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CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS
[Illustration: "CONTACT"
CAPTAIN ALAN BOTT, M. C.
OF THE BRITISH ROYAL FLYING CORPS]
CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS
BY
"CONTACT"
(CAPT. ALAN BOTT, M.C.)
_With an introduction by_
MAJOR-GENERAL W. S. BRANCKER
(Deputy Director-General of Military Aeronautics)
[Illustration]
GARDEN CITY - NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1918
Copyright, 1917, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
_All rights reserved,
including that of translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian_
DEDICATED
TO
THE FALLEN OF UMPTY SQUADRON, R.F.C.
JUNE-DECEMBER 1916
PREFACE
Of the part played by machines of war in this war of machinery the wider
public has but a vague knowledge. Least of all does it study the
specialised functions of army aircraft. Very many people show mild
interest in the daily reports of so many German aeroplanes destroyed, so
many driven down, so many of ours missing, and enraged interest in the
reports of bomb raids on British towns; but of aerial observation, the
main _raison d'etre_ of flying at the front, they own to nebulous ideas.
As an extreme case of this haziness over matters aeronautic I will quote
the lay question, asked often and in all seriousness: "Can an aeroplane
stand still in the air?" Another surprising point of view is illustrated
by the home-on-leave experience of a pilot belonging to my present
squadron. His lunch companion--a charming lady--said she supposed he
lived mostly on cold food while in France.
"Oh no," replied the pilot, "it's much the same as yours, only plainer
and tougher."
"Then you do come down for meals," deduced the lady. Only those who have
flown on active service can fully relish the comic savour of a surmise
that the Flying Corps in France remain in the air all day amid all
weathers, presumably picnicking, between flights, off sandwiches, cold
chicken, pork pies, and mineral waters.
These be far-fetched examples, but they serve to emphasise a general
misconception of the conditions under which the flying services carry
out their work at the big war. I hope that this my book, written for the
most part at odd moments during a few months of training in England,
will suggest to civilian readers a rough impression of such conditions.
To Flying Officers who honour me by comparing the descriptions with
their own experiences, I offer apology for whatever they may regard as
"hot air," while submitting in excuse that the narratives are founded on
unexaggerated fact, as any one who served with Umpty Squadron through
the Battle of the Somme can bear witness.
I have expressed a hope that the chapters and letters will suggest a
rough impression of work done by R.F.C. pilots and observers in France.
A complete impression they could not suggest, any more than the work of
a Brigade-Major could be regarded as representative of that of the
General Staff. The Flying-Corps-in-the-Field is an organisation great in
numbers and varied in functions. Many separate duties are allotted to
it, and each separate squadron, according to its type of machine,
confines itself to two or three of these tasks.
The book, then, deals only with the squadron to which I belonged last
year, and it does not pretend to be descriptive of the Flying Corps as a
whole. Ours was a crack squadron in its day, and, as General Brancker
has mentioned in his Introduction, it held a melancholy record in the
number of its losses. Umpty's Squadron's casualties during August,
September, and October of 1916 still constitute a record for the
casualties of any one flying squadron during any three months since the
war began. Once eleven of our machines were posted as "missing" in the
space of two days--another circumstance which has fortunately never yet
been equalled in R.F.C. history. It was a squadron that possessed
excellent pilots, excellent achievements, and the herewith testimonial
in a letter found on a captured German airman, with reference to the
machine of which we then had the Flying Corps monopoly: "The
most-to-be-feared of British machines is the S----."
Our duties were long reconnaissance, offensive patrols around German air
country, occasional escort for bombing craft, and occasional
photography. I have but touched upon other branches of army aeronautics;
though often, when we passed different types of machine, I would compare
their job to ours and wonder if it were more pleasant. Thousands of feet
below us, for example, were the artillery craft, which darted backward
and forward across the lines as from their height of vantage they ranged
and registered for the guns. On push days these same buses were to be
seen lower still, well within range of machine-gun bullets from the
ground, as they crawled and nosed over the line of advance and kept
intelligent contact between far-ahead attacking infantry and the rear.
