services is the helping to victory
of the men on the ground this story of "Silver Wings" may be worth the
telling here.
Hard fighting had been in progress for some days, and the flying
men had been kept desperately busy from dawn to dark on the various
branches of their several works, when a "dud day"--a day of rain and
squalls and hurricane winds--gave them a chance to rest.
Toward afternoon the weather showed signs of abating a little, and
word came through to the Squadron to which "Silver Wings" belonged
asking if they could get a machine in the air and make a short patrol
over the line on a special reconnaissance. A heavy and unpleasantly
gusty wind was still blowing, but a pilot and machine were picked for
the job and presently made the attempt. An anxious Squadron Commander
and a good many of the pilots watched the trial and saw the quick
result. The machine was brought out with mechanics hanging to the
wing-tips to steady her against the gusts, the engine started and given
a trial run up; then the pilot eased her off, looked round, felt his
controls, ran the engine up again until his machine was throbbing and
quivering to the pull of the whirling propeller, and waved the signal
to haul away the chocks that blocked his wheels. His machine began at
once to taxi up into the wind, still swaying and swinging dangerously,
and then, in answer to the pilot's touch, lifted clear of the ground,
ducked a second, rose again and swooped upward. The watching crowd let
go a breath of relief as she rose clear, but before the breath was out
it changed to a gasp of horror as the machine, caught by some current
or eddy of wind, swerved, heeled, righted under the desperate effort
of the pilot, slipped sideways, and with a sudden swoop plunged and
crashed on the ground. The machine was hopelessly smashed and the pilot
was dead when they ran and came to him and picked him up.
The Squadron Commander would have abandoned or postponed the attempt
to get a machine up, but the pilot of "Silver Wings" spoke to him
and urged that he be allowed to have a try. "I'm sure I can get her
off," he said. "I'll take her right over to the far side of the ground
clear of the currents round the sheds. I know what she can do, and I'm
certain I can make it."
So the Major gave a reluctant consent, and they all watched
breathlessly again while "Silver Wings" fought her way along the ground
against the wind, lifted suddenly, drove level for a hundred feet,
swooped sickeningly again until her wheels were a bare six feet off
the ground, hoicked up and away. Everyone could see by her dips and
dives and sudden heelings and quick righting how bumpy and gusty the
air was, and it was not until she was up several hundred feet, and came
curving round with the wet light shining on her silvery planes that the
watchers on the ground heaved a sigh of relief, watched her streak off
down wind, and swing in a climbing turn that lifted her farther and
farther into the safety of height.
"He's all right now," said one. "Only, the Lord help him when he comes
to land again." The hum of the engine droned down to them, and the
shining wings wheeled again close up against the dark background of the
low clouds and shot swiftly down wind towards the lines.
Over the lines she turned again and began to fight her way across
wind and moving slowly north. The wind constantly forced her drifting
over Hunland, and in accordance with his orders to hold close along
the front, the pilot had to keep making turns that brought him facing
back to the west and fighting slowly up wind, edging off a little and
slanting north and watching the landscape slide off sideways under
him. And so, tacking and manœuvring buffeted and wind-blown, he edged
his way along the front, his eyes alternately on the instrument-board
and on the ground and puffing shell smoke beneath, his ears filled
with the roar of his engine and the shriek and boom of the wind
beating about him, his hands and feet in constant motion, juggling
with controls, feeling, balancing, handling the throbbing horse-power
and the wind-tossed fabric under him. And so at last, at the end of a
hard-fought hour, he came to the spot he sought, circled and "sat over
it" for five minutes, and watched and tried to pick up the details of
the struggle that spluttered and spat in smoke-puffs and flashing jets
of fire and leaping spouts of earth and smoke beneath him. He began
to piece together the meaning of what he could see, and of what he
had been told before he set out. A body of our infantry in the attack
had gone too far, or their supports had not come far enough, with the
result that they had been cut off and surrounded and were fighting
desperately to hold off the infantry attacks that pressed in on them
under a heavy supporting artillery fire. The cut-off party were hidden
from the view of our front line by a slight ridge and a wrecked and
splintered wood, and their desperate straits, the actual fact of their
still being in existence, much less their exact location, was unknown
to our side. This much the pilot knew or was able to figure out; what
he could not know was the surge of hope, the throb of thankfulness that
came to the hard-pressed handful below him as they saw the glancing
light flash from his hovering "Silver Wings." They made signals to him,
waving a dirty flag and straining their eyes up for any sign that he
saw and understood. And with something very near to despair in their
hearts they saw the shining wings slant and drive slowly up into the
wind and draw away from over their heads.
