to return the fire from below, and presently he came to the spot where
the Squadron was to tackle its job--a spot where an attempt had been
made by our Engineers to blow up the road as we retired, and where a
yawning hole took up half the road, leaving one good lorry-width for
the transport to crawl round. An infantry battalion was tramping past
the crater when the Flight arrived above it, and since the "Little
Indian" flew straight on without loosing off a bomb or a shot, the
rest of the Flight followed obediently, although in some wonder as
to whether the target was not being passed by mistake. There was no
mistake. They followed the leader round in a wide sweep over the open
fields with stray bunches of infantry firing wildly up at them, round
to the crater, and past it again, and out and round still wider. The
road by the crater was empty as they passed, but a long string of
lorries and horse transport that had been waiting half a mile back
began to move and crawl along towards the crater. The "Little Indian"
kept on her wide circle until half the lorries were past the crater.
Then she came round in a steep bank and shot straight as an arrow back
to the road, swept round sharply again and went streaking along above
it. Two hundred yards from the crater she lifted, curved over and came
diving down, spitting fire and lead as she came, pelting a stream of
bullets on the lorries abreast of the mine hole and diving straight
at them. Thirty feet away from the hole, one, two, three, four black
objects dropped away from under the machine, and four spurts of flame
and smoke leaped and flashed amongst the lorries and about the hole,
as the "Little Indian" zoomed up, ducked over and came diving down
again with her machine-guns hailing bullets along the lorries and the
horse transport. And close astern of her came the rest of the Flight,
splashing their bombs down the length of the convoy, each saving one or
two for the spot by the crater, continuing along the road and emptying
their guns on the transport. Half a mile along the road they swung
round and turned back and repeated the gunning performance on men
struggling to hold and steady crazed and bolting horses, on wagons in
the ditches, on one lorry with her nose well down in the half-filled
crater and another one comfortably crashed against her tail that stuck
out into the half-width bit of road.
"A beautiful block," the Flight told the Major on their return.
"Couldn't have placed 'em better if we'd driven the lorries ourselves.
And there's horse wagons enough scattered along the ditches of the next
half mile to keep the Hun busy for hours."
The second Flight, arriving about ten minutes after the first had
departed homeward bound, found the Huns exceedingly busy struggling
to remove the wrecked transport which so effectually blocked the way.
There were men enough crowded round the crater especially to make a
very fine target, and the first machine or two got their bombs well
home on these, and scattered the rest impartially along the road on
any "suitable targets" of men or transport. They established another
couple of very useful blocks along the mile of road behind the crater,
and completely cleared the road of marching men for a good three miles.
The third Flight found no targets beyond the working party at the
crater until they had gone back a few miles to a cross road, where they
distributed some bombs on a field battery, bolted the teams, and left
the gunners well down in the ditches beside their overturned guns and
limbers.
They had barely finished their performance when the first Flight was
back again, but by this time the enemy had taken steps to upset the
arrangements, and with a couple of machine-guns posted by the crater
did their best to keep the traffic blockers out of reach of their
targets. But the Flight would not be denied, and drove in through the
storm of bullets, planted their bombs and gave the ground gunners a
good peppering, and got away with no further damage than a lot of
bullet holes in wings and fuselages. For the next hour the Germans
fought to strengthen their anti-aircraft defences, bringing up more
machine-guns and lining the ditches with riflemen, and the attackers
got a reception that grew hotter and hotter with each attempt. But they
held the road blocked, and effectually prevented any successful attempt
to clear and use it, and in addition extended their attacks to further
back and to other near-by roads, and to the railway. Crossing this line
on one outward trip Dennis, still flying his bullet-riddled "Little
Indian," saw a long and heavily-laden train toiling slowly towards the
front. It was too good a chance to miss, so he swung and made for it,
swooped down to within a hundred feet and dropped his bombs. Only one
hit fairly, and although that blew one truck to pieces, it left it on
the rails and the trains still crawling along. But the Flight followed
his lead, and one of their bombs hit and so damaged the engine that a
cloud of steam came pouring up from it and the train stopped. Another
long train was panting up from the German rear, so the Flight swept
along it and sprayed it liberally with machine-gun bullets, scaring the
driver and fireman into leaping overboard, and bringing that train also
to a standstill. Dennis headed back home to bring up a fresh stock of
bombs, and, if he could, damage the train beyond possibility of moving,
although he feared it was rather a large contract for a scout's light
bombs. But on the way back he met a formation of big two-seater bombers
carrying heavy bombs, and by firing a few rounds, diving athwart their
course, and frantic wavings and pointings managed to induce them to
follow him. Two of them did, and he led them straight back to the two
trains. The driver and fireman of the second had resumed their duties
and were trying to push the first train along when the bombers arrived,
and planting one bomb fairly on the train, started a fire going, and
with another which fell between two trucks blew them off the metals.