Above the tangled network of enemy defences roved the line photography
machines, which provided the Staff with accurate survey maps of the
Boche defences. Parties of bombers headed eastward, their lower wings
laden with eggs for delivery at some factory, aerodrome, headquarter,
railway junction, or ammunition dump. Dotted everywhere, singly or in
formations of two, three, four, or six, were those aristocrats of the
air, the single-seater fighting scouts. These were envied for their
advantages. They were comparatively fast, they could turn, climb, and
stunt better and quicker than any two-seater, and their petrol-tanks
held barely enough for two hours, so that their shows were soon
completed. All these varied craft had their separate functions,
difficulties, and dangers. Two things only were shared by all of
us--dodging Archie and striving to strafe the Air Hun.
Since those days flying conditions on the Western Front have been much
changed by the whirligig of aeronautical development. All things
considered, the flying officer is now given improved opportunities. Air
fighting has grown more intense, but the machines in use are capable of
much better performance. The latest word in single-seater scouts, which
I am now flying, can reach 22,000 feet with ease; and it has a maximum
climb greater by a third, and a level speed greater by a sixth, than our
best scout of last year. The good old one-and-a-half strutter (a fine
bus of its period), on which we used to drone our way around the
150-mile reconnaissance, has disappeared from active service. The
nerve-edging job of long reconnaissance is now done by more modern
two-seaters, high-powered, fast, and reliable, which can put up a fight
on equal terms with anything they are likely to meet. The much-discussed
B.E., after a three-year innings, has been replaced for the most part by
a better-defended and more satisfactory artillery bus. The F.E. and de
Haviland pushers have likewise become obsolete. The scouts which we
thought invincible last autumn are badly outclassed by later types.
For the rest, the Flying Corps in France has grown enormously in size
and importance. The amount of work credited to each branch of it has
nearly doubled during the past year--reconnaissance, artillery
observation, photography, bombing, contact patrol, and, above all,
fighting. Air scraps have tended more and more to become battles between
large formations. But most significant is the rapid increase in attacks
by low-flying aeroplanes on ground personnel and materiel, a branch
which is certain to become an important factor in the winning of the
war.
And this whirlwind growth will continue. The world at large, as distinct
from the small world of aeronautics, does not realize that aircraft will
soon become predominant as a means of war, any more than it reckons with
the subsequent era of universal flight, when designers, freed from the
subordination of all factors to war requirements, will give birth to
machines safe as motor-cars or ships, and capable of carrying heavy
freights for long distances cheaply and quickly. Speaking of an average
pilot and a non-expert enthusiast, I do not believe that even our
organisers of victory are yet aware of the tremendous part which
aircraft can be made to take in the necessary humbling of Germany.
Without taking into account the limitless reserve of American aerial
potentiality, it is clear that within a year the Allies will have at
their disposal many thousands of war aeroplanes. A proper apportionment
of such of them as can be spared for offensive purposes could secure
illimitable results. If for no other cause it would shorten the war by
its effect on civilian nerves. We remember the hysterical outburst of
rage occasioned by the losses consequent upon a daylight raid on London
of some fifteen machines, though the public had become inured to the
million military casualties since 1914. What, then, would be the effect
on German war-weariness if giant raids on fortified towns by a hundred
or so allied machines were of weekly occurrence? And what would be the
effect on our own public if giant raids on British towns were of weekly
occurrence? Let us make the most of our aerial chances, and so
forestall betrayal by war-weariness, civilian pacifism, self-centred
fools, and strange people.
From an army point of view the probable outcome of an extensive aerial
offensive would be still greater. Well-organised bomb raids on German
aerodromes during the night and early morning have several times kept
the sky clear of hostile aircraft during the day of an important
advance. If this be achieved with our present limited number of bombing
machines, much more will be possible when we have double or treble the
supply. Imagine the condition of a particular sector of the advanced
lines of communication if it were bombed every day by scores of
aeroplanes. Scarcely any movement would be possible until bad weather
made the attacks non-continuous; and few supply depots in the chosen
area would afterwards remain serviceable. Infantry and artillery
dependent upon this district of approach from the rear would thus be
deprived of essential supplies.
Apart from extensive bombing, an air offensive of at least equal value
may happen in the form of machine-gun attacks from above. To-day
nothing seems to panic the Boche more than a sudden swoop by a
low-flying aeroplane, generous of bullets, as those of us who have tried
this game have noticed. No German trench, no emplacement, no battery
position, no line of transport is safe from the R.F.C. Vickers and Lewis
guns; and retaliation is difficult because of the speed and erratic
movement of the attacking aeroplane. Little imagination is necessary to
realise the damage, moral and material, which could be inflicted on any
selected part of the front if it were constantly scoured by a few dozen
of such guerilla raiders. No movement could take place during the
daytime, and nobody could remain in the open for longer than a few
minutes.