"No good, Jones," said a smoke and dirt-grimed young officer to the man
still waving the flag. "He doesn't see us, I'm afraid. Better put that
down and go back and help hold off those bombers."
"Surely he'd hear all this firing, sir," said the man, reluctantly
ceasing to wave.
"I think his engine and the wind drowns any noise down here," said the
officer. "And if he hears anything, there's plenty of heavy gunfire all
along the front going up to him."
"But wouldn't he see the shells falling amongst us, sir, and the bombs
bursting, and so on?" said the man.
"Yes; but he is seeing thousands of shells and bombs along the line
from up there," said the officer; "and I suppose he wouldn't know this
wasn't just a bit of the ordinary front."
Another man crawled over the broken débris of the trench to where they
stood. "Mister Waller has been hit, sir," he said; "an' he said to tell
you it looks like they was musterin' for another rush over where he is."
"Badly hit?" said the officer anxiously. "All right, I'll come along."
"He sees us, sir," said the man with the flag, in sudden excitement.
"Look, he's fired a light."
"Pity we haven't one to fire," said the officer. "But that might be a
signal to anyone rather than to us."
He turned to crawl after the man who had brought the message, and at
the same moment a rising rattle of rifle-fire and the quick following
detonations of bursting bombs gave notice of a fresh attack being
begun. Still worse, he heard the unmistakable tat-tat-tat of renewed
machine-gun fire, and a stream of bullets began to pour in on them from
a group of shell-holes to their right flank, less than a hundred yards
from the broken trench they held. Under cover of this pelting fire,
that forced the defenders to keep their heads down and cost them half
a dozen quick casualties amongst those who tried to answer it, the
German bombers crept closer in from shell-hole to shell-hole, and their
grenades came over in faster and thicker showers. The little circle of
ground held by the group belched spurts of smoke, hummed to the passage
of bullets, crackled and snapped under their impact, quivered every now
and then to the crash and burst of shells. They had been fighting since
the night before; they were already running short of ammunition, would
have been completely short of bombs but for the fact of the ground they
had taken having held a concreted dug-out with plentiful stores of
German bombs and grenades which they used to help out their own supply.
The attack pressed savagely; it began to look as if it would be merely
a matter of minutes before the Germans rushed the broken trenches they
held, and then, as they knew, they must be overwhelmed by sheer weight
of numbers. Waller, the wounded officer, had refused to be moved. "I'll
stay here and see it out," he said; "I don't suppose that will be long
now;" and the other, the young lieutenant who was the only officer
left on his feet by this time, could say no more than a hopeful "Maybe
we'll stand 'em off a bit yet," and leave him there to push along the
trench to where the fire and bombing were heaviest and where the rush
threatened to break in.
The din was deafening, a confused uproar of rifles and machine-guns
cracking and rattling out in front and banging noisily in their own
trench, of bombs and grenades crashing sharply on the open or booming
heavily in the trench bottom, of shells whooping and shrieking overhead
or _crumping_ savagely on the ground, and, as a background of noise to
all the other noises, the long rolling, unbroken thunder of the guns on
both sides far up and down the lines.
But above all the other din the lieutenant caught a new sound, a
singing, whirring _boo-oo-oom_ that rose to a deep-throated roar with
a sharp staccato _rap-tap-tap-tap_ running through it. He looked up
towards the sound and saw, so close that he half ducked his head, a
plunging shape, a flashing streak of silver light that swept over his
head and dived straight at the ground beyond his trench, with stabbing
jets of orange flame spitting out ahead of it. A bare fifty feet off
the ground where the Germans crouched in their shell-holes "Silver
Wings" swooped up sharply, curved over, dived again with the flashes
of her gun flickering and streaming, and the bullets hailing down on
the heads of the attackers. It was more than the Germans, lying open
and exposed to the overhead attack, could bear. They scrambled from
their holes, floundered and ran crouching back for the shelter of
deeper trenches, while the lieutenant, seeing his chance, yelled and
yelled again at his men to fire, and seized a rifle himself to help
cut down the demoralised attack. He could see now how close a thing
it had been for them, the weight of the attack that presently would
have swarmed over them. The ground was alive with running, scrambling
grey figures, until the bullets pelting amongst them cut them down or
drove them headlong to cover again. Then his men stopped firing and
watched with hoarse cheering and shouts the dives and upward leaps of
the silvery shape, her skimmings along the ground, her upward wheeling
climbs followed by the plunging dives with fire spitting and sparkling
from her bows. The Germans were firing at her now with rifles and
machine-guns until she turned on the spot where these last were nested,
drove straight at them and poured long clattering bursts of fire upon
them until they were silenced.
