found it was oil, and concluded, wrathfully, that his oil tank or pipe
must be shot through. His engine, he knew, would quickly run dry, might
seize up at any moment, and leave him helpless. And the two-seater
was off tearing for the lines again, the scout still spinning down to
escape him. He wanted that two-seater, wanted him badly. He had bagged
the one and meant getting the other.
There was a last chance--if his engine would stand for a few minutes.
He opened her out and shot off after the two-seater. He caught him up
and dropped astern, the oil still spraying back, misting his goggles
and nearly blinding him, the Hun observer pouring a long steady fire at
him. He stooped forward with his face close to the windscreen, dropped
to a position dead astern of the two-seater where the observer could
not effectively fire at him without shooting away his own tail, and
poured in a long clattering burst from both guns. His bullets, he knew,
were tearing stern to stem through the Hun; but the Hun held on, and
The Little Butcher felt his engine check and kick. The oil spray had
ceased, which meant the last of the oil was gone and the engine running
dry. The Little Butcher gritted his teeth, and kept his guns going.
The Hun observer's fire stopped suddenly, and he fell limp across
the edge of his cockpit. The Hun pilot was helpless. With a fast
scout on his tail, with no gunner or gun to shoot astern, he could do
nothing--except perhaps escape in a spin down. But astern of him the
guns continued to chatter, the bullets to rip and tear and splinter
through his machine.
The Little Butcher was in an agony of suspense as to whether he could
get his man before his engine failed him, and as he told his story it
was plain to see the intensity, the desperate uncertainty, and the
eagerness he had felt. "I knew my engine was going to conk out any
second--could feel a sort of grate and grind in her, and that my revs.
were dropping off. The Hun was drawing away a yard or two ... and I
tell you I cursed the luck. I hung on, dead astern and pumping it into
him and seeing my bullets fairly raking him. But he _wouldn't_ go
down...." (His eyes gleamed as he spoke, his brows were drawn down, his
whole face quivering with eagerness, with the revived excitement of the
chase, the passionate desire for the downfall of his quarry.) "I began
to think he'd get away. I'd never have forgiven myself--having him dead
helpless like that, right at point-blank, and then losing him.... But I
got him at last--and just in time. Got him, and crashed him good...."
It all sounds very brutal perhaps--did certainly to the two infantrymen
listening, fascinated. But--this was The Little Butcher; and he was out
to kill.
The end had come a few seconds later. The Hun pilot lurched forward;
his machine plunged, rolled over, shot out and up, tail-slid, and then
went spinning and "dead-leafing" down. The Little Butcher shut off his
crippled engine, looked round and saw the Hun scout streaking for the
lines, put his machine into a long glide and watched his second victim
twist and twirl down and down, watched until he saw him hit and crash.
He came down and made a landing on another 'drome, borrowed a tender,
and in an hour was eating his dinner.
I have said the two visitors did not like the story or the teller. They
were, in fact, a little disgusted and sickened with both, and they said
as much to their friend the C.O. when the others had left the table,
and they three lingered over liqueurs.
"Silly of me perhaps," said one, "but I hated the way that boy sort
of licked his lips over the chance of catching that Hun unawares and
shooting him down."
The other wrinkled his nose disgustedly. "It was fifty times worse his
hanging to that fellow who couldn't shoot back--when the observer was
dead--and bringing him down in cold blood. Poor devil. Think of his
feelings."
"Little Butcher," said the first, "you named him well. Bloody-minded
little butcher at that."
"But hold on a minute," said the C.O. "I can't let you run away with
these wrong notions of The Little Butcher. Have you any idea why he
is so keen on killing Huns? Why he jumped at the chance to go up and
get that one to-day, why he was in such a hurry to tackle the two, why
he--well, why he is The Little Butcher?"
"Lord knows," said one, and "Pure blood-thirstiness," the other.