The seemingly far-fetched speculations above are commonplace enough in
the judgment of aeronautical people of far greater authority and
experience than I can claim. But they could only be brought to
materialisation by an abnormal supply of modern aeroplanes, especially
the chaser craft necessary to keep German machines from interference.
Given the workshop effort to provide this supply, French and British
pilots can be relied upon to make the most of it. I am convinced that
war flying will be organised as a means to victory; but as my opinion is
of small expert value I do not propose to discuss how it might be done.
This much, however, I will predict. When, in some nine months' time--if
the gods permit--a sequel to the present book appears, dealing with this
year's personal experiences above the scene of battle, the aerial factor
will be well on the way to the position of war predominance to which it
is destined.
CONTACT.
FRANCE, 1917.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
INTRODUCTION xxi
CHAPTER
I. FLYING TO FRANCE 3
II. THE DAY'S WORK 27
III. A SUMMER JOY-RIDE 49
IV. SPYING OUT THE LAND 71
V. THERE AND BACK 90
VI. A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE 117
VII. ENDS AND ODDS 140
VIII. THE DAILY ROUND 170
LETTERS FROM THE SOMME
I. LOOKING FOR TROUBLE 195
II. "ONE OF OUR MACHINES IS MISSING" 205
III. A BOMB RAID 213
IV. SPYING BY SNAPSHOT 220
V. THE ARCHIBALD FAMILY 235
VI. BATTLES AND BULLETS 243
VII. BACK IN BLIGHTY 252
INTRODUCTION
BY MAJOR-GENERAL W. S. BRANCKER
(DEPUTY DIRECTOR-GENERAL OF MILITARY AERONAUTICS)
Every day adds something to the achievements of aviation, brings to
light yet another of its possibilities, or discloses more vividly its
inexhaustible funds of adventure and romance.
This volume, one of the first books about fighting in the air, is
written by a fighting airman. The author depicts the daily life of the
flying officer in France, simply and with perfect truth; indeed he
describes heroic deeds with such moderation and absence of exaggeration
that the reader will scarcely realise that these stories are part of the
annals of a squadron which for a time held a record in the heaviness of
its losses.
The importance of the aerial factor in the prosecution of the war grows
apace. The Royal Flying Corps, from being an undependable and weakly
assistant to the other arms, is now absolutely indispensable, and has
attained a position of almost predominant importance. If the war goes on
without decisive success being obtained by our armies on the earth, it
seems almost inevitable that we must depend on offensive action in the
air and from the air to bring us victory.
We in London have had some slight personal experience of what a very
weak and moderately prosecuted aerial offensive can accomplish. With the
progress of the past three years before us, it needs little imagination
to visualise the possibilities of such an offensive, even in one year's
time; and as each succeeding year adds to the power of rival aerial
fleets, the thought of war will become almost impossible.
War has been the making of aviation; let us hope that aviation will be
the destruction of war.
W. S. BRANCKER.
_August 1, 1917._
CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS
CAVALRY OF THE CLOUDS
CHAPTER I
FLYING TO FRANCE
All units of the army have known it, the serio-comedy of waiting for
embarkation orders.
After months of training the twelvetieth battalion, battery, or squadron
is almost ready for a plunge into active service. Then comes, from a
source which cannot be trailed, a mysterious Date. The orderly-room
whispers: "June the fifteenth"; the senior officers' quarters murmur:
"France on June the fifteenth"; the mess echoes to the tidings spread by
the subaltern-who-knows: "We're for it on June the fifteenth, me lad";
through the men's hutments the word is spread: "It's good-bye to this
blinking hole on June the fifteenth"; the Home receives a letter and
confides to other homes: "Reginald's lot are going to the war on June
the fifteenth"; finally, if we are to believe Mr. William le Queux, the
Military Intelligence Department of the German Empire dockets a report:
"Das zwoelfzigste Battalion (Batterie oder Escadrille) geht am 15 Juni
nach Frankreich."
June opens with an overhaul of officers and men. Last leave is
distributed, the doctor examines everybody by batches, backward warriors
are worried until they become expert, the sergeant-major polishes his
men on the grindstone of discipline, the C.O. indents for a draft to
complete establishment, an inspection is held by an awesome general.