Then she turned and flew over the broken British trenches so close
that the men in them could see the leather-clad head and arm of the
pilot leaning over the side, could see his wave to them, the flung
packet that dropped with fluttering streamers down amongst them. The
packet carried a note jerkingly scribbled in pencil: "Hang on. I'm
taking word of where you are, so that they can send help to you. Good
luck."
The lieutenant, when he had read, handed the message to a sergeant
and told him to pass it along round the men. And they read and shouted
cheers they knew he could not hear to the pilot lifting the "Silver
Wings" steadily into the sky and back towards the lines. He was high
enough now for the "Archies" to bear on him again, and from their
trenches the men watched with anxious hearts and throbs of fear and
hope the black puffs of smoke that broke rapidly above, below, and
about the glinting silver. He made desperately slow speed against the
heavy wind, but fortunately had not far to go before he was far enough
back to be over the lines and out of reach of the Archies. Then just
when it seemed that he was safe, when the Archie shells had ceased
suddenly to puff about him, the watchers saw another machine drop from
the cover of a cloud, dive straight down on the little silver shape,
saw the silver wings widen as they turned sharply upward to face the
enemy, wheel and shoot sideways to avoid the dive. With beating hearts
and straining eyes they watched the two dipping and curving, lifting
and diving, wheeling and circling about each other. The battle noises
drowned all sound of their guns, but they knew well the rapid rattle of
fire that was going on up there, the exchange of shots, the streaming
bullets that poured about both, thought at last they could catch the
sound of the firing clearly, could see the black cross and circled red,
white, blue, that marked enemy and friend as the two machines drifted
back in their fighting down wind until they were almost overhead.
Once the watchers gasped as the enemy dived on "Silver Wings" and she
slipped sideways and came down a thousand feet nose first and spinning
in dizzy circles. The gasp changed to a cry of relief as the "Silver
Wings" righted, zoomed sharply up, whirled round, and in turn dived
on the enemy machine, that had overshot his pursuing dive and come
below her. And the cry changed again to a yell of applause, a burst
of cheers, as the enemy swerved suddenly, slid drunkenly sideways
and down, rolled over, and fell away in a spinning dive, swoop after
sickening swoop, that ended crashing in a clump of wood half a mile
away. A wind-blown torrent of streaming black smoke marked the place of
the fall and the fate of the enemy. "Silver Wings" turned again, and
fought her way back towards the lines, with the Archie shells puffing
and splashing about her.
Down in their trenches the isolated cluster of men set about
strengthening their defences with new heart, made with a new hope
preparations to withstand the next attacks. It was not long before they
had help--a help that the guns, knowing now exactly where they were
although they could not see, could send in advance of the rescuing
attack. A barrage of shells began to pound down beyond them, out to
their right and left, and even behind them. "Silver Wings" had dropped
her message, and the shells brought the answer plain to the cut-off
party. They knew that they were located, that the guns would help out
their defence, that rescue would come to them as speedily as might be.
The actual rescue came presently in the shape of an attack over the
ground they had covered the day before. Before it came they had to
beat off one or two more enemy rushes, but this time the help of those
barraging shells stood them in good stead, the sweeping shrapnel
prevented the enemy creeping in to occupy in comparative safety the
shell-holes round the position, the steady fall of high explosives
broke down the enemy trenches and checked free movement in them. The
Germans were badly pounded on that portion of front, so that when the
rescuing attack was made, it fought its way rapidly forward, and the
isolated party were able to do something to help it merely by hanging
to their position, by rear and flanking fire on the Germans who held
the ground between them and the attacking line. The attack resulted in
the whole line being pushed forward to the ridge behind the separated
party, holding it, and thrusting forward a little salient which took in
the ground the party had hung to so stoutly, consolidated, and held it
firm.
The rescued men were passed back to their lines, and--most of them--to
the casualty clearing stations. And when the lieutenant brought the
remnant of his company back to the battalion, he told the Battalion
Commander his end of the story, and heard in return how the message of
their whereabouts had been brought back and how it had directed the
movement that had got them out. The lieutenant wanted to send a word
of thanks to "Silver Wings" and her pilot, but this the C.O. told him
he could not do. "The pilot was lifted out of his machine and taken
straight to the C.C.S.,[1]" he said. "He was wounded by rifle-fire from
the ground when he first dived to help you beat off that attack. No,
not seriously, I'm glad to say, but he'd lost a lot of blood, and he
got rather knocked about landing and broke his machine a bit I believe."
