THE FIRST TRIP ACROSS THE LINE
_Somewhere in France,
Monday._
A most important entry in my little diary, this, the day of my first
trip across the “lines.”
And here in the privacy of my thoughts and of my pen let it be said
that at first I was troubled with qualms of fear--qualms that I had
experienced in the previous life after a stormy Channel crossing, or
prior to a visit to my dentist.
As I stood there on the dreary, wind-swept aerodrome in the chilly rays
of the early morning sun, forebodings filled my mind. Visions of an
awful death in mid-air, and a yet more awful vision of a downward rush
of thousands of feet to the ground below. Comforting myself with the
reflections that, after all, out of the large number of machines that
must daily cross the lines the proportion of those reported missing was
extremely small, I was roused from my pessimistic thoughts by the voice
of the pilot, who was already in his seat enjoying the luxury of the
last few puffs at his “gasper” (cigarette) before testing the engine.
He invited me cordially to “hop in,” and once in to strap myself in
securely. With his calm matter-of-fact air, which, incidentally cheered
me up considerably, one would have thought that we were about to start
for a motor run through Piccadilly and the Park rather than, as he so
picturesquely styled it, “to play the part of a clay pigeon atop of a
firework show.”
Three heavy-eyed mechanics now appeared upon the scene, and, after
having been slanged roundly for their late arrival by our cheery Jehu,
the engine was started with an alarming whirr. A few preliminaries and
she got well away.
For a few moments we circled round the neighborhood of the aerodrome,
to gain height. Then in the first contact with the icy-cold morning
breeze I felt thankful that I had taken the sound advice of clothing
myself well. I must have looked for all the world like an Eskimo or an
Arctic explorer in my wool-lined leather coat and overall trousers, a
knitted Balaclava hat or helmet, and over that again a skull-cap, the
whole tied down tightly beneath my chin. A huge woolen muffler round
my neck and a pair of unsightly goggles completed the picture. I had
treated my hands and face with a generous dose of vaseline, which I
had been assured would keep out the cold, and which advice I now
gratefully acknowledge to be correct.
As we mount higher my perspective extends, and out of the gray mists
and the dark shadows land and sea begin to assume their natural form
and color. On the former there are now signs of movement; along the
roads crawl the ant-like procession of ammunition columns back from
their nightly trip to the firing lines. A steaming “Puffing Billy”
slowly drags along on a limber, a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun)
blocking up the whole roadway, which must cause considerable annoyance
to the long string of cars and motorbike dispatch riders held up in the
rear.
On the roadside, by a wood, a company of infantry are falling in for
early parade; they look up at us in a half interested sort of way. Some
wave their hats and rifles at us. I wave my hand in reply, but know
they cannot see us. We keep on climbing steadily. Out at sea are two
French torpedo-boats making up the coast towards ----, and a few small
trawlers sailing off in the direction of England. Happy thought!
Every moment we are getting nearer to the dreaded area. In the far
distance I can see the red flashes of the rifles, the smoke clouds of
the heavy guns, and the long gray lines of winding trenches. I look at
my map, to discover that we are passing over a junction of two main
roads, one of which is crossed by a railway, while beneath the other
runs a narrow stream. It is ----.
Five miles to the firing line. With my glasses I can already pick out
several of our own field-artillery emplacements, and a moving up of
reinforcements from the rear--I would surmise about two battalions of
infantry. I time the observation on my report sheet; also I discover
from my wrist compass--my most prized and valued possession--that we
are going too much to the north-west and tell the pilot so by means of
a written message.
Course changed! What are Headquarters orders for the flight? A
reconnaissance over ----, I puzzle out as well as my now fevered brain
will allow me, whether reconnaissance will be tactical or strategical,
and again whether “line” or “area.” For the benefit of those who may
perhaps read my diary I will here endeavor to explain the fine points
which divide the two. The former reconnaissance necessitates flying
and observing along a line between two given points on the map, these
points having already been marked in before leaving the ground. Area
reconnaissance, on the other hand, comprises observation of a whole
area or district. To do this successfully it is necessary to fly
backward and forward several times, thus adding greater risk to the
adventure, and taking a great deal longer time to accomplish. Hence
they are not undertaken very far away from our own lines, and then
only if particular information is required.