Except for the mobilisation stores everything is complete by June 10.
But there is still no sign of the wanted stores on the Date, and June 16
finds the unit still in the same blinking hole, wherever that may be.
The days drag on, and Date the second is placed on a pedestal.
"Many thanks for an extra fortnight in England," says the
subaltern-who-knows; "we're not going till June the twenty-seventh."
The adjutant, light duty, is replaced by an adjutant, general service.
Mobilisation stores begin to trickle into the quartermaster's reservoir.
But on June 27 the stores are far from ready, and July 6 is miraged as
the next Date. This time it looks like business. The war equipment is
completed, except for the identity discs.
On July 4 a large detachment departs, after twelve hours' notice, to
replace casualties in France. Those remaining in the now incomplete unit
grow wearily sarcastic. More last leave is granted. The camp is given
over to rumour. An orderly, delivering a message to the C.O. (formerly
stationed in India) at the latter's quarters, notes a light cotton tunic
and two sun-helmets. Sun-helmets? Ah, somewhere East, of course. The men
tell each other forthwith that their destination has been changed to
Mesopotamia.
A band of strangers report in place of the draft that went to France,
and in them the N.C.O.'s plant _esprit de corps_ and the fear of God.
The missing identity discs arrive, and a fourth Date is fixed--July 21.
And the dwellers in the blinking hole, having been wolfed several
times, are sceptical, and treat the latest report as a bad joke.
"My dear man," remarks the subaltern-who-knows, "it's only some more hot
air. I never believed in the other dates, and I don't believe in this.
If there's one day of the three hundred and sixty-five when we shan't
go, it's July the twenty-first."
And at dawn on July 21 the battalion, battery, or squadron moves
unobtrusively to a port of embarkation for France.
Whereas in most branches of the army the foundation of this scaffolding
of postponement is indistinct except to the second-sighted Staff, in the
case of the Flying Corps it is definitely based on that uncertain
quantity, the supply of aeroplanes. The organisation of personnel is not
a difficult task, for all are highly trained beforehand. The pilots have
passed their tests and been decorated with wings, and the mechanics have
already learned their separate trades as riggers, fitters, carpenters,
sailmakers, and the like. The only training necessary for the pilot is
to fly as often as possible on the type of bus he will use in France,
and to benefit by the experience of the flight-commanders, who as a
rule have spent a hundred or two hours over Archie and the enemy lines.
As regards the mechanics, the quality of their skilled work is tempered
by the technical sergeant-major, who knows most things about an
aeroplane, and the quality of their behaviour by the disciplinary
sergeant-major, usually an ex-regular with a lively talent for blasting.
The machines comprise a less straight-forward problem. The new service
squadron is probably formed to fly a recently adopted type of aeroplane,
of which the early production in quantities is hounded by difficulty.
The engine and its parts, the various sections of the machine itself,
the guns, the synchronising gear, all these are made in separate
factories, after standardisation, and must then be co-ordinated before
the craft is ready for its test. If the output of any one part fall
below what was expected, the whole is kept waiting; and invariably the
quantity or quality of output is at first below expectation in some
particular. Adding to the delays of supply others due to the more
urgent claims of squadrons at the front for machines to replace those
lost or damaged, it can easily be seen that a new squadron will have a
succession of Dates.
Even when the machines are ready, and the transport leaves with stores,
ground-officers, and mechanics, the period of postponement is not ended.
All being well, the pilots will fly their craft to France on the day
after their kit departs with the transport. But the day after produces
impossible weather, as do the five or six days that follow. One takes
advantage of each of these set-backs to pay a further farewell visit to
one's dearest or nearest, according to where the squadron is stationed,
until at the last the dearest or nearest says: "Good-bye. I do hope
you'll have a safe trip to France to-morrow morning. You'll come and see
me again to-morrow evening, won't you?"
At last a fine morning breaks the spell of dud weather, and the pilots
fly away; but lucky indeed is the squadron that reaches France without
delivering over part of its possessions to that aerial highwayman the
forced landing.
It was at an aerodrome forty minutes distant from London that we
patiently waited for flying orders. Less than the average delay was
expected, for two flights of the squadron were already on the Somme, and
we of the third flight were to join them immediately we received our
full complement of war machines. These, in those days, were to be the
latest word in fighting two-seaters of the period. Two practice buses
had been allotted to us, and on them the pilots were set to perform
landings, split-"air" turns, and stunts likely to be useful in a scrap.
