in mouth for the instant when she would right herself enough for him
to resume control. He caught her at last and straightened her out,
and at the same instant her enemy following her down dived past and
up under her, where he was out of reach of the observer's gun. The
pilot wrenched her round in a narrow circle that brought her pivoting
on her wing-tip, and allowed the observer to look and point his gun
straight overside and directly down on the enemy. He got off one short
burst, and this time saw some of his tracer bullets break in sparks
of fire about the fuselage and pilot's cockpit. They did damage too,
evidently, because the Hun broke off the action, drove off full pelt to
the eastward just as the "Gamecock" dropped in a dangerous side-slip.
Again her pilot caught and steadied her, and began to climb her slowly
and staggeringly to a higher level. Those last wrenching turns and
plunges had been too severe a strain on her shaken frame, and now, as
she climbed, both pilot and observer could hear and feel a horrible
jarring vibration. They were not more than 3,000 feet up, but the
engine threatened to refuse to lift them higher, and when it choked
and stuttered and missed again, the "Gamecock" shivered and almost
stalled once more. The pilot hurriedly thrust her nose down and swept
down in a long rush to pick up flying speed again. "Get on," he yelled
back. "Get on with your shoot. I daren't try'n climb her, and there's
no stunt left in her if another Hun comes. A brace parted in that last
scrap"--and he turned to his engine again, and swung the "Gamecock" in
a wide circle.
Once more the observer signalled his battery to fire. This time there
was no difficulty in finding his target, because the "zero hour" had
come; there were little dots swarming out over the No Man's Land below,
and the hostile batteries the "Gamecock" was looking for were flaming
out in rapid sheets of vivid fire, and their shells pounding down
amongst our infantry. The "Gamecock" circled slowly over the batteries,
losing height steadily, because her pilot had to keep her nose down
so that the glide would help out her failing engine and maintain
her flying speed. Her observer was picking out shell-burst after
shell-burst with greater and greater difficulty in the reek below,
signalling back the corrections to the guns.
By now the "Gamecock" was low enough to come within range of the rifles
and machine-guns turned up on her. The batteries below her knew that
she was "spotting" on them, and did everything possible to knock her
out; while their gunners, having at last got the word of the beginning
of the attack, opened a furious rate of fire barraging the No Man's
Land. The observer above them saw those streaming flashes, and knowing
what they meant, stuck doggedly to his task, although now the bullets
were hissing close and thick about them, and the windage from the
rushing shells of our own heavy guns and the air-eddies from the guns
firing below set the "Gamecock" rocking and bumping and rolling like
a toy boat in a cross tide. The observer felt a jarring crash under
his hand, a stab of pain in his fingers and up his arm. The wireless
instrument had been smashed by a bullet as he tapped a signal. He
shouted to the pilot, and the pilot slowly turned a white, set face
to him and called feebly into the 'phone. "Hit" was the only word the
observer caught; and "Get her back as far as you can and shove her down
anywhere," he shouted instantly in answer. The "Gamecock" swung slowly
round and lurched drunkenly back towards their own lines. The observer
looked at his clock. It was already past the "zero hour."
Down below in the front line the battalions had waited for that
moment, crouched in the bottom of their trenches, listening to the
rolling thunder of the guns, glancing at watches, examining and
re-examining rifles and bombs and equipment. One battalion in the Elbow
Trench had been shelled rather heavily about dawn, but the fire had
died away before the moment for the attack, smothered probably by the
greater volume of our artillery fire. At last a word passed down the
trench, and the men began to clamber out and form into line beyond
their own wire. They could see nothing of the enemy trench, although it
was only little more than 150 yards away. Its outline was hidden in a
thick haze of smoke, although its position was still marked by spouting
columns of smoke and flying earth and débris from our bursting shells.
But exactly on the "zero hour" these shell-bursts ceased and over the
heads of the infantry the lighter shrapnel began to rip and crash,
pouring a torrent of bullets along the earth in front of the line as it
started to move forward.
