A GREAT RAID
_Somewhere in the North of France,
Monday._
As I walked across the aerodrome, the feeble rays of the young
moon were dying in the west. It was 4.30 in the morning, with an
icy-cold nor’wester shrieking through the tree-tops, and I was
very thankful that I had taken the precaution of clothing myself
warmly in a wool-lined leather coat and trousers, a pair of long
gum boots--invaluable for keeping out wet and cold alike--a woolen
balaclava helmet under my leather aviation cap, and two pairs of gloves
to keep my hands from freezing.
We had received our instructions the previous night. Ten bomb-dropping
aeroplanes were to be convoyed by two battle-planes.
It may be mentioned that a bomb-dropping machine is usually of the
fast, scouting variety, with a speed of well over ninety miles per
hour, and is a single seater--that is to say, it carries no observer.
The reason for this is not very far to seek. With two men and a
machine-gun aboard, very little power remains for a supply of bombs;
without an observer and a machine-gun, the bomb supply may be doubled.
And the more bombs aboard the more damage can be done to the enemy.
The battle-plane is either a “pusher” (with the propeller at the rear)
aeroplane, mounting a large gun at the prow, or a Caudron with two
engines. Its principal duty is to protect the bomb-dropping machine
from attack by enemy aircraft.
The two battle-planes were the first to get away from the ground and
the others soon followed. When they had all reached an altitude of
5000 feet, they took up their pre-arranged formation with one of the
battle-planes on either wing; then turned their noses eastward towards
the sun, and set off in the direction of the enemy lines.
Far away across the sand-dunes there came the first rays of the rising
sun, casting a thousand scintillating gleams across the sea. Out in
the channel was a fleet of fishing smacks, heedless of the drifting
mines, bowling along merrily before the breeze to their accustomed
fishing-ground. The dull gray lines and the smoke-belching funnels of a
British destroyer, full out at thirty knots showed as she churned the
seas into masses of white foam, leaving in her rear a long white wake.
Dotted here and there were small tramp-steamers and cargo-boats. By
the sand-dunes off the coast was a long dark shape, which might easily
have been mistaken for a whale, had it not been for that tell-tale
periscope. It was one of our own submarines. Away in the distance was
a dark irregular line, which later in the day and in a stronger light,
would reveal itself as the shores of old England.
A glance at the altimeter--the instrument for registering the
height--revealed the fact that we were now 6000 feet. Still climbing,
the course was set further out to sea, to avoid as much as possible the
anti-aircraft guns at Westende and Middlekerke.
Things ashore now began to brighten up. Along and behind the firing
line there was the occasional flash of a heavy gun, followed
almost immediately by dense clouds of white smoke. Along the roads
there crawled, ant-like, the long columns of supply and ammunition
wagons. Sometimes a big gun appeared, hauled along by a puffing
traction-engine; sometimes a battalion or company of infantry or a
squadron of cavalry moving up to the front line.
Running south and east were the two dull gray straggling lines of
opposing trenches, so close together in places that they appeared to
run into one another. We were gradually drawing nearer to those much
dreaded lines where our real troubles were to begin. Already far up
along the coast, it was possible to distinguish Middlekerke and the
Ostend railway station.
The first anti-aircraft shot! A long-drawn-out hiss and a violent
explosion in unpleasant proximity--a pretty enough exhibition to watch
from the safety of _terra firma_, but deucedly uncomfortable when one
is playing the leading part in the little drama. It is the first shot
that is always the most unpleasant and the most terrifying.
For the next few moments there continues a fairly strenuous bombardment,
which necessitates rapid climbing and diving to continually alter the
range. Then the firing ceases for a short while, and all is normal again.
From behind a small wood there comes floating gayly up aloft the long
and ugly shape of a “sausage” (captive balloon). Now is our chance
for a little just retribution. But, apparently the Germans have seen
us, for the “sausage” is being brought rapidly down towards the earth
again. The temptation is too strong for two of our men, who, despite
previous orders to the contrary, try their ’prentice hand with a few
bombs, without success. It is easy to see that this is their first time
across, for the “sausage” is the most difficult of all targets, and
very rarely hit.
My map now reveals to me that we are over Ostend. More shrapnel flies
up, interspersed here and there with high-explosive shell. One can
feel a certain contempt for shrapnel in mid-air. The conditions are
entirely different when firing across the land, than when firing
straight up into the air. In the latter case the resistance is more
than treble, with the result that, by the time the shrapnel reaches
anything of an altitude, the best of its driving force has been
expended, and bullets rattle harmlessly against the wings of the
aeroplane. In fact, on one occasion a Royal Flying Corps pilot returned
from a reconnaissance trip with 365 bullet-holes in various parts of
his machine, which was still air-worthy.