For the rest, we sorted ourselves out, which pilot was to fly with which
observer, and improved the machines' accessories.
An inspiration suggested to the flight-commander, who although an
ex-Civil Servant was a man of resource, that mirrors of polished steel,
as used on the handlebars of motor-cycles, to give warning of roadcraft
at the rear, might be valuable in an aeroplane. Forthwith he screwed one
to the sloping half-strut of his top center-section. The trial was a
great success, and we bought six such mirrors, an investment which was
to pay big dividends in many an air flight.
Next the flight-commander made up his mind to bridge the chasm of
difficult communication between pilot and observer. Formerly, in
two-seaters with the pilot's seat in front, a message could only be
delivered on a slip of paper or by shutting off the engine, so that
one's voice could be heard; the loss of time in each case being ill
afforded when Huns were near. An experiment with a wide speaking-tube,
similar to those through which a waiter in a Soho restaurant demands
_cotelettes milaneses_ from an underground kitchen, had proved that the
engine's roar was too loud for distinct transmission by this means. We
made a mouthpiece and a sound-box earpiece, and tried them on tubes of
every make and thickness; but whenever the engine was at work the words
sounded indistinct as words sung in English Opera. One day a speedometer
behaved badly, and a mechanic was connecting a new length of the rubber
pitot-tubing along which the air is sucked from a wingtip to operate the
instrument. Struck with an idea, the pilot fitted mouthpiece and
earpiece to a stray piece of the tubing, and took to the air with his
observer. The pair conversed easily and pleasantly all the way to 10,000
feet. The problem was solved, and ever afterwards pilot and observer
were able to warn and curse each other in mid-air without waste of time.
The high-powered two-seaters of to-day are supplied with excellent
speaking-tubes before they leave the factories; but we, who were the
first to use a successful device of this kind on active service, owed
its introduction to a chance idea.
One by one our six war machines arrived and were allotted to their
respective pilots. Each man treated his bus as if it were an only child.
If another pilot were detailed to fly it the owner would watch the
performance jealously, and lurid indeed was the subsequent talk if an
outsider choked the carburettor, taxied the bus on the switch, or
otherwise did something likely to reduce the efficiency of engine or
aeroplane. On the whole, however, the period of waiting was dull, so
that we welcomed comic relief provided by the affair of the Jabberwocks.
The first three machines delivered from the Rafborough depot
disappointed us in one particular. The movable mounting for the
observer's gun in the rear cockpit was a weird contraption like a giant
catapult. It occupied a great deal of room, was stiff-moving, reduced
the speed by about five miles an hour owing to head resistance, refused
to be slewed round sideways for sighting at an angle, and constantly
collided with the observer's head. We called it the Christmas Tree, the
Heath Robinson, the Jabberwock, the Ruddy Limit, and names unprintable.
The next three buses were fitted with Scarff mountings, which were as
satisfactory as the Jabberwocks were unsatisfactory.
Then, late in the evening, one of the new craft was crashed beyond
repair. At early dawn a pilot and his observer left their beds, walked
through the rain to the aerodrome, and sneaked to the flight shed. They
returned two hours later, hungry, dirty, and flushed with suppressed
joy. After breakfast we found that the crashed bus had lost a Scarff
mounting, and the bus manned by the early risers had found one. The
gargoyle shape of a discarded Jabberwock sprawled on the floor.
At lunch-time another pilot disappeared with his observer and an air of
determination. When the shed was opened for the afternoon's work the
Jabberwock had been replaced on the machine of the early risers, and the
commandeered Scarff was affixed neatly to the machine of the
quick-lunchers. While the two couples slanged each other a third pilot
and observer sought out the flight-commander, and explained why they
were entitled to the disputed mounting. The pilot, the observer pointed
out, was the senior pilot of the three; the observer, the pilot pointed
out, was the senior observer. Was it not right, therefore, that they
should be given preferential treatment? The flight-commander agreed, and
by the time the early-risers and quick-lunchers had settled their
quarrel by the spin of a coin, the Scarff had found a fourth and
permanent home.