There was little rifle or machine-gun fire to oppose the advance,
and although many shells were passing over, only odd and ill-directed
ones were dropping in the open No Man's Land. It began to look as if
the steadily-moving line was going to reach the first trench with very
little loss. But suddenly, with sharp whooping rushes, a string of
shells fell in a precise line exactly across the path of the advancing
battalion; and before their springing smoke-clouds had fairly risen,
came another crashing and crackling burst of shells along the same
line; and then there fell a thick curtain of smoke and fire along the
battalion's front, a curtain out of which the rapidly falling shells
flamed and winked in red and orange glares, and the flying splinters
screeched and whined and whirred.
The left half of the battalion came through fairly lightly, for the
barrage was mainly across the path of the right half, but that right
half was simply shot to pieces. The bursting shells caught the men
in clumps, the ragged splinters cut others down one by one in rapid
succession. The line pressed on doggedly, stumbling and fumbling
through the acrid smoke and fumes, stunned and dazed by the noise,
the crashing shock of the detonations, the quick-following splashes
of blinding light that flamed amongst them. The line pressed on and
came at last--what was left of it--through the wall of fire. Behind
it the torn ground was littered thick with huddled khaki forms, with
dead lying still and curiously indifferent to the turmoil about them,
with wounded crawling and dragging themselves into shell-craters
in desperate but vain attempts to escape the shells and shrieking
fragments that still deluged down from the sky amongst them. The
remains of the line staggered on, the men panting and gasping and
straining their eyes eagerly for sight of the parapet ahead that marked
their first objective, that would give them cover from the raging
shell-fire, that would need nothing more than a few minutes' bomb and
bayonet work to make their own.
They were just taking vague comfort, such of them as had thought for
anything but the trench ahead and the hope of clearing the deadly
No Man's Land, at finding themselves through that barraging wall of
flame and rending steel, when the yelling rushes of the overhead
shells paused a moment, to burst out again with full renewed violence
next instant as the enemy guns shortened their range. The barrage had
dropped back, the curtain of fire was again rolling down, spouting and
splashing and flaming across the path of the shattered battalion. The
broken line pushed on and into the barrage again ... and from it this
time emerged no more than a scattered handful of dazed and shaken men.
But the parapet was close ahead now, and the handful took fresh grip of
their rifles and ran at it. Some fifty men perhaps reached it; the rest
of a full 500 were left lying on the open behind them, waiting for the
stretcher bearers--or the burying parties.
The "Gamecock's" pilot managed to bring her back into the lines of
our old trenches and pancaked her, dropped her flat and neatly into a
thicket of barbed wire that clutched and rent her to ribbons, but held
her from turning over.
The observer clambered, and the pilot was lifted down from the
cockpits and taken to a dug-out where a First Aid Post had been
established. The Post and the trenches round it were crowded with
wounded men. The pilot was attended to--he was already far spent with
two bad body wounds--and the observer while he had his hand dressed
asked for news of the attack. "Don't know much," said the doctor,
"except that my own battalion had a bad doing. Left half got over
with little loss but the right half had to go through a barrage and
was just about wiped out. These"--with a jerk of his head to the
casualties--"are some of 'em. But most are out there--killed."
"I saw the barrage as we came back," said the observer bitterly.
"Across the Elbow Trench? Yes, and about the only bit of the whole
line they managed to barrage properly. And they could only do that
because we couldn't out the guns that laid it down. Couldn't do our
job properly and counter-battery them because we were up on a crock of
a 'bus that the Huns could fly rings round, and that let us down into
rifle range and got him"--nodding his head at the recumbent pilot--"his
dose. All just for want of a good machine under us."
"Chuck it, old man," said the pilot faintly. "The old 'Gamecock' did
her best ... and stood to it pretty well considering."
"Mighty well," said the observer hastily, suddenly aware that he had
spoken louder than he meant. "I'm not grousing. It's a sheer matter of
luck after all. How d'you feel now? Any easier?"
But he was wrong. It was not luck. It was the Sequel. The doubtfully
efficient machine sent on dangerous work, the unsilenced batteries
and high-explosive barrage, the hundreds of dead men lying out in the
open, the "Gamecock's" pilot dying slowly there in the trampled mud of
the dug-out under the flickering candles' light were all part of the
Sequel--a sequel, of which the aircraft strikers had never thought, to
a strike of which the dead and dying men had never even heard.