[1] Casualty Clearing Station.
"Wounded," said the lieutenant slowly, "and at that time. So he kept on
diving his machine about and fighting after he was wounded; and went
through that air fight with his wound, and shot the Hun down, and then
came on back and gave his message----" "Dropped a note straight into
the signallers at Brigade Headquarters," said the C.O.
The lieutenant drew a deep breath. "We knew we were owing him a lot,"
he said. "But it seems we were owing even more than we thought."
"And I'm beginning to think," said the C.O., "that all of us here on
the ground are owing more than we've known to those fellows in the air."
II
BRING HOME THE 'BUS
For ten minutes past the observer had been alternately studying his map
and the ground 20,000 feet below, and now he leaned forward out of his
cockpit, touched the pilot on the shoulder, and made a slight signal
with his hand. Immediately the machine began to swing in a wide curve,
while the observer busied himself with his camera and exposed plate
after plate.
He looked up and out a moment as there came to his ear, dully but
unmistakably above the roar of the engine, the hoarse "_woof_" of a
bursting anti-aircraft shell. The black smoke of the burst showed a
good hundred yards out to their left and some hundreds of feet above
them, and the observer returned to his photographing.
"_Woof_" came another shell, and then in quick succession another and
another, the last one dead ahead and with such correct elevation that,
a second later, the machine flashed through the streaming black smoke
of the burst. The pilot looked back inquiringly, and the observer made
a sign which meant "Do what you please," and sat back to wait until the
pilot took such steps as he thought fit to disarrange the aim of the
gunners below.
The harsh rending cough of another shell came so close beneath the
machine that both men felt her distinctly jolt upward, twisting from
the wind shock. The pilot waited no more. He jammed the controls hard
over and flung the machine out in a vicious side-slip, caught her at
the end of it, tipped her nose over and plunged straight down with the
engine full on for a thousand feet, banked sharply, pivoting fairly on
his wing-tip, and shot off at right angles to his former course for a
quarter of a mile; then, climbing slightly as he went, swung hard round
again, dipped a little to gather speed, hoicked hard up, and in a few
seconds was back somewhere about the position at which he had first
departed from the course.
Back about the point where they had last turned a string of black
smoke-puffs flashed out rapidly. The pilot shut his engine off for an
instant. "Fooled 'em that time," he yelled back, and grinned gleefully
at his observer. The observer peered out carefully and exposed another
plate, turned and passed another signal to the pilot. Instantly the
engine roared out, and the machine tipped her bows down and went
plunging earthward. The observer watched the needle of his height
indicator drop back and back through 20,000, 19, 18, 17, 16, hang there
an instant, leap up again to 16 and 17. There it stayed quivering for
ten seconds, while the machine hurtled forward at a hundred miles an
hour on a level keel. There the pilot dropped her nose a little again
and went slanting down with the engine full on, and the needle of the
speed indicator climbing up and up until the speed touched 140 miles an
hour and the height indicator dropped to a 14,000-foot level.
The Archie shells were spouting and splashing round them in all
directions, but their erratic course had sufficiently upset the gunners
to bring the bursts well out and clear, and the pilot made the last
steep dizzying plunge that brought him to the 10,000-foot height his
observer had asked for. But at this height they were well within the
range of smaller Archie batteries, and the observer jerked the handle
of his camera to and fro at intervals, with the racking cough of the
shells sounding perilously close, and the reek of their burst at times
swirling past as the machine tore through their smoke. Three times
heavy splinters _whurred_ viciously past them, and once a sharp crack
and rip left a gaping black rent in the cloth of the body close astern
of the observer.
For a good ten minutes the machine circled and swung and darted to and
fro, while the observer hung on and snapped his plates at such objects
as he wanted on the ground below; and for all that ten minutes the
Archies continued to pitch a stream of shells up round and over and
under them.
Then the observer signalled "finished," and the machine jerked round
and streaked off at top speed in a series of curves and zigzags that
carried her westward and homeward as straight as the pilot dared drive
in avoiding the shells that continued to follow them. The pilot kept
her nose down a little as he went, so as to obtain the maximum speed,
but when he began to run out of range of the Archies and leave their
smoke bursts well astern, he tilted up and pushed straight west at top
speed, but on a long climb that brought him up a thousand feet a mile.
Presently he felt the signal cord looped about his arm jerk and jerk
again, and, tilting the machine's nose slightly downward, he shut off
his engine and let her glide and twisted round to the observer.
"Huns," yelled the observer. "Six of 'em, and coming like stink," and
he pointed up and astern to half a dozen dots in the sky.