The burning trucks were just beginning to blow up nicely as our
machines raced for home and more ammunition.
The next hour was mainly occupied with a fast fight against about
twenty Hun machines evidently brought up to break up the road-blockers'
game. The fight ended with three of the Huns being left crashed on
the ground, one of ours going down in flames, and two struggling back
across the lines with damaged machine and engine. Dennis was forced to
leave his machine for one trip and borrow another while his damaged
wings were replaced with new ones.
This time two Flights went out together, and while one engaged the Hun
machines which still strove to drive them back, the other dived back
on the road and again scattered the working party which struggled to
clear the road. They had a hot passage, whirling down through a perfect
tempest of machine-gun fire, and another machine was lost to it. Dennis
struggled back across the lines with a shot-through radiator and an
engine seizing up, was forced to land as best he could, wrecked his
machine in the landing, crawled out of the wreckage, got back to the
'drome, and taking over his repaired machine went out again.
"That road's blocked," he said firmly, "and she's goin' to stay
blocked." And he got his men to rig a sort of banner of fabric attached
to a long iron picket-pin harpoon arrangement, painted a sentence
in German on it, and took it up with him. They found the road still
blocked, but columns of troops tramping in streams over the fields to
either side. They spent a full hour scattering these and chasing them
all over the landscape, had to break off the game to take on another
fight with a crowd of Hun scouts, were joined by a stray Flight or
two who saw the fight and barged into it, and after a mixed fast and
furious "dog-fight" at heights running from anything under 300 feet to
about as many inches, chased the Hun machines off. They came back in
triumph down the deserted road and the empty fields, spattering the
last of their rounds into the wrecked lorries and wagons still lying
there, and then, as they passed over the piled wreckage at the crater,
Dennis leaned out and dropped his streamered harpoon overboard. It
plunged straight, hit, and stuck neatly upright displaying its legend
clearly to anyone on the ground.
"What was on it?" said Dennis in answer to the questions of the Flight
later on. "It was a notice in German. Maybe it was bad German, but it
was a dash good notice. It said 'No Thoroughfare,' and I fancy we've
taught the Huns what it means anyhow."
They, and a good many of their fellow squadrons, had, on this and on
other road and rail Lines of Communication. They lost men and they lost
machines; but the expected fresh attack on the line did not develop at
dusk as foretold.
And that night the weary troops slept a solid life-renewing six hours.
XVI
THRILLS
It was a bad day for kite-balloon work; first, because the air was not
clear and the visibility was bad, and second, because there was an
uncomfortable wind blowing, and the balloon was jerking and swaying
and lurching at the end of its long tether, making it hard for the
observers to keep a steady eye on such targets as they could pick up,
and still harder to plot out angles and ranges on the map spread on the
table sticking out from the side of the basket.
But hard fighting was going on, and the line was getting badly
hammered, so that every balloon which could get up was in the air, and
every observer was hunting for hostile battery positions, directing
the fire of our guns on to them, and doing all they could to lessen
the shell-fire that was pouring down on our infantry in their scanty
trenches. At times a swirl of mist or cloud came down and shut off the
view altogether from the balloons; but they hung on, and stayed aloft
waiting for a clear and the chance to observe a few more rounds the
moment they got it.
In one balloon the two observers had been sitting aloft for hours,
after an early rising and a hurried breakfast. They had only been
having fleeting targets at intervals as the haze cleared, but any
danger of becoming bored was removed by the activities of a certain
anti-balloon gun which did its best to shoot them down whenever it
could get a sight on them, and by the excitement of watching out for an
air attack whenever the low clouds came down and offered good cover to
any Hun air man who cared to sneak over above them and chance an attack.