"We were battered all round the ring at first,
We were hammered to hell and back,
But we stood to old Frightful Fritz's worst
And we came for another whack.
Now the fight's swung round; now we're winning fast,
And we'll make it a knock-out too,
If Home doesn't let us down at the last,
If our backers will see it through."
XVIII
THE RAID-KILLERS
The stout man in the corner of the First Smoker put down his paper
as the train ran through the thinning outskirts of the town and into
patches of suburban greenery. It was still daylight, but already the
pale circle of an almost full moon was plain to be seen. "Ha," said
the stout man, "perfect night!" An elderly little man in the opposite
corner also glanced out of the window. "Perfect," he agreed, "bit too
perfect. Full moon, no wind, clear sky, no clouds. All means another
raid to-night, I suppose." The full compartment for the next few
minutes bubbled with talk of raids, and Gothas, and cellars, and the
last raid casualties, and many miraculous escapes. There were many
diverse opinions on all these points, but none on the vital one. It was
accepted by all that it was a perfect night for a raid and that the
Gothas would be over--certain--some time before morning.
* * * * *
Dusk was just beginning to fall on an aerodrome in the British lines
when the big black machines were rolled out of the hangars and lined
up in a long row on the grass. Pilots and Observers, already in flying
kit, were moving about amongst the machines and watching the final
touches put to the preparations for the trip. The Squadron Commander
stood talking to the Pilot and Observer of the machine which was
to lead the way. He glanced at his watch for the tenth time in as
many minutes. "You've got a perfect night for it, anyhow," he said.
"Topping," agreed the Pilot. "And just as perfect for the Huns' trip to
England," said the Observer. "Wonder how H.Q. are so sure about them
starting on a raid from Blankenquerke 'drome to-night," remarked the
Pilot. The Squadron Commander grinned. "They're certain about a heap of
things," he said. "They don't always come off, maybe, but they get on
the mark wonderfully well as a rule. Anyhow, they were dead positive
about the reliability of the information to-night."
"Wouldn't take a witch or an Old Moore to make a prophecy on it
to-night," said the Observer with a laugh. "Knowing how full out the
old Hun has been lately to strafe London, and seeing what a gorgeous
night it is, I'd have made a prophecy just as easy as H.Q. I'd even
have made a bet, and that's better evidence."
"Ought to be getting ready," said the Squadron Commander, with another
look at his watch. "Plenty of time, but we can't afford to risk any
hitch. You want to be off at the tick of the clock."
"Be an awful swindle, certainly, if we got there and found the birds
flown," said the Observer.
"Don't fret," said the C.O. "The Lord ha' mercy on 'em if they try to
take off while old Jimmy's lot are keeping tab on 'em, or before it's
too dark for him to see them move."
There were a few more not-for-publication remarks on the usefulness of
"Jimmy's lot," and the effectiveness of the plans for "keeping tab"
on the German 'drome, and Pilot and Observer turned to climb to their
places. "All things considered," said the Observer, "I'm dashed if I'd
fancy those Huns' job these times. We give 'em rather a harrying one
way and another. Must be wearin' to the nerves."
The Pilot grunted. "What about ours?" he said.
The Observer laughed. "Ours," he said, and, as the joke sank in,
laughed again more loudly, and climbed to his place still chuckling.
For the next ten minutes the air vibrated to the booming roar of the
engines as they ran up, were found in good order, and eased off. The
dusk was creeping across the sky and blurring the trees beyond the
aerodrome, and overhead the moon was growing a deeper and clearer
yellow. The Squadron Commander walked along the line and spoke a few
words to the different Pilots sitting ready and waiting. He walked back
to the Leader's machine and nodded his head. "All ready," he shouted;
"just on time. Push off soon as you like now--and good luck."