"Would you like a scrap, Spotty?" shouted the pilot. "Shall we take 'em
on?"
"Don't ask me," shouted Spotty. "Ask the Hun. He'll scrap if he wants
to, and you and your old 'bus can't help it, Barry."
"Thought you knew the old 'Marah' better," retorted Barry. "You watch";
and he twisted in his seat and opened his engine out.
Now the "Marah" was the pride of her Squadron, and, most inordinately,
of her pilot. Built line by line to the blue-print of her class,
fraction by fraction of an inch in curve, straight, and stream-line, to
the design of her sisters in the Squadron, differing no hair's-breadth
from them in shape, size, engine, or propeller, she yet by some
inscrutable decree was the best of them all in every quality that
counts for best in a machine. There are theories to account for these
not uncommon differences, the most popular and plausible being that
the better machine is so merely because of some extra skill and minute
care in her and her engine's building, last touches of exactness and
perfection in the finish of their parts and their assembling.
The "Marah" could outclimb anything in the Squadron with the most
ridiculous ease, outclimb them in feet per minute, and in final height;
she could outfly them on any level from 100 to 20,000 feet, could
"out-stunt" them--although here perhaps the pilot had as much to say
as the machine--in any and every stunt they cared to challenge her
on. Barry, her young pilot, literally loved her. He lost no chance of
trying her out against other types of machines, and there were few
of the fastest and best types even amongst the single-seater scout
machines that could beat her on a level fly, or that she could not
leave with her nose held slightly down. No two-seater Barry had ever
met could come anywhere near the "Marah" in stunting, in the ease and
speed at which he could put her through all sorts of fancy spins,
loops, side-slips, and all the rest of the bag of air tricks. How much
of her superiority was due to her own qualities and how much to her
pilot it is hard to say, because certain it is that Barry could climb
her nearly a thousand feet higher, and drive her several knots faster,
than any other pilot who had flown her.
It is because of all these things that Barry had preferred to make this
particular photographing trip a lone-hand one. It was a long-distance
journey far back behind the German lines, to a spot known to be
well protected by long-range Archies, and of such importance that
it was certain to order out fast fighting machines to cut off any
flight taking back reports or photographs. Barry's arguments for his
single-handed trip were simple, and, as the Squadron Commander had
to admit, sound. "One machine stands much more chance of sneaking
over high up without being spotted than a whole flight," said Barry.
"When we're there I can chuck the 'bus about any old how to dodge the
Archies, while Spotty snaps his pictures; and if we're tackled by any
E.A.,[2] the old 'Marah' could probably outfly them by herself. And
since you're so beastly positive that this isn't a scrapping stunt, I'd
sooner be on my own and free to dodge and run and use clouds and so on
without having to think of keeping formation. Don't you worry. We'll
come through all right."
[2] E.A. Enemy Aircraft.
The Squadron Commander gave in. "Right oh," he said reluctantly.
"And do keep your eyes skinned for Huns and run from 'em if you've a
chance. This information is wanted badly, remember, and you mustn't
risk getting scuppered with it. And, besides we can't afford to lose
the 'Marah' out of the Squadron. You don't count of course, but the old
'bus is too good to lose."
He hid a good deal of anxiety under his chaffing, and Barry, reading
that and the friendship that bred it, laughed and took the same
light-hearted tone. "You won't lose her," he said. "If a Hun punctures
me and Spotty we'll just jump overboard and tell the old girl to push
along home on her own. She's jolly near got sense enough to do it too,
I believe."
Now all this was in Barry's mind when Spotty told him of the pursuing
enemy, and so he set himself to take every ounce of advantage he could.
The machines behind were travelling faster, because they had sighted
him from a much higher level, and had all the additional speed that a
downward slant gave them, while the "Marah," still held on a slightly
upward incline, lost something of her top speed thereby.
Barry knew there were Archie batteries to be passed over on the way
back, and if he meant to keep a straight course it was necessary that
he should be as far above them as possible. He leaned out and peered
down at the landscape wheeling and unrolling under them, picked out
the spot he was watching for--a village where he knew Archie batteries
were located--and altered course slightly to give it a wider berth. In
another minute the Archie shells began to bark about them. At the first
one that came dangerously close the "Marah" hoicked abruptly upward
500 feet, wheeled sharp south for half a mile, swung again and drove
straight west. Twice she had to swerve and dodge in similar fashion
before she cleared the zone of the Archies' range, and these swerves
and their faster downward passage allowed the enemy craft to overhaul
her considerably. Spotty swung his machine-gun round in readiness and
trained it aft and up on the hostiles.
