THE BATTLE OF THE WOOD
_Flanders,
Wednesday._
Somewhere in the north of France there is a little wood. It is
about half a mile square in area, and stands immediately south of
a fine, broad highroad, along which there daily pass large bodies
of reinforcements, infantry and cavalry, and convoys bringing up
ammunition and supplies. The tall trees offer a welcome shade in the
hot weather, and it was the custom for passing troops to halt there
for a short time; and just at the spot the roadside was always well
littered with broken bottles. Needless to state, it was in German
territory.
However, had it not been for that road, and for the fact that on this
certain day, when the road had been closed to all traffic, there were
certain mysterious movements of ponderous great wagons, suspiciously
like ammunition wagons, which halted in the shade of the wood, this
story would never have been written.
The day was hot, and the work was heavy, and _mein herr captain_ paused
for a moment to curse his uncongenial task, and take a long draught
from his water bottle, of some liquor that certainly was not water. In
the midst thereof he let it fall with a curse of rage and surprise, for
there overhead, as if it had suddenly appeared from the clouds, was the
form of a British aeroplane. “Himmel,” he exclaimed, “all our trouble
wasted, they have our hiding spot discovered, and to-morrow morning
they bomb us--ach!”
The worthy gentleman was not far out in his deduction, for the lynx-eye
of the observer in the aeroplane had carefully noted the exact
geographical position of that new ammunition park, before the machine
sped off homewards. But he was wrong to a certain extent; our Flying
Corps are no fools, and they realized that Mr. Bosche would soon expect
a return visit, and would be fully prepared therefor. This course was,
therefore, useless to them; it was essential that that ammunition park
must be destroyed, but in a manner and at a time the Germans least
expected, and this is how it was accomplished.
Towards evening a light scouting machine sped swiftly away from a
certain British aerodrome, only a few miles behind the firing lines.
No untoward incident that, but it was particularly conspicuous from
the fact that the entire aerodrome had turned out to wish the trip
God-speed, to wish the pilot, a young second Lieutenant of the Canadian
Infantry, the best of luck, and to cram the fuselage of the machine
with spare ammunition, until she could barely “stagger” off the ground.
The objective was the ammunition park already mentioned. With long,
sweeping circles the scout soon cleared the area of the firing lines,
and arrived over the wood.
Still nothing happened, the whole countryside was remarkably quiet for
a battle area. No anti-aircraft guns fired, no enemy aircraft came
humming round. Lower came the pilot to investigate. Still nothing
happened; he, on his part, now began to feel genuinely alarmed, unless
of course that confounded observer had been “seeing” things, a not
unknown failing with aeroplane observers.
Meanwhile in the midst of the wood, the corpulent captain watched the
small speck carefully with his glasses, then rubbed his fat hands with
glee and expectation. The fool Englishman was falling beautifully
into his little trap. Involuntarily he glanced over his shoulder,
and there in a large clearing behind the wood, were ten great German
battle-planes, all ready to go up at a moment’s notice and with pilots
and observers standing by.
By this time the British machine had come considerably lower, and was
well behind the wood, and into the German country. The captain gave a
sharp, guttural order. Immediately the noise of ten great propellers
smote the still air, and the squadron rose swiftly from the wood like a
covey of wild ducks. The hated Englishman was hopelessly trapped.
And what of our man? Turning leisurely to make a last reconnaissance
of the wood, he found ten great German battle-planes between himself
and the lines. He cursed profusely at his own crass stupidity. He had
been warned, and he had thought fit to ignore the warning, and this was
the result. Anyway he would make a good fight for it. He fingered his
machine-gun cautiously. Yes, everything was ready to hand. He set his
teeth, opened his engine “full out” and began to climb rapidly.
The Germans also climbed, and within a very short space of time he
found himself hemmed in on all sides, with lead flying at him from all
points, and at all angles. Anyhow, he determined to have a good run
for his life, and singling out two Germans immediately beneath him,
he dived rapidly. As he did so, he was hit by shrapnel; for a short
space of time he was unconscious, then again regaining control of his
machine, began to use his machine-gun to good effect.
First one German he drove to the ground, then another, and then a
third. His blood was up now, and he turned round for further victims,
but the Huns had had sufficient for one day, and were scuttling off
to peace and safety. He turned homewards, and his wound was becoming
agonizing, as a bombing squadron of our own machines passed by.
Very soon there arose from the wood violent explosions and blinding
sheets of flame, and by the time the British bombing squadron had
finished its full design, all that remained of the fat captain’s
ammunition park were a few broken and shattered wagons, and a heap of
dead and dying men.