The quiet "ticking over" of the propeller speeded up and up until the
blades dissolved into quivering rays of faint light; the throaty hum
deepened, grew louder and louder, stayed a moment on the fullest note,
sank again, and as the Pilot signalled and the chocks were jerked clear
rose roaring again, while the machine rolled lumbering and lurching
heavily out into the open, its navigation lights jerking and jumping
as it merged into the darkness. The lights swung in a wide curve,
slowed and steadied, began to move off at increasing speed to where
a pin-point of light on the ground gave the pilot a course to steer,
lifted smoothly and on a long slant, and went climbing off into the
dark.
The moonlight was clear and strong enough for men on the ground to see
all sorts of details of the machines still waiting, the mechanics about
them, the hangars and huts round the 'drome. But no more than seconds
after it had left the ground the rising machine was gone from sight,
could only be followed when and as its lights gleamed back. Once it
swept droning overhead, and then circled out and boomed off straight
for the lines.
Pilot and Observer were both long-trained and skilled night-fliers.
They crossed the line at the selected point and at a good height,
looking down on the quivering patchwork ribbon of light and shadow
that showed the No Man's Land and the tossing flare lights from the
trenches, the spurting flashes of shell-bursts, the jumping pin-prick
lights from the rifles. The engine roar drowned all sound, until
suddenly a yowl and a rending _ar-r-r-gh_ close astern told them that
Archie was after them. Faintly they heard too the quick _wisp-wisp_ of
passing machine-gun or rifle bullets, the sharp crack of one or two
close ones, and then silence again except for the steady roar of the
engine and the wind by their ears.
Ahead of them a beam of light stabbed up into the sky, swept slowly in
widening circles, jerked back across and across. The big machine barely
swung a point off her course, held steadily to a line that must take
her almost over the spot from which the groping finger of light waved.
A spit of flame licked upward, followed quickly by another and another,
and next instant three quick glares leaped and vanished in the darkness
ahead. A second search-light flamed up, and then a third, and all three
began swinging their beams up and down to cover the path the bomber
must cross. The bomber held straight on, but a quarter of a mile from
the waving lights the roar of her engine ceased and she began to glide
gently towards them. The lights kept their steady to-and-fro swinging
for a moment; the Night-Flier swam smoothly towards them, swung sharply
as one beam swept across just clear of her nose, dodged behind it,
and on past the moving line of light. One moment Pilot and Observer
were holding their breath and staring into a vivid white radiance; the
next the radiance was gone and they were straining their eyes into a
darkness that by contrast was black as pitch. The engine spluttered,
boomed, and roared out again; the lights astern flicked round and
began groping wildly after them, and spurt after spurt of fire from
the ground, glare after glare in the darkness round and before them,
told that Archie was hard at it again. The Observer leaned over to the
Pilot's ear and shouted "Dodged 'em nicely."
"Jacky's turn next," answered the Pilot, and began glancing back over
his shoulder. "There he comes," he shouted, and looking back both could
see a furious sputter of shell-bursts in the sky, the quick searching
sweeps of the lights where the second Night-Flier was running the
gauntlet. The leader went on climbing steadily in a long slant, and at
the next barrier of lights and guns held straight on and over without
paying heed to the rush and whistle of shells, the glare and bump of
their bursts.
Mile after mile of shadowy landscape unrolled and reeled off below them.
The Observer was leaning forward looking straight down over the nose of
the machine, unerringly picking up landmark after mark, signalling the
course to the Pilot behind him. At last he stood erect and waved his
arms to the Pilot, and instantly the roar of the engine sank and died.
"Steady as you go," shouted the Observer, "nearly there. I can see the
Diamond Wood."
"Carry on," the Pilot shouted back, and set himself to nursing his
machine down without the engine on as gentle a glide as would keep her
on her course and lose as little height as possible. The Observer,
peering down at the marks below, gave the course with a series of
arm signals, but presently he whipped round with a yell of joyful
excitement. "Gottem! We fairly gottem this trip. Look--dead ahead." The
Pilot swung the machine's nose a shade to the left and leaning out to
the right looked forward and down. "The 'drome?" he shouted. "'Drome,"
yelled the Observer, scrambled back to get his head close to the
Pilot's and whooped again. "'Drome--and the whole bunch of 'em lined
up ready to take off. See their lights? Wow! This isn't pie, what!" He
was moving hastily to get to his place by his gun again when the Pilot
reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and shouted, "Don't go'n spoil a
good thing. We don't want to hog everything. Let's wait and get the
crowd in on it."