When a blanketing mist crawled down over the target again, one observer
swore disgustedly and spoke down the telephone. The second kept watch
round and listened to the one-sided conversation. When it finished, the
first observer turned to the map. "This is unpleasant, Dixie," he said,
pointing to a spot on it. "We've lost the hill out there."
"Lost the hill!" said Dixie disconsolately. "Don't talk to me about
losing. I've lost my beauty sleep; I've lost interest; and if this
cussed gas-bag doesn't stop behavin' like a cockle-boat in a tide-rip,
I'm goin' to lose my breakfast next."
"It's clearing a little again," said the other cheerfully. "Hope so,
anyway. I want to finish that battery off. Can you see what the line's
doing?"
"Seems to be mainly occupied absorbin' Hun high explosive," said
Dixie. "They don't look to be enjoyin' life down there any more'n I am
--an' that's not enough to write to the papers about."
"There they go!" said the other. "Spot that flash? Let's get on with
it. The P.B.I.[6] down on the floor there want all the help we can give
'em."
[6] Poor Blanky Infantry.
"You've said it, Boy," remarked Dixie, and turned to his spotting again.
Both were hard at work five minutes later trying to pick up the burst
of their shells and pass their observations down to the guns, when
there came a whistle and a howl and a loud, rending _c-r-r-rack!_
somewhere above them.
"See here, Boy!" said Dixie. "This is gettin' too close to be pleasant,
as the turkey said about Christmas. Can't we find where he's located
and pitch a few back at him? I'm about tired of perchin' up here being
made a cock-shy of."
"Wait a bit," said Boy. "I'm almost finished with this other battery.
Maybe---- Look out! Here she comes again!"
"Look out!" retorted Dixie, when the shell had howled up and burst in
a cloud of filthy black smoke not more than a hundred yards out and on
their level. "Pleasant prospect to look out at. Hades! Here's another.
Say, Boy, this is gettin' too hot, as Casabianca said to the burnin'
deck. He's got our elevation all right, and if we don't change it he'll
get us next, for sure."
The closeness of the shot had been observed below, and, after a brief
telephoned talk, the balloon was hauled rapidly down a thousand feet.
Another shell crashed angrily above them as it went down.
The next hour was a highly unpleasant one to the two observers. The
"anti" gun was plainly out to down them, and kept pitching shell after
shell with most discomforting accuracy all around them. The winch
below hauled them down and let them soar up to all sorts of varying
elevations in strenuous endeavours to cheat the gunners, while the two
observers did their best to pick up targets and lay their guns on to
them, and the anti shells continued to scream up and burst about them.
Several times the explosions were so close that it appeared certain the
envelope must be holed, and the observers stopped work and waited with
held breath to discover whether they were sinking and if they would
have to jump for it and trust to their parachutes. But the balloon
held up, and the two continued their shoot. It was unpleasant, highly
unpleasant, but the hard-pressed infantry wanted all the assistance the
guns could give them, and the guns wanted all the help air observation
could give; so the observers held on, and chanced the shells, and kept
their guns going on such targets as they could pick out of the dull
light and grey mist.
It must be admitted that, as the time dragged past, the strain began
to tell on the tempers of both men. The only respite they had from the
continued torment of the anti-balloon gun was when the mist closed down
on them; and then the strain was in no way lessened, but altered only
to that of watching out for an attacking enemy.