"I'll tell you," said the C.O. "It is because he was once in the
infantry, as I was; and because he knows, as I do, what it means to
the line to have an artillery observing machine over directing shells
on to you fellows, or taking photos that will locate your positions
and bring Hades down on you. Every Hun that comes over the line, _you_
fellows have to sweat for; every minute a gun-spotter or photographer
or reconnaissance machine works over you, _you_ pay for in killed and
wounded. Lots of our pilots don't properly realise that, and treat air
fighting as more or less of a sporting game, or just as the job they're
here for. The Little Butcher knows that every Hun crashed means so many
more lives saved on the ground, every Hun that gets away alive will be
the death of some of you; so he's full out to crash them--whenever,
wherever, and however he can."
The two guests fidgeted a little and glanced shamefacedly at one
another. "I hadn't thought----" began one, and "I never looked at
it----" said the other.
"No," said the C.O., "and few men on the ground do, because they
don't know any better. P'raps you'll tell some of 'em. And don't
forget--although I admit that, as he told the story, it mightn't sound
like it--his isn't the simple butchering game you seem to think. You
didn't see his 'bus when it was brought in? No. Well, it had just
thirty-seven bullet holes in it, including one through the windscreen,
a foot off his head. Any one of those might have crashed him; and he
knows it. Some day one of them will get him; and he also knows that.
But he takes his risks, and will keep on taking 'em--because every
risk, every Hun downed, is saving some of you fellows on the floor.
There's a-many women at home to-night who might be widows and are still
wives; and for that you can thank God--and The Little Butcher."
"I see," said the one listener slowly--"I see."
"So do I," said the other. "And I'm glad you told us. Now," thrusting
his chair back, "I'm going to find The Little Butcher, and apologise to
him."
"Me too," said the first--"apologise, and thank him for all he's done,
and is doing--for us."
XIV
A CUSHY JOB[5]
[5] Cushy=easy, soft.
A Ferry Pilot once told me that he had a very pleasant and "cushy" job,
especially when you compared it with the one in a Squadron working over
the lines. Because we had just made an ideal flight across Channel on
a beautiful summer day, and were sitting in comfortable deck-chairs,
basking in the sun outside the Pool Pilots' Mess after a good lunch, I
was inclined at first to believe him. A little later he told a story
which made me revise that belief, the more so as it was not told to
impress, and was accepted by the other Ferry Pilots there present
so casually and with so little comment that it was apparently an
experience not at all beyond the average.
A chance remark was made about a recent trip on which he had been lost
in the mist, and had two very close shaves from crashing. Since none of
the others asked for the story, I did, and got it at last, told very
sketchily and off-handedly, and only filled in with such details as I
could drag out of him with many questions.
He had started out one morning to fly a new fast single-seater scout
machine to France, and, while getting his height before pushing out
across Channel, noticed there was a haze over the water, and that the
coast on the other side was also rather obscured, although not to any
alarming extent. But before he had got over to the French side quite a
thick mist had crept up Channel, and he had to come down to a couple of
thousand feet to pick up his exact bearings. He lost some time at this,
but at last recognised a bit of the coast, and found he was rather off
his line, so swung off and pushed for the Depot landing-ground. Before
he reached it, the mist, which had been steadily thickening, suddenly
swept over in a solid wave, and he found any view of the ground
completely gone.
He climbed a couple of thousand into the sunlight again, and looked
round for a bearing, thought he could make out the ground in one
direction, and, opening his engine full out, pushed off for the spot.
But either his eyes had deceived him, or the mist had beat him to it.
He flew on, with nothing but crawling, drifting mist visible below
him, dropped down again and peered over the side, down and down again
until his altimeter showed him to be a bare couple of hundred feet up.
There was still no sight of ground, and since he was now in thick mist
himself he could see nothing but dim greyness below, all round, and
above him. He climbed through thinning layers of mist into daylight,
and headed straight south by compass, figuring that the best plan was
to try to outfly the mist area, and, when he could see the ground
anywhere, pick up a bearing and a 'drome, any 'drome, and get down on
it.
