A MID-AIR BATTLE
_Somewhere in France,
Friday._
It was a sleepy old-world town hidden away in the sunny hills of
Northern France, with a broad highway leading from the town in
either direction and easily distinguishable from the air as being
a first-class or main road, by its extraordinary width and the
superabundance of traffic passing to and fro. We were still flying low
and could easily distinguish the long strings of motor cars, convoys
of ambulance wagons, supply and ammunition columns. In one place a
battalion of reinforcements, marching up towards the firing line with
their transport wagons in the rear. Further up and nearer to the firing
line were a string of motor ’buses, crowded outside with Tommies, their
bayonets gleaming silver as they caught the rays of the early sun. In
another place a small traction-engine was hauling a chain of limbers,
on which were the parts of a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) being
hurried up to take part in that murderous duel along the lines.
We are now getting nearer the dreaded area, and for the sake of comfort
and safety have to climb higher. The surface of the earth, however,
still remains distinct. The long gray winding lines of trenches
stretch away to the north and south as far as the eye can reach. In
some places as much as half a mile divides them, in others they are so
close together, that from above they appear to “kiss.” But our happy
soliloquizing is broken by the burst of a shrapnel shell in the near
vicinity. No more time for thought now.
A SOFT JOB
Diving, climbing, banking, anywhere to get away from those awful
shells, and who can give description to the dreadful sensations one
undergoes the first time under shrapnel fire in mid-air? Heaven and
earth seem to be rent in twain by those murderous little balls of smoke
and flame and lead.
One’s past life rises before one’s eyes, sometimes most unpleasantly.
Shells burst all round, above, below, to the left, to the right. At
one moment over the nose of the machine, the next beneath the tail.
Once hit, and the aeroplane and its occupants will plunge down to an
agonizing death on the ground, many thousands of feet below.
“And this,” once remarked a cynic of one of the flying Services, “is
what the men in the trenches call a soft job.”
By the time we have the opportunity of looking over the side again,
we are well into the enemy’s country. In appearance this is an
almost absolute replica of the area behind our own lines. There are
the reserve trenches; there the big-gun emplacement and the advance
hospitals, battalion, brigade and divisional headquarters, and far,
very far, in the background, the German G. H. Q.
AN ENEMY MACHINE
We keep a wary eye open for movements of troops or supplies, but there
is nothing doing. The enemy, like ourselves, is browsing on this
beautiful September morning. Again we are troubled with the bursting
“Archies,” and again we climb higher, this time above the clouds, that
stretch all round and beneath us in a billowy snow-white sea. Slowly we
creep round a big white fellow towards the sun, when out from a distant
corner, like a spider from his web, there darts an enemy machine. Has
he seen us? For a moment he keeps on his way, then suddenly round
goes his nose, and he comes towards us “down-wind” at a great pace.
As he draws near we discover that he is double-engined and mounts two
machine-guns. He has the advantage both in the matter of guns and
speed, which counts for a great deal in an aerial combat. With a faster
turn of speed and the wind at his back, a good pilot should be able to
overcome an enemy machine, however large and however heavily armed.
While still about five hundred yards away, he opens fire, but without
effect, his bullets fly wide on either side of us. We reserve our fire.
Now he is almost on top of us, and in the upper berth, thus having a
great advantage. He is over us; the great shadow of his machine comes
between the sun and ourselves. All the time his observer is firing
wildly, some of his shots have punctured the wings, but thank God, none
came near the body. The danger is over. It has been a narrow escape.
CARRY ON
We climb as fast as possible, then turn to find him coming to meet
us, almost on end. Another machine-gun duel between the observers. We
have got him this time; he is hit, he drops suddenly. A few more shots
from our gun and it will be all over with him. But our gun has jammed,
hastily the observer tries to remedy it. It is too late. We have
missed our opportunity. Nothing else for it but to put a new tray of
ammunition in the gun and have another go at him. How difficult this
is in mid-air! In the safety of _terra firma_ it is the easiest thing
in the world to take the gun to pieces, or to change the ammunition
tray, but here, in the confined space of an aeroplane up in mid-air it
is an entirely different matter. We are only just ready when he turns
to meet us. Another duel--he has passed by.
Again we both wheel to the combat. This time he is on top of us. We
give up hope, and prepare for the worst. On the top of us again; his
shooting is bad, but he has got the observer in the arm. Turn round to
escape--no combat possible with the man at the gun _hors de combat_;
but the observer, plucky fellow! does not know the meaning of defeat.
He signals to his pilot to carry on. We turn again. The enemy is
confident that he has winged us. Too confident! We wait till he is
almost level with us before we fire. Then zipp, zipp, zipp, he is
hit. He plunges downward. We get on top of him. Another round of lead
into his back. It is all over, he plunges headlong to earth; and with
a feeling of regret for our gallant foe, who fought so well, we turn
homewards to earth, peace, and safety.