SPORT EXTRAORDINARY
_Somewhere in the North of France,
Monday._
There is an undoubted fascination in being about at sunrise on a clear,
fine morning. And especially so when up in the air.
Our day was of this variety. A day when a man’s heart yearns for a
moor, a dog, and a gun. For moor we had the long, flat, dreary sandhill
and marshes of the Belgian coast; a dog was not needed, and in fact
would have been in the way.
And our gun was not of a type particularly well-known or approved of in
sporting circles--a “Lewis” machine-gun, fitted above with a tray of
forty-seven cartridges.
Our quest was “wild ducks,” an idea as novel as it was entertaining,
originating with the padre of the station--a cheery individual, who
divided his attention between writing insufferably bad verse, and
collecting mess-subscriptions from irritated members.
The sun rose over the sea, lighting the blue surface with a thousand
scintillating rays. The tents of the camps thousands of feet below
began to show up against the gray of the earth, and the red flashes
of the rifle volleys combined with the white cloud and roar of the
belching heavy-gun to complete our picture of the waking world.
But we had not much time to pay attention to these matters, for our
minds and eyes were concentrated on the one subject.
From what direction would they first appear? Would they come up to us,
or would we have to put “her” down to them? The sun was well up in the
sky, and signs of life and movement were beginning to make themselves
manifest “down there,” before several tiny black specks appeared on the
horizon coming up from the ground behind the marshes at Nieuport.
We brought the aeroplane round, to get the birds between the sun and
ourselves, and with the wind at their backs, so as not to be aware of
our approach. However, they turned off seawards, and again we had to
change our course, until they seemed to be at too great a distance for
us ever to get them within gun range. The noise of the racing engine
must have reached them on this new tack, for we were now only half-head
on to the wind; but of this they took not the slightest notice, keeping
on their way a regular and well-ordered flock.
As a matter of fact this could be explained by the reason that birds
in that neighborhood must have become so entirely used to the whirr
of a passing aeroplane, for as many as a score passed over this same
district every fine day.
We now changed our tactics, and brought her round with the sun at our
backs, casting a shadow across the path of the moving flock, and a
small dull replica which moved in an alarming and amazing manner across
field and hedge, house and farm, beneath.
At last we were getting up with them, and to signalize the happy event
the padre let off a dozen rounds, which went very far wide of the mark,
and only served to divide the flock into two portions, the larger of
which continued in a seaward direction.
These we determined to follow, and coming down to 500 feet, opened the
engine “full out” to close on 100 miles an hour.
Never before had one realized the wonderful speed which these birds can
keep up when on the wing. For with all our great speed we were yet far
behind, and every moment drawing nearer to the sea, across which at
this extremely low altitude we dare not venture.
Thus it seemed as if we should have to return, defeated and discomforted,
to a scoffing, chaffing audience on the aerodrome, still visible some
five miles to the south-east.
However, immediately before reaching the seashore our quarry turned
again, and this time along the coast. Then, banking her over to the
new direction, we found ourselves “down-wind” with an additional speed
at the back of us of 15 m.p.h., which soon began to tell. The padre
began to get unduly excited, and succeeded in giving a not unmusical
series of “zimms” on the gun; the cartridges falling spent and useless
on to the sand-dunes; there were no casualties. Undaunted, we kept
on, taking care this time to get nearer up. The enemy were beginning
to tire by this time, so putting in a fresh tray of ammunition, our
courageous marksman let fly, with excellent results, three of the
rearguard speeding headlong down to the earth. The pangs of a not
unnatural hunger now beginning to make themselves evident, and finding
ourselves some thirty miles from home, we turned her head for home and
there eventually arrived, happy and hungry, after having set a new
fashion in sporting and aviation circles, and discovered a new form of
amusement and speculation for the _blasé_ ones, who had deserted their
card-tables and cheap French novelettes to welcome us on our return.