Two single-seaters were half a mile ahead of the other four and looming
larger every minute. They were within long range now, and, presently,
one of them loosed off a dozen rounds or so at the "Marah." Spotty
jerked a signal that he was going to fire, and taking careful sight
rapped off about twenty rounds. The range was too great yet for him,
and the Huns made no sign of a swerve from their direct path, so Spotty
ceased firing and waited, glancing over his sights at one machine that
had forged slightly ahead of the other. Barry looked back over his
shoulder and up at the two machines. They were still a good thousand
feet above the "Marah," but Barry was satisfied enough with the way the
game was running, because while they had dropped from perhaps 20,000
feet to 15,000, the "Marah" had gained 3,000 to 4,000 as she flew.
The advantage of height was half the battle, and Barry wanted to
snatch every inch of it he could gain. For that reason he passed a
signal back to Spotty to open fire again, and Spotty obediently began
to rip out a series of short bursts. The two men had flown so long
together that each knew the other's dodges and ideas to an extent
precious beyond words, and had a code of brief signals in head-noddings
and jerkings and hand motions that saved much waste of time and breath
in shutting off engine to shout messages or yelling through the
communicating 'phone. Spotty figured now just the plan Barry had in
mind, a plan to hustle the enemy into making his attempt before he was
at the closest effective range for a diving attack. The plan succeeded
too. His bullets must have been going somewhere close, for Spotty
saw the nearest machine swerve ever so slightly, as if her pilot had
flinched or ducked instinctively. Then Spotty saw her nose dip slightly
until it was pointed straight at the "Marah," the machine-gun firing
through her propeller broke out in a long rapid burst of fire, and the
"tracer" bullets[3] came flashing and streaming past in thin pencils of
flame and smoke. What followed takes a good deal longer in the telling
than it did in the happening. All three machines were travelling,
remember, at a speed of anything round a hundred knots, a speed that
rose at times as they dipped and dived to nearer perhaps a hundred and
thirty and forty. While they were flying on the same course with little
difference in speed each airman could see the other closely and in
detail, could watch each little movement, look over at leisure small
items about each other's machines. Mere groundlings cannot get nearer
to the sensation than to imagine or remember sitting at the window of
a carriage on the slow lumbering sixty-mile-an-hour express, watching
the almost equally slow mail rushing over the rails at sixty-five miles
on a parallel line, and seeing the passengers at her windows scanning
deliberately the shape of your hat or colour of your hair.
[3] Tracer bullets emit smoke and flame to allow the shooter to follow
their flight.
In just such fashion Spotty saw the pilot of the leading machine rise
slightly and glance astern at his companion, saw him settle himself
in his seat, saw him raise a hand and motion downward. Instantly he
jerked the cord fast to Barry's shoulder, signalling "look out," and
with swift clockwork motions snatched the almost empty drum of his
machine-gun, and replaced it with the full one he held ready clutched
between his knees.
Vaguely in the swift ensuing seconds he felt the machine under
him sway and leap and reel; but his whole mind was for that time
concentrated on his gun sights, on keeping them full on the bulk
of the machine astern of him, in pressing the trigger at the exact
critical second. He saw the round bow of his nearest pursuer lift and
for one long breath saw the narrow tapering length of her underbody
behind it. That was a chance, and he filled it full and brimming with
a fifty-round burst of which he saw the bullets flash and disappear in
the fuselage above him. Then in a flash the underbody disappeared, and
the rounded bow of the hostile came plunging down on him, growing and
widening as it came full power and speed of engine and gravity pull.
He was dimly conscious of her firing as she came, and he kept his own
gun going, pumping bullets in a constant stream, his eye glued to the
sights, his finger clenched about the trigger. Somehow he knew--just
knew, without reasoning or thinking it out--that his bullets were going
to their mark, and it gave him no slightest touch of astonishment when
he saw his enemy stagger, leap upward, lurch and roll until she stood
straight up on her wing-tip, and so, banking and deflecting from the
"Marah's" course, flash in a split fraction of a second out of the
fight.