"Right," returned the Observer. "Keep the glide as long as you can."
They slid noiselessly in to the enemy 'drome, circled over it, losing
height steadily, looking down gloatingly on the twinkling row of lights
below them, and peering out in a fever of impatience for sign of the
next machine of the flight. But in their anxiety to have a full hand
to play against the enemy below they nearly overplayed. A search-light
beam suddenly shot up from the ground near the 'drome. Another leaped
from a point beyond it. "They're on to us," yelled the Observer. "Open
her up and barge down on 'em quick."
But the Pilot held his engine still. "It's some of the others they're
on," he shouted back, as light after light rose, and, after a moment's
groping, slanted down towards the west where a sparkle of shell-bursts
showed. "Now for it. Look out."
The line of lights which marked the machines below had winked out
at the first burst of the Archies, but the Night-Flier had marked
the spot, her engine roared out, and she went swooping down the last
thousand feet straight at her mark. At first sound of her engine half a
dozen lights swung hunting for them, spitting streams of fire began to
sparkle from the defences' machine-guns. The Night-Flier paid no heed
to any of them, dropped to a bare three hundred feet, flattened, and
went roaring straight along the line of machines standing on the 'drome
below. _Crash-crash-crash!_ her bombs went dropping along the line as
fast as hand could pull the lever. Right down the line from one end to
the other she went, the bombs crash-crashing and the Observer's gun
pouring a stream of fire into the machine below; a quick hard left-hand
turn, and she was round and sailing down the line again, letting go the
last of her bombs, and with the Observer feverishly pelting bullets
down along it. Clear of the long line, the Pilot was on the point of
swinging again when a huge black shape roared past them, the wing-tips
clearing theirs by no more than bare feet. Pilot and Observer craned
out and looked down and back, and next moment they saw the glare and
flash, heard the _thump-thump_ of bombs bursting on the ground. The
Observer was stamping his feet and waving his arms and the Pilot
yelling a wild "Good shot!" to every burst, when a rush and a crash and
the blinding flame of a shell-burst close under their bows recalled
them to business. The air by now was alive with tracer bullets, thin
streaking lines of flame that hissed up round and past them. The Pilot
opened his engine full out and set himself to climb his best. The
tracers followed them industriously, and the Archie shells continued to
whoop and howl and bump round them as they climbed. The Pilot, craning
out and looking over, was aware suddenly of the Observer at his ear
again. "I gotta heap of rounds left," he was bawling. "Let's go down
and give 'em another dose."
"Bombs are better," returned the Pilot. "Whistle up the pack. Shoot a
light or drop a flare."
Next moment a coloured light leaped from the Night-Flier, and in
return a storm of tracers came streaming and pelting about her. Another
light, and another storm of bullets, and a couple of search-lights
swept round, groped a moment, and caught them. "Your gun!" screamed the
Pilot. "I'm goin' for the light." The big machine swerved, ducked, and
jerked out in a long side-slip. At first the light held her fast and
the bullets came up in a regular tornado of whistling, spitting flame
and smoke, most of them hissing venomously past, but many hitting with
sharp smacks and cracks and in showers of breaking sparks on wings and
frame. But another wild swoop and dive and upward turn shook the light
off for a moment, and then the Night-Flier put her nose down and drove
straight at the point from which the sword of light stabbed up. As they
steadied and held straight, the Observer swung his gun round, took
steady aim, and opened fire. The light fumbled a moment, lit on them
again, and poured its blinding glare full in their faces. The Pilot,
his eyes closed to narrow slits, went straight at the glare, and the
Observer, better equipped and prepared, jerked a pair of smoked glass
goggles down off his forehead and reopened fire. The light vanished
with a snap, and instantly the Pilot pulled the stick in and hoicked
hard up. A thousand feet up, with the darkness criss-crossed by waving
search-lights, the air alive with bullets, the ground flaming and
spurting with Archie fire, he shut off engine a moment and yelled,
"Good shot! Come on--try another."