But after half an hour's flight he was still above crawling banks of
mist, and by now had not the faintest idea of where he was. He had made
several dips down to look for the ground, but each time had caught not
the faintest indication of it, although he had dropped dangerously low
according to the altimeter. He began to wonder if the altimeter was
registering correctly, but came to the highly unpleasant conclusion
that, if he could not trust it, he certainly dare not distrust it to
the extent of believing he was higher than it showed, dropping down and
perhaps barging into a clump of trees, or telegraph wires, or any other
obstruction.
He admits that he began to get a bit rattled here. He became oppressed
with a desolating sense of his utter aloneness, especially when he was
low down and whirling blindly through the mist. He was completely cut
off from the world. Firm ground was there beneath him somewhere, cheery
companions, homely things like cosy rooms and fires and hot coffee; but
while the mist lasted he could no more touch any of them than he could
touch the moon.
To make it worse, he was completely lost and had not the faintest idea
where he was. He was steering by compass only, and if he was drifting
to the east he might be approaching the lines and Hunland, and if to
the west might even now be over the sea. For an hour and a half he
flew, trying to keep a straight course south, and seeing nothing but
that dim grey around him when he came low, the sun and sky above, and
the wide floor of mist beneath, when he climbed high. Flying high he
had the same sense of aloneness, of being the only living thing in an
empty world of his own, of cut-offness from the earth, that he had when
he was in the blanketting mist.
It was a different kind of aloneness, but even more desperate from the
feeling of helplessness that went with it. Here he was, a fit, strong
man, with every limb, organ, and sense perfect, with a good, sound,
first-class machine under him, with a bright sun and a clear sky above,
able to control his every movement, to fly to any point of the compass,
to go up, or down, or round, at any angle or speed he liked--except a
speed low enough to allow him to drop to the ground without smashing
himself and his machine to pulp and splinters. All his power was
reduced to nought by a mere bank of mist, a thin impalpable vapour, a
certain amount of moisture in the atmosphere. His very power and speed
were his undoing. Speed that in free air was safety, was death on
touching the ground except at a proper angle and with a clear run to
slow in--an angle he could not gauge, a clear run he could not find for
this deadly mist. It was maddening ... and terrifying.
He decided to make one more try for the ground, a last attempt to see
if he could get below the mist blanket without hitting the earth. He
thrust his nose down and plunged, flattening out a little as he came
into the mist, shut off his engine, and went on down in a long glide
with his eyes on the altimeter, lifting and staring down overside,
turning back quickly to read his height. At three hundred he could
see nothing, at two hundred nothing, at a hundred still nothing but
swirling greyness. He flew on, still edging down, opening up his engine
every now and then to maintain flying speed, shutting it off and
gliding, his eyes straining for sight of anything solid, his ears for
sound of anything but the whistle and whine of the wind on his wings
and wires. Down, still down, his heart in his mouth, his hand ready on
the throttle--down ... down....
Everything depended on what sort of surface he was flying above. If
there were flat open fields he must catch sight, however shadowy it
might be, of them before touching anything. If there were trees or
buildings below, the first sight he got might be something looming up
before him a fraction of a second before he hit. Down, steadily and
gradually, but still down--down ... then, UP--suddenly and steeply,
his hand jerking the throttle wide open, the engine roaring out in
deafening notes that for all their strength could not drown the
thumping of his heart and the blood drumming in his ears. A hundred
feet he climbed steeply; but even then, with the panic of immediate
peril gone, he kept on climbing in narrow turns up into the sunlight
again.