He had no more than a glimpse of a gust of fire and gush of black
smoke from somewhere about her before she vanished from his sight,
and he was training his sights on a second shape that came swooping
and plunging down upon him. This second enemy made better play with
her gun. With deadly slowness and persistence, as it seemed, she
closed, yard by yard. Spotty trained his gun full in the centre of the
quivering light rays that marked the circle of her whirling propeller,
and poured burst after burst straight at the jerking flashes of the
machine-gun that blazed through her propeller. He felt an agonising jar
on his ankle ... but the drum of his machine-gun snapped out its last
cartridge, and Spotty smoothly and methodically whipped off the empty
drum, stooped and lifted a full one, fitted it in place, and looking
over his sights rapped his gun into action again; while all the time
the bullets of his adversary hailed and ripped and tore about and upon
the "Marah," riddling the rudder, slashing along the stern, cracking
in the whip-like reports of explosive bullets about the observer's
cockpit, lifting forward and rap-rap-rapping about the bows and the
pilot's stooped head. The "Marah" leaped out suddenly and at full
stride in a hundred-foot side-slip, checked, and hurtled upward; and in
that breath of time the pursuer flicked past and down and out of the
vision of Spotty's sights.
It was all over so quickly that Spotty, looking overside, could still
see the first enemy spinning down jerkily with black smoke whirling up
from her fuselage, spinning helplessly down, as he knew, to hit the
earth 15,000 feet below. Spotty felt suddenly and surprisingly sick and
faint. His particular story blurs somewhat from here on, because he
himself was never able to supply it in detail. He was able to answer
Barry--Barry turning to shout his question while the "Marah" tore
along at her full 110 knots--that he'd been hit somewhere about the
foot or leg, and didn't feel much, except sick. This Barry was able
to gather with some difficulty, after juggling with the wheel beside
him that shifted angles of incidence, and more or less stabilised the
"Marah's" flight, abandoning his controlling "joy-stick," clambering
up on his seat, and hanging back and over to bring his head into the
observer's cockpit and his ear within reach of Spotty's feeble attempts
at a shout. He himself was rather unfit for these acrobatics, owing
to certain unpleasant and punishing wounds just received. While he
attempted to carry on his laboured inquiries, the "Marah," her engine
throttled down and her controls left to look after themselves, swooped
gently and leisurely, slid downwards on a gliding slant for a thousand
feet, pancaked into an air-pocket, and fell off into a spinning dive.
While she plunged earthward at a rate of some hundred feet per second
Barry finished his inquiries, dragged or pushed back into his seat--it
was really down into his seat, since the "Marah" at the moment was
standing on her head and his seat was between the observer's and the
bows, but the wind pressure at that speed made it hard work to slide
down--took hold of his controls, waited the exact and correct moment,
flattened the "Marah" out of her spin, opened the throttle and went
booming off again to westward a bare 5,000 feet above ground level.
He had, it is true, a moment's parley and a swift summing up of
the situation before he turned the "Marah's" bows definitely for
home. And the situation was ugly enough to be worth considering.
Spotty (Barry thought of him first) was in a bad way--leg smashed
to flinders--explosive evidently--bleeding like a stuck pig (wonder
would the plates be spoiled, or was the camera built water-tight, or
blood-tight?)--very doubtful if he'd last out the journey home. Then
Barry himself had wounds--the calf of his left leg blown to shreds, and
the toes of his left foot gone, and, most upsettingly painful of all, a
gaping hole where his left eye should be, a blood-streaming agony that
set his senses reeling and wavering and clearing slowly and painfully.
This last wound, as it proved, was the result of a ricochetting bullet
which, flicking forward as Barry had turned his head, cut his left eye
clean from its socket.
The summing up was very clear and simple. They were a good thirty
miles from the lines; Spotty might easily bleed to death in less
than that; he, Barry, might do the same, or might faint from pain
and exhaustion. In that case done-finish himself, and Spotty, and
the "Marah," in a drop of 5,000 feet and a full hundred-mile-an-hour
crash below. On the other hand, he had only to move his hand, push the
joy-stick out and sweep the "Marah" down, flatten her out and pick a
decent field, land, and he and Spotty would be in the doctor's hands
in a matter of minutes, both of them safe and certain of their lives
at least. In seconds they could be "on the floor" and in safety--and
in German hands ... the two of them and ... and ... the "Marah." It
was probably the thought of the "Marah" that turned the scale, if ever
the scale really hung in doubt. "We can't afford ..."--what was it the
Squadron Commander had said?--"can't afford to lose the old 'Marah'
from the Squadron." No (Barry's vision cleared mentally and physically
at the thought),--no, and, by the Lord, the Squadron wasn't going to
lose the "Marah," not if it was in him to bring the old 'bus home.
He knew it was going to be a close thing, for himself and for the
"Marah"; and carefully he set himself to take the last and least ounce
of the chances in favour of his getting the "Marah" across the line.
It would be safer to climb high and cross the fire of the Archies
that waited him on the line; safer so far as dodging the shells went,
but cutting down the limit set to his strength and endurance by the
passing minutes. On the level, or with her nose a little down, the
"Marah" would make the most of the time left her, or rather left him.