Thus far the weather had rendered the trip ideal. But it would be an
entirely different matter, I surmised, when we came within reach of the
enemy anti-aircraft guns. Already they were getting uncomfortably near.
Should we have an easy passage across or should we have to climb up for
our lives above the bursting “Archies”?
We were not left long in doubt. Their men must have been up particularly
early that morning, for the very first shot came within an ace of
blighting two young and promising careers. There was a loud report on
the ground below, the familiar “sing” of an approaching shell, which at
first interests one, but which in the course of time one gets to dread.
Then it seemed for the moment that the whole machine had been blown to
atoms. But no! We started to climb hurriedly.
“High explosive,” the pilot bawled in my ear. “Going up higher.”
For the next three minutes my feelings were the reverse of pleasant,
and I fervently hoped that other observers did not suffer in the same
way. Shells burst above, below, to the right, to the left, and all
round us; but never near enough to do us any serious harm, though the
bullets of one shrapnel shell certainly did rattle against the wings,
piercing them with minute holes in several places, and I felt very
thankful for the uncomfortable sandbag on which I sat, which protected
me from bursting shells beneath.
As we climbed to a higher altitude the Huns ceased their attentions,
and we very soon arrived over the scene of our “line.” My bad attack
of “cold feet” now having passed over, I set myself to think seriously
upon the precepts drummed into my thick head by the instructor at the
training school. “The observer” he was wont to say, “should always try
to keep in touch with the military situation, and particularly in the
encounter battle, and discover the disposition of our own troops.”
One point I could and did satisfy myself upon--this was no encounter
battle. So I ignored our own forces and kept my attention fixed upon
----. Nothing extraordinary met my eye. I saw a camp here and there,
and turned my glasses upon them and discovered that they were composed
of huts. Hurriedly I counted them, and noted the number in my report,
together with the altitude, 12,000 ft. Again the solemn advice of my
worthy instructor passed through my brain: “The eyes must constantly
turn to each likely spot, and each spot must be examined carefully with
the glasses if it offers anything useful for the observer’s report.”
I examined each likely spot, and discovered to my delight a broad
grass meadow across which ran several pathways of very recent
construction. Footpaths, I argued to myself (and I may possibly have
been wrong) are not made across fields for the mere pleasure of
constructing them. There is more in this than meets the eye. I signaled
to my companion and he quickly grasped the situation, and in long
sweeping circles, brought her down some 2000 ft. The lower we came the
more distinctly I could make out that some sort of emplacement was
being built up--the new emplacement for a 17-inch howitzer. I noted the
same.
An excellent morning’s work. We turn to go home. But the enemy has not
appreciated our attentions and most unthoughtfully turns his guns upon
us.
Then the fun begins. It was bad enough crossing the lines, but
child’s-play when compared with this; and besides we are two thousand
lower. A perfect inferno of “Archies.” We bank first to one side then
to the other; put her nose down for a moment or so, then climb for all
we are worth.
But it is no good. We are hit!
Down goes her nose, down and down. The air whistles past our ears.
The earth rushes up to meet us. The discs of the machine-gun topple
overboard, so steep has the angle become. ---- must have been hit. Yes!
there he is, all huddled up over the joy-stick (control-stick). I give
up all hope, when suddenly, the machine starts to right herself. I
look around, and find that the rush through the air must have brought
him to. He is manfully straining every nerve to get her out of the
nose-dive. By a superhuman effort he succeeds. We manage to get across
the lines unnoticed save by a few infantrymen, who fire futilely at us,
and land a bare hundred yards the other side of our own trenches. ----
makes a beautiful landing, pulls her up dead, and promptly faints in
his seat. My first trip!