High explosive is another matter. If it bursts reasonably near the
machine, there is not the slightest chance of ever reaching the ground
again in a whole condition, and even when bursting at a distance it is
apt to give the aeroplane a nasty jar and sometimes upsets it entirely.
One machine has had to drop out and has turned back towards the lines,
and now there are only eleven of us. More shrapnel and yet more; much
too near on the last occasion. We climb rapidly higher to 10,000 feet.
It is a fine, clear day, and everything beneath us is quite distinct.
Even so, it is a very difficult matter to maneuver the machine and to
use one’s glasses at the same time.
One peculiarity in atmospherical conditions on the Continent is that
the weather is either too misty for flying, or so remarkably clear
that the airman can reconnoiter from much greater heights than in
England. For the first two hours after sunrise there is invariably a
heavy ground mist. Yet early morning and later afternoon are the more
favorable times for flying purposes.
Ghistelles looms into view, far away to the south and bathed in a sea
of light mist. It is the great German aeronautical center in Belgium.
All the large enemy raids are organized and planned at this center. The
town itself is of no great size, but it has good lines of communication
by road and rail, both to the firing line and the distant bases in the
immediate neighborhood of Brussels. There are some forty hangars there,
and until quite recently there were two large sheds. Probably no other
spot within the German lines is so well and plentifully supplied with
anti-aircraft guns as is this place.
Far away in the distance, and coming “down wind” at a very great pace,
is a minute black shape, at present no larger in size than a man’s hand.
An enemy machine! Excitement rules high. He cannot have seen us, for
no Hun airman would dream of taking on so many of our machines single
handed.
Nearer and yet nearer he draws. Suddenly he sees us. He turns quickly,
but is too late. Our battle-plane on the extreme right is after him.
The enemy skirts the fringe of the dark clouds that hang across the
horizon. After him goes our battle-plane. For a short space of time
both are hidden in its depths. Then, from the distant end, there
descends rapidly a small black object.
Is it British or enemy? Down she goes; a steep volplane turning into a
spiral, and finally into a murderous-looking nose-dive. Thank Heaven,
it is the enemy machine. I have seen the black cross on the tail. Back
comes our machine triumphant, and we continue on our way to Ostend.
There are various objectives of an offensive through the air. There is
the attack on enemy aircraft. This is hardly a matter for an organized
raid; it is rather the errand of a cruising battle-plane. Next there
comes the destruction of material; ammunition columns (usually situated
in woods), parks of transport, railways, and all appertaining to
them, and especially bridges and trains, stations and sidings, enemy
headquarters, aeroplane and airship sheds, petrol depots, and gas-works.
Lastly, there is the bombing of troops. This is a comparatively simple
matter, the best occasion on which to attack them being when they are
crowded in roadways and similar areas.
Zeebrugge was at last almost within reach. The place is recognizable
from the long jetty running in a large curve far out into the sea.
Proceeding in a westerly direction are numerous heavy troop-trains, and
standing in the sidings several locomotives with steam up, all of which
incidents point to the movement of a large number of troops. In the
harbor are four destroyers and three submarines. The more the merrier!
Gradually we draw nearer. It is now possible to see something of the
panic in the streets and roadways. Motor-cars are darting out of the
city in all directions; the destroyers are hurriedly trying to make
for the open sea. The anti-aircraft guns begin to open fire from every
quarter. And then we commence to drop our bombs. Down they go, those
ministers of death and destruction, to their targets. Huge columns of
living flame leap up skywards hundreds of feet into the air. The din
of the engine resounds upon the ear-drums until we begin to wonder
if we shall ever be able to hear distinctly again. But down below,
where the guns still pound away unceasingly, the crash of the bursting
shells, the violent explosions of the dropping bombs; all are strangely
noiseless. It is a veritable inferno of death and destruction.
The roof-tops of the city are covered with great rolling clouds of
thick black smoke. It is now almost impossible to distinguish any
landmark on the ground below.
Two of our machines have already gone crashing down. The sight of them
falling is the greatest shock to the nerves imaginable; it is the true
test of bravery, for one always feels tempted to give up and follow
them, but only for the passing second. The lust of battle grows strong
again; more bombs and yet more are dropped onto the stricken city. The
flying of the machines is marvelous to behold.
Another of our craft is hit, making number three; she, too, disappears
into the mist beneath. Our bombs are now all exhausted and we turn
thankfully homewards. Another machine drops out, to land safely on the
foreshore, and, as we afterwards learn, the pilot is made a prisoner.
Then we reach our own lines once more and are safe.