A BATTLE FROM ABOVE
_Somewhere in the North of France,
Thursday._
Dawn--not as we imagine it; but a dawn with God’s clear Heaven filled
with every winged messenger of death. The very earth is shaken with
agony, and the face of the sun is blotted out by heavy, choking clouds
of picric smoke that hangs and hovers over the earth like a pall.
Far in the background rises a battle aeroplane. Nearer and nearer
to the line it creeps, and without any attention from the enemy’s
anti-aircraft guns. The German artillery is too much engaged in work of
a more serious nature--the work of hurling back the irresistible lines
of British infantry.
The frail craft passes over the lines, and meeting with no opposition
sinks lower in long, sweeping circles, and finally appears to hover,
as nearly as an aeroplane can hover, some two miles to the east and
well over the enemy’s country. Then it is bombarded on all sides
with “Archibalds,” now above, now below, now immediately in front,
now immediately behind, but the machine continues to maneuver as if
entirely oblivious of shell fire. Other swiftly moving shapes have now
crept out from the direction of the British base, and all are hovering
over different portions of the long line of muddy trenches, while the
battle rages in all its fury.
All the varied operations of the extensive battle-field are as an open
book to the watch in that frail craft ... the battle swaying backward
and forward from trench to trench, the hand-to-hand combat in the
open, the ding-dong artillery duel, and the hurried rush of supports
and reinforcements. Nothing can be hidden from this peering eye above,
that transmits the news by wireless to the great guns far in the rear,
and to the headquarters, where the commander traces every movement
of the battle on his map, like a chess-player planning his moves and
counter-moves on a chessboard.
The enemy’s country is more heavily wooded and more broken than our
own. Dotted here and there are small straggling villages. To the
north, on either side of the road, are two small villages, now a mass
of ruins. Between them is the tall chimney of a sugar factory, from
which the black smoke no longer rises; and behind it, nearer the firing
line, the long, ragged arms of a windmill move furtively in the slight
breeze. To the south, and immediately in the rear of another small
village, there is a large and straggling cemetery.
Woods, farms, a broken and distorted railway line, another factory,
and a narrow winding stream, and the picture is complete. No! Not
quite complete. Standing far removed from the main road is a large
and densely wooded forest. The observer watches anxiously the stretch
of British trenches immediately facing the wood. Then the barren,
shell-swept land between the opposing trenches springs into life. Men
and more men come swarming across the trenches and make for the German
lines.
The observer watches anxiously the stretch of British trenches
immediately facing the wood. There is a strange, unaccountable feeling
in the air that, were it not for the never-ceasing roar of the
aeroplane engine, would be hushed and silent as the moment prior to
the start of a horse-race, when an element of overstrung expectancy
pervades the human brain. Down below there, the lilliputian figures
crouch like ants behind the mudbank, waiting for the dread signal
when the race shall commence, the race of human life and death. The
booming of the great guns in the rear has long since ceased, and the
nebulous region of No-man’s-land, were it not for the battle-scarred
earth, would resemble an ordinary peaceful countryside, so quiet and
deserted has it become. The minutes tick slowly on and on. Now it must
be getting very near the appointed hour. Will it never come? Restless
movements are evidenced in the opposing trenches, where an occasional
bayonet glitters in the sun, or strange figures wander to and fro. At
last! With a shout and roar, they are over the top. The earth trembles.
Then the barren shell-swept land between the opposing trenches springs
into life. Men and more men come swarming across and make for the
German lines. The scene now baffles all description, it is like a
fleeting glimpse of Dante’s Inferno, as if all the hate and murder
and courage and strength of human existence had met in one protracted
struggle of life and death between savagery and civilization. The two
opposing masses intermingle, so that now it is no longer possible to
distinguish each from each.
At last there comes a lull in the battle, and the aeroplane pilot,
his hazardous expedition concluded and at a sign from the observer,
thankfully turns for home, leaving behind him a scorched and scarred
earth from which the smoke rises continuously in curling white-gray
clouds.