And that looked-for attack came at last. There came a sudden and
urgent call on the telephone from below, and both men strained their
eyes out through the lifting haze to the next balloon in the line and,
with an instinctive fumbling at the attachment of their parachute
harness, made ready to jump. But what they saw held them spellbound for
a moment. The next balloon in the line was being attacked. It was over
a quarter of a mile away; but the silhouette of a plane could clearly
be seen swooping down on the defenceless balloon, flashes of fire
spitting and streaking from his guns as he came. The two balloon-men
leaped over the edge of the basket. One plunged down the regulation
distance, his parachute fluttered open with a shimmer of gleaming silk
that looked exactly like a bursting puff of white smoke, began to drop
down in wide pendulum swings. But with the second man's parachute
something plainly had gone wrong. Dixie and the Boy, clutching the
sides of their basket and staring horror-stricken, gasped as they saw
the little figure go plunging plummet-wise hundreds after hundreds of
feet ... hundreds ... thousands ... and still the parachute followed in
a solid unopened black dot. The balloon was near 3,000 feet up when the
man jumped, and he and the parachute went down 3,000 feet, as a stone
would drop down a well. Dixie and the Boy watched fascinated, tried to
turn their heads or shut their eyes--and couldn't.
When it was over, Dixie spoke hurriedly. "Come on, kid! Over! Or it's
our turn next!"
But to watch a parachute fail to open, and the next instant to trust
your life to the proper working of your own, is rather a severe test,
and it is little wonder that both Dixie and the Boy waited another
second watching and waiting before leaping over. They saw a lick of
flame flicker along the top of the attacked balloon, die down, flash
out again--and then caught sight of the Hun scout wheeling and heading
for their balloon. The winch below was hauling down with frantic haste;
but there is little hope of pulling down a K.B. 3,000 feet in anything
like the time it takes a fast scout to cover 500 yards, and the Boy,
taking a gulping breath, was on the point of jumping, when Dixie
clutched at him and cried--croaked is a truer word--hoarsely at him.
The new act of the drama was begun and ended almost quicker than the
first. Out of the grey mist another plunging shape emerged, hurtling
straight across the path of the enemy scout, its guns streaming fire,
clattering a long postman-knock _tat-tat-tat-tat_. The enemy machine
swerved violently, missed collision by bare yards, swept round, thrust
his nose down and tried to dive away. But the other machine was after
him and on him like a hawk after a pigeon, clinging to his tail and
pelting fire at him. A gust of sooty black smoke puffed from the
leading machine, a spurt of flashing fire followed, and it went diving
headlong with flame and clouds of smoke trailing after.
"Boy," said Dixie unsteadily, "I've mighty near had balloonin' enough
for one morning's amusement!"
The telephone was calling, and the Boy turned to answer it. But
before he spoke there rose to them again the shrieking rush of an
approaching shell--a rush that rose to a shriek, a bellow, and ended
in an appalling crash that sent the balloon reeling and jerking at
its tether. Again both men fingered the parachute harness buckled
about them and stared up intent and uneasy at the swaying envelope
above them. Before they could decide whether it was hit or not another
wailing yowl heralded another shell, another rending crash, another
leaping cloud of black smoke just below them, the shriek and whistle
of flying fragments up past them, told of another deadly close burst.
Choking black smoke swirled up on them, and the Boy began to shout
hurriedly into his telephone.
"Tell 'em the basket's shot full of holes," said Dixie, "and my
parachute's got a rip in it big enough to put your fist in. And
tell----"
He broke off suddenly. The pitching, tossing, jerking of the tethered
balloon had changed to a significant smoothness and dead calm. The
Boy dropped his telephone receiver. "Dixie," he gasped, "we're--we're
adrift!"
Dixie took one swift look over the edge of the basket. "You've said
it," he drawled, "an' that ends the shoot, anyway."
"Should we jump for it?" asked the Boy hurriedly.
"If you feel like it, go ahead," said Dixie, "but not for mine,
thank'ee. My parachute's shot up to glory, an', anyhow, we're driftin'
back over our own lines. I'd as soon stay with her till she bumps."
"I think she's dropping," said the Boy. "The shell that cut the cable,
maybe, holed the gas-bag, and she'll come down with a run."
"We're comin' down all right," said Dixie philosophically, "but not
fast enough to hurt. You jump if you like. I'm goin' to hang on and
pull the rippin'-cord when she's near the floor."
But the remembrance of that other observer, falling like a bullet
beneath an unopened parachute, was too close to encourage the Boy
to leap, and the two waited, hanging over the edge of the basket,
watching the ground drift past beneath them, trying to gauge how fast
the balloon was coming down. It fell slowly, very slowly, at first,
losing height so gradually that it was hard even to say it was losing.
