SOME ANECDOTES
_Somewhere in Belgium,
Thursday._
“The life of an airman is one of intense idleness interrupted by
moments of violent fear.” This remark, originating as it does from
a youthful member of the Senior Service describes, more aptly than
any other yet penned, the life of the airman under active service
conditions. Sometimes there will come a spell of fine weather, and he
is kept going hard at it from sunrise to sunset. At other times when
the weather is too bad for flying, he has nought else to do but sit
round the mess-fire and tell stories.
The memory of those wet days! Men of all sorts and conditions
exchanging personal experiences: anecdotes of hair-raising escapes from
bursting shrapnel shells, thrilling fights with Air Huns, miraculous
evolutions in mid-air, and a thousand and one other subjects dear to
the heart of the airman. I will here endeavor to relate several of the
best stories that have so far come my way, but it is impossible to
tell more than five per cent. of them, for their name is Legion.
The first story concerns a well-known aerodrome somewhere in Flanders.
The pilots of the station, when the weather was too bad for flying,
filled up their spare time by playing football; until one day a
wag amongst them suggested that a ball should be blown up as tight
as possible; taken up in an aeroplane and dropped on the German
lines. This suggestion was duly carried out and the first fine day
the ball was put aboard a machine going up the Belgian Coast for a
reconnaissance trip. Arrived over the town that had been decided upon,
it was dropped overboard, with quite accurate aim into the market
square. Seeing this dark awesome object falling through the air and
taking it for a bomb the Germans took to their heels. Landing on the
cobbled pave, it must have bounced nearly twenty feet into the air,
then gradually lower and lower, until at last it rolled into a ditch.
Then and only then did the Germans reappear, one fat soldier going over
to it and giving it a vicious kick.
An instance of air _camaraderie_ was that of the Bosche who brought
Pégoud down after a fight in mid-air. Hearing that he had been killed,
and where he was to be buried, he came over and dropped a wreath on
the scene of his burial ground--a pretty compliment that was greatly
appreciated.
The story concerning Captain M---- is the most striking of the war.
Poor fellow, he has since been killed. It happened one very misty
morning. M---- was on a reconnaissance trip. His engine failed and had
to come down a good ten miles behind their lines. However, he landed
safely, and had just burnt his machine, when he saw three dark figures
coming up out of the fog, and taking discretion to be the better part
of valor he fled, and hid himself in a ditch hard by. He was there for
the whole of a day and a night, and it has since been ascertained that
there were close on five thousand Bosches searching for him the whole
time. When he found the coast was clear, he crept out of the ditch,
and marched off boldly down the road until he met a friendly Belgian
peasant; from this chap he wheedled an old suit of clothes, and, thus
attired, walked on nearly to Lille. Here he acted somewhat foolishly.
He boarded a tramcar bound for the city, not knowing where to ask to
be put down. The car was full of Prussian officers. The man came for
his fare; and for a moment he was nonplussed. Then he had a brain-wave.
Remembering that every town in Belgium possesses a glorified market
square, he demanded _à la grande place, s’il vous plait_, and pulled
out a handful of silver coins to pay the man. Such a thing as a silver
coin had not been seen in Lille for months, ever since the Germans had
captured it in fact. Fortunately the Prussians were too much occupied
in their own conversation to take any notice of _ein schweinhund_ of
a Belgian peasant. Arrived in the city, luck again favored him, and
he obtained shelter in a garret for three weeks. Then the police grew
suspicious, and late one night he was forced to clear out hurriedly.
After leaving the city he had a terrible time. He tramped right across
Belgium, always at night, and every moment in fear of his life, feeding
on anything he could find, crusts and offal thrown to the pigs, and
stale bread thrown away by the German soldiers. Footsore, weary, hungry
and exhausted he at last arrived at the Dutch frontier. Here occurred
another agonizing wait. Again for a day and a night he lay hidden in a
ditch, until late that evening the sentry paused on his beat to light
his pipe. This was his opportunity. It was a moonlight night. He dashed
across the intervening space. The sentry fired three shots and missed
each time. He got across Holland, to a seaport town, stowed himself
aboard a fishing smack, got to England and reported himself to the
astonished officials at the War Office.
This reminds me of a story told by a certain famous airman, a little
man with a great heart, on whose breast there are the flaring crimson
of the French Légion d’Honneur and the crimson and blue of the
Distinguished Service Order. I will give you his own words. “I went
over the lines with X---- for an observer. He’d never been over the
lines before and I must confess that I felt a wee bit shaky as to how
he would take it. Luckily we got across without a single shot being
fired at us--and then we met a Taube, coming right down wind at about
ninety miles, and at about our own level. I looked at X----, who for a
time, was too busy watching the other chap coming up to notice me, but
finally he turned and smiled, and I knew he was all right. ‘Got the
Lewis-gun ready?’ I bawled into his ear. He nodded, and then we cleared
the decks for action, so to speak. He put a fresh tray of ammunition
on the gun, and got two other trays ready by the side of him, while
I had a look at the bombs and grenades, and put the joy-stick about
a bit just to see that she was all right. The other chap still kept
on, and was only about a hundred yards off when X---- opened fire,
zipp-zipp-zipp-zipp, seventy-eight of the little beggars slick into the
middle of him. Gave him hell, I can tell you; at all events he didn’t
stick it long. Down went the nose of his machine, and he was very soon
about a thousand feet beneath us. I loosed off all my bombs, quick
as I could, missed every time, had a shot with a grenade and missed
again. I must confess I felt a wee bit flurried that morning--and
then X---- began. Never laughed so much in all my life. He laid his
hands on everything, his hat and his glasses--Government glasses, by
the way--and his revolver and spare cartridges. Thank God! There was
nothing of mine in the front there.”
Not nearly so pleasant, however, was the experience of a certain
seaplane pilot, who when flying across the Channel from Belgium to
England was forced by engine trouble to come down on to the sea, in the
midst of our own mine-fields, very far removed from the track of all
shipping. Here he remained for eleven and a half hours, until sighted
by a torpedo-boat, which though unable to reach him herself, was able
to give warning ashore, so that a small motor-boat succeeded in finding
a way through the mines, rescued the pilot, but was forced to abandon
the machine.
Another story concerning Pégoud. The Germans brought Pégoud down, when
flying one of the new French machines, that are supposed to have so
many wonderful new improvements aboard, and that they’re so secretive
about. He didn’t have time to burn it--and the Huns were very keen on
learning how the thing flew. So they tackled Pégoud on the subject. He
said he was perfectly willing to give them an exhibition himself, but
they didn’t care for the idea. “Yes, and when you get up there you’ll
fly away back to your own lines again.” “Very well,” he said; “send
two of your men up with revolvers and let them sit one on each side
of me, so that I won’t be able to get away.” To this they afterwards
agreed, and the first fine morning Pégoud, with the two men sitting
on each side of the fuselage, goes up about 10,000 feet. Then one of
the Huns began to get impatient. Said he: “I think we’d better go down
now.” “That’s all right,” Pégoud answered, “you’re going.” And with
that he put his joy-stick down. She went over a good clean loop, and
the Bosches went down quicker than they bargained for.