He had had a deadly narrow escape, had been so intent on staring
down for the ground that almost before he knew what was happening he
had flashed close past something solid, something that his wing-tips
catching would have meant death--a straight upright pillar, then
another, with faint pencilled lines running between them--a ship's
masts and rigging. And as he shot up, almost straight up, he had a
quick glimpse of another three shadowy masts jerking downwards into
obscurity before and then beneath him. He must be over a harbour, or
dock, or perhaps some sort of canal basin. He kept his upward course
until he was in sunlight again, carefully examined his oil and petrol
gauges and his compass, and set a northerly course. The mist might be
over all France; he would make a try back for England.
He held on until he had run his main petrol tank out, switched on to
the gravity "emergency tank" set on the top plane, and kept steadily on
his course. He had an hour's petrol there, and that ought, he figured,
to take him well over England and inland.
He decided to keep going until he could see signs of the mist thinning,
or until his petrol ran almost out; but when it was about half empty,
and he thought he must be back over the Channel and a good many miles
inland, he slid down through the mist on the chance of being able to
see the ground below it. He went down to a hundred feet, lower, could
see nothing, opened his engine out again and began to climb.
Then he had another hair-raising deadly scare. He saw the mist in
front of him suddenly begin to darken, to solidify, to take shape, to
become a solid bulk stretching out and thinning away to grey mist to
either side, above him, and below him.
For one flashing instant he was puzzled, for another he was
panic-stricken, knew with a cold clutch of terror at his heart that
he was charging at a hundred miles an hour full into the face of a
sheer-walled cliff. Actually his speed was his saving--his speed and
the instinct that did the one possible thing to bring him clear. He
had gathered way on his upward slant, his engine running full out. He
hauled the control lever hard in, and his machine, answering instantly,
reared and swooped and shot straight up parallel with the cliff face,
over in the first half of a loop, and straight away from the cliff,
upside down, until he was far enough out safely to roll over to an even
keel. It was so close a thing that for an instant he saw distinctly the
cracks and crevices in the cliff face, held his breath, dreading to
feel the jar of wheels or tail on the rock, and the plunge and crash
that would follow.
A long way out he slanted up, with his heart still thumping
unpleasantly, climbed until he was in the sunlight again, and turned
north.
He found the mist thinning ten minutes later, cleared it in another
five, glided down, and picked a good field, and landed--with about ten
minutes' petrol in his tank.
And that same afternoon, when the mist went, he refilled his tanks and
took his machine over to France, and delivered it to the Depot there.
But a Ferry Pilot, you'll remember, has a "cushy job."
XV
NO THOROUGHFARE
For a week the line had been staggering back, fighting savagely to
hold their ground, being driven in, time and again, by the sheer
weight of fresh German divisions brought up and hurled without a pause
against them, giving way and retiring sullenly and stubbornly to fresh
positions, having to endure renewed ferocious onslaughts there, and
give to them again. Fighting, marching, digging in; fighting again
and repeating the performance over and over for days and nights, our
men were worn down dangerously near to the point of exhaustion and
collapse, the point over which the Germans strove to thrust them, the
point where human endurance could no longer stand the strain, and the
breaking, crumbling line would give the opening for which the Germans
fought so hard, the opening through which they would pour their masses
and cut the Allied armies in two.
Now at the end of a week it looked as if their aim was dangerously
near attainment. On one portion of the line especially the strain had
been tremendous, and the men, hard driven and harassed for two days and
nights almost without a break, were staggering on their feet, stupid
with fatigue, dazed for want of sleep. Of all their privations this
want of sleep was the hardest and cruellest. The men longed for nothing
more than a chance to throw themselves on the ground, to fling down on
the roadside, in the ditches, anywhere, anyhow, and close their aching
eyes and sink in deep, deep sleep. But there was no faintest hope of
sleep for them. They had been warned that all the signs were of a
fresh great attack being launched on them about dusk, by more of those
apparently inexhaustible fresh enemy divisions. The divisions they had
fought all day were being held stubbornly by rear-guard actions until
the new positions were established; and plain word had been brought
in by reconnoitring air men of the new masses pressing up by road and
rail to converge with all their weight on the weakened line and the
worn-out men who made ready to hold it. Everyone knew what was coming.