His senses blurred and swam again; he felt himself lurching forward
in his seat, knew that this was pushing the joy-stick forward and the
"Marah's" nose to earth, shoved himself back in his seat and clutched
the stick desperately to him ... and woke slowly a minute after to find
the "Marah's" bows pointed almost straight up, her engine struggling
to lift her, his machine on the very verge of stalling and falling
back into the gulf. He flung her nose down and forward hastily, and
the "Marah" ducked gracefully over like a hunter taking an easy fence,
steadied and lunged forward in arrow-straight flight.
After this Barry concentrated on the faces of the clock, the height
and the speed indicators. Once or twice he tried to look overside to
locate his position, but the tearing hurricane wind of the "Marah's"
passage so savaged his torn face and eye that he was forced back into
the cover of his windscreen. Five minutes went. Over, well over a
hundred the speed indicator said the "Marah" was doing. Nearly 5,000 up
the height indicator said (must have climbed a lump in that minute's
haziness, concluded Barry), and, reckoning to cross the line somewhere
inside the 500 up--which after all would risk machine-gun and rifle
fire, but spare them the Archies--would allow him to slant the "Marah"
down a trifle and get a little more speed out of her. He tilted her
carefully and watched the speed indicator climb slowly and hang steady.
And so another five minutes went. Two thousand up said the indicator;
and "_woof, woof, woof_" grunted a string of Archie shells. "Getting
near the line," said Barry, and pushed the joy-stick steadily forward.
The "Marah" hurtled downward on a forty-five degree slant, her engine
full out, the wind screaming and shrieking about her. Fifteen hundred,
a thousand, five hundred pointed the needle of the height indicator,
and slowly and carefully Barry pulled the "Marah's" head up and held
her racing at her top speed on the level.
Fifteen minutes gone. They must be near the lines now. He could catch,
faint and far off through the booming roar of his engine, the rattle of
rifle fire, and a faint surprise took him at the sound of two strange
raps, and the sight of two neat little round holes in the instrument
board and map in front of him. He looked out, carefully holding the
joy-stick steady in one hand and covering his torn eye with the other,
and saw the wriggling white lines of trenches flashing past close
below. Then from the cockpit behind him broke out a steady clatter and
jar of the observer's machine-gun. Barry looked round to see Spotty,
chalk-faced and tight-lipped, leaning over the side with arms thrust
out and pointing his gun straight to earth with a stream of flashes
pouring from the muzzle. "Good man," murmured Barry, "oh, good man,"
and made the "Marah" wriggle in her flight as a signal.
Spotty looked round, loosened his lips in a ghastly grin, and waved an
arm signalling to turn at right angles. "Nothin' doin', my son," said
Barry grinning back. "It's 'Home, John' for us this time. But fancy the
priceless old fellow wanting to go touring their front line spraying
lead on 'em. Good lad, Spotty."
A minute later he felt his senses reel, and his sight blacken again,
but he gripped his teeth on his lip and steered for the clump of wood
that hid his own Squadron's landing ground.
He made his landing there too; made it a trifle badly, because when he
came to put rudder on he found that his left leg refused its proper
work. And so he crashed at the last, crashed very mildly it is true,
but enough to skew the wheels and twist the frame of the under-carriage
a little.
And as Spotty's first words when he was lifted from his cockpit were
of the crash-- "Barry, you blighter, if you've crashed those plates of
mine I'll never forgive you.... You'll find all the plates exposed,
Major, and notes of the bearing and observations in my pocket-book"--so
also were Barry's last of the same thing. He didn't speak till near
the end. Then he opened his one eye to the Squadron Commander waiting
at his bedside and made an apology ... ("An apology ... Good Lord!..."
as the Major said after). "Did I crash her badly, Major?" And when
the Major assured him No, nothing that wouldn't repair in a day, and
that the "Marah" would be ready for him when he came back to them, he
shook his head faintly. "But it doesn't matter," he said. "Anyhow, I
got her home.... And if I'm 'going West,' the old 'Marah' will go East
again ... and get some more Huns for you." He ceased, and was silent a
minute. Then "I'm sorry I crashed her, Major ... but y'see, ... my leg
... was a bit numb."
He closed his eye; and died.
* * * * *
A pilot lost doesn't very much count.
(But don't tell his girl or his mater this!)
There's always another to take his mount,
And push the old 'bus where the Archies miss.
But a 'bus that's lost you can't renew,
For where one works there's the want of two
And all they can make are still too few,
So we must bring home the 'bus.
III
A TENDER SUBJECT