It began to look as if the two were in for an easy and comfortable
descent without leaving the balloon. Then plainly the rate of descent
began to quicken. The ground began to swirl up to them at an alarming
speed; the balloon, which had up to now been drifting so smoothly that
its movement could hardly be felt, started to lurch down in sickening
swerves and drops and swings.
"Boy," said Dixie seriously, "I dunno you hadn't better chance it an'
jump. Looks like this ol' sausage was punctured bad, an' I'm gettin'
to think she's goin' to phut out quick an' go down wallop. S'pose you
jump, an' I hang on to her. My parachute----"
"Take mine," said the Boy quickly. "I'd as soon stay with her."
"Nothin' doin'," answered Dixie. "Parachute jumps is no popular pastime
of mine at the moment, an' I don't mind ownin' to it."
So both waited, Dixie with his hand on the ripping-cord, both with
their heads over the side, their eyes fixed on the passing ground.
There was a strong wind blowing, and, as they came closer to the
ground, they began to discover the surprising speed at which they were
travelling, to feel a good deal uneasy about the crash with which they
must hit solid earth. The balloon was falling now at dangerous speed,
and, worse, was coming down in a series of wild swings and swayings.
"The wood!" shouted Dixie, pointing out and down. "Better crash her in
it, eh?"
"Go on," answered the Boy briefly.
The next minute was rather a nightmare--a wild impression of a
sickening plunge, of tearing crackling noises, of breaking branches,
of a basket jerking, tossing, leaping, falling, bouncing and falling
again, and finally coming to rest amongst the crashing tree-tops,
hanging there a moment, tearing free and, falling and bringing up
completely with a bump amongst the lower branches, while the envelope
settled and sagged and flopped in another crescendo of cracklings and
rippings and tearings on top of the trees. The two clung for dear life
to their basket; were jerked and wrenched almost from their grip a
dozen times; hung on expecting every moment to be their last; felt the
basket at last settle and steady, and cease to do its best to hurl them
overboard.
They climbed over, caught stray cords, and slid thankfully to firm
ground. "Did it ever strike you, Boy," said Dixie, "what a pleasant
thing a lump of plain solid dirt under your feet can be?"
That ended their adventure so far as the air was concerned. But it cost
them an hour's tramp to find a main road and discover where they were;
and another hour to tramp along it to a fair-sized town where there
might be an inn or hotel. A mile-stone on the roadside gave them their
whereabouts and surprised them by the distance they had drifted back.
They set their faces east and began a steady tramp. The road was
rather crowded with a stream of French civilians all moving west, and,
as they walked, the crowd grew closer and more solid and showed plainer
signs of haste and anxiety. There were no troops on the road; it was
wholly filled with civilians--women and children and very old men for
the best part, all laden with bundles or pulling or pushing or driving
vehicles of every sort and description. There was a cow dragged behind
an old woman and a child, a huge bed-mattress bundled and roped on its
back; a perambulator piled high with clothing and blankets, and with a
baby nested down in the middle of the pile; an old man leading a young
child and carrying a bird-cage with two full-sized chickens crammed
into it; a decrepit cart and still more decrepit pony, with a load of
furniture that might have filled a pantechnicon; a family, apparently
of mother and five children of descending ages and sizes, but each with
a bundle hugged close; an old bent woman tottering a step at a time on
two sticks. All trailed along wearily in a slow drifting mass; and all,
except the very young children, were casting uneasy glances over their
shoulders, were evidently struggling to put as many paces as possible
between them and their starting-point.
Dixie and the Boy knew well what it all meant--merely the evacuation
of another village that had come within shell-range of the Hun, or
was near enough to the shifting battle-line to make it wise to escape
before all in it were engulfed, made prisoner, and set to slavery in
the fields on starvation rations for Hun task-masters, or, worse,
deported, torn apart, child from mother, weak from strong, helpless
from helpers, and deported to far-off factories or the terrors
of an unknown fate. The French and Belgians have learned their
lesson--learned it slow and hard and bitterly--that it is bad to be
driven to leave all they own on earth, but infinitely worse to stay and
still lose all, and more in the "all" than mere earthly possessions.