Company and battalion officers scanned the ground and picked positions
for trenches and machine-guns to sweep the attack; Generals Commanding
pored over maps and contours and sought points where concentrated
shell-fire might best check the masses. And all who knew anything
knew that it was no more than a forlorn hope that if once those fresh
divisions came to close quarters they could be beaten back. Our men
would be outnumbered, would be unrested and worn with fighting and
digging and marching continuously,--that was the rub; if our men could
have a rest, a few hours' sleep, a chance to recuperate, they could
make some sort of a show, put up a decent fight again, hold on long
enough to give the promised reinforcements time to come up, the guns to
take up new positions. But "a renewed attack in force must be expected
by dusk" said the word that came to them, and every precious minute
until then must be filled with moving the tired men into position,
doing their utmost to dig in and make some kind of defensive line. It
looked bad.
But there were other plans in the making, plans figured out on wider
reaching lines, offering the one chance of success in attacking the
fresh enemy masses at their most vulnerable points, fifteen, twenty
miles away from our weary line. The plans were completed and worked out
in detail and passed down the chain to the air Squadrons; and Flight
by Flight the pilots and observers loaded up to the full capacity of
their machines with bombs and machine-gun ammunition and went droning
out over the heads of the working troops digging the fresh line,
over the scattered outpost and rear-guard lines where the Germans
pressed tentatively and waited for the new reinforcements that were
to recommence the fierce "hammer-blow" attacks, on over the dribbling
streams of transport and men moving by many paths into the battle line,
on to where the main streams ran full flood on road and rail--and where
the streams could best be dammed and diverted.
The air Squadrons went in force to their work, bent all their energies
for the moment to the one great task of breaking up the masses before
they could bring their weight into the line, of upsetting the careful
time-table which the enemy must lay down and follow if they were to
handle with any success the huge bulk of traffic they were putting on
road and rail. Each Flight and Squadron had its own appointed work and
place, its carefully detailed orders of how and where to go about their
business. In one Squadron, where the C.O. held council with his Flight
Leaders and explained the position and pointed out the plans, one of
his Captains summed up the instructions in a sentence. "That bit of
road," he said with his finger on the map, "you want us to see it's 'No
Thoroughfare' for the Hun up to dark?"
"That's it," said the C.O. "And if you get a chance at a train or two
about here--well, don't let it slip."
"Right-oh," "That's simple," "No Thoroughfare," said the Captains,
and proceeded about their business. The Flights went off at short
intervals, intervals calculated to "keep the pot a-boiling," as
closely as possible, to allow no minutes when some of the Squadron
would not be on or about the spot to enforce the "No Thoroughfare"
rule. For the rest of the afternoon they came and went, and came and
went, in a steady string, circling in and dropping to the 'drome to
refill hurriedly with fresh stocks of bombs and ammunition, taking off
and driving out to the east as soon as they had the tanks and drums
filled and the bombs hitched on. They were on scout machines carrying
four light bombs and many hundred rounds of ammunition a-piece, and
Dennis, the leader of the first Flight, made an enthusiastic report of
success on the first return. "Found the spot all right, Major," he said
cheerfully. "The crater reported is there all right, and it has wrecked
half the road. There was a working party on it going like steam to fill
in the hole, we disturbed the party a whole lot."
They had disturbed them. The road was one of those long miles-straight
main routes that run between the towns in that part of France. They
were well filled with troops and transport over the first miles, but
the Flight Leader followed instructions and let these go, knowing
other Squadrons would be dealing with them in their own good time and
way. "Although I wish they'd get busy and do it," as he told the C.O.
"Having nothing to worry them, those Huns just naturally filled the
air with lead as he went over 'em. Look at my poor old 'Little Indian'
there; her planes are as full of holes as a sieve."