The two remaining Jabberwocks became an obsession with their unwilling
owners, who hinted darkly at mutiny when told that no more Scarffs could
be obtained, the Naval Air Service having contracted for all the new
ones in existence. But chance, in the form of a Big Bug's visit of
inspection, opened the way for a last effort. In the machine examined by
the Big Bug, an exhausted observer was making frantic efforts to swivel
an archaic framework from back to front. The Big Bug looked puzzled, but
passed on without comment. As he approached the next machine a second
observer tried desperately to move a similar monstrosity round its
hinges, while the pilot, stop-watch in hand, looked on with evident
sorrow. The Big Bug now decided to investigate, and he demanded the
reason for the stop-watch and the hard labour.
"We've just timed this mounting, sir, to see how quickly it could be
moved for firing at a Hun. I find it travels at the rate of 6.5 inches a
minute."
"Disgraceful," said the Big Bug. "We'll get them replaced by the new
type." And get them replaced he did, the R.N.A.S. contract
notwithstanding. The four conspirators have since believed themselves to
be heaven-born strategists.
Followed the average number of delays due to crashed aeroplanes and late
stores. At length, however, the transport moved away with our equipment,
and we received orders to proceed by air a day later. But next day
brought a steady drizzle, which continued for some forty-eight hours, so
that instead of proceeding by air the kitless officers bought clean
collars. Then came two days of low, clinging mist, and the purchase of
shirts. A fine morning on the fifth day forestalled the necessity of new
pyjamas.
At ten of the clock we were in our machines, saying good-bye to a band
of lucky pilots who stayed at home to strafe the Zeppelin and be petted
in the picture press and the Piccadilly grillroom. "Contaxer!" called a
mechanic, facing the flight-commander's propeller. "Contact!" replied
the flight-commander; his engine roared, around flew the propeller, the
chocks were pulled clear, and away and up raced the machine. The rest
followed and took up their appointed places behind the leader, at a
height chosen for the rendezvous.
We headed in a south-easterly direction, passing on our left the ragged
fringe of London. At this point the formation was not so good as it
might have been, probably because we were taking leave of the Thames and
other landmarks. But four of the twelve who comprised the party have
since seen them, and of these four one was to return by way of a German
hospital, a prison camp, a jump from the footboard of a train, a series
of lone night-walks that extended over two months, and an escape across
the frontier of Neutralia, while two fellow-fugitives were shot dead by
Boche sentries.
Above the junction of Redhill the leader veered to the left and steered
by railway to the coast. Each pilot paid close attention to his place in
the group, for this was to be a test of whether our formation flying was
up to the standard necessary for work over enemy country. To keep exact
formation is far from easy for the novice who has to deal with the
vagaries of a rotary engine in a machine sensitive on the controls. The
engine develops a sudden increase of revolutions, and the pilot finds
himself overhauling the craft in front; he throttles back and finds
himself being overhauled by the craft behind; a slight deviation from
the course and the craft all around seem to be swinging sideways or
upwards. Not till a pilot can fly his bus unconsciously does he keep
place without repeated reference to the throttle and instrument-board.
Beyond Redhill we met an unwieldy cloudbank and were forced to lose
height. The clouds became denser and lower, and the formation continued
to descend, so that when the coast came into view we were below 3000
feet.
A more serious complication happened near Dovstone, the port which was
to be our cross-Channel springboard. There we ran into a mist, thick as
a London fog. It covered the Channel like a blanket, and completely
enveloped Dovstone and district. To cross under these conditions would
have been absurd, for opaque vapour isolated us from the ground and cut
the chain of vision which had bound together the six machines. We
dropped through the pall of mist and trusted to Providence to save us
from collision.
Four fortunate buses emerged directly above Dovstone aerodrome, where
they landed. The other two, in one of which I was a passenger, came out
a hundred feet over the cliffs. We turned inland, and soon found
ourselves travelling over a wilderness of roofs and chimneys. A
church-tower loomed ahead, so we climbed back into the mist. Next we all
but crashed into the hill south of Dovstone. We banked steeply and
swerved to the right, just as the slope seemed rushing towards us
through the haze.
Once more we descended into the clear air. Down below was a large field,
and in the middle of it was an aeroplane. Supposing this to be the
aerodrome, we landed, only to find ourselves in an uneven meadow,
containing, besides the aeroplane already mentioned, one cow, one pond,
and some Brass Hats.[1] As the second bus was taxiing over the grass the
pilot jerked it round sharply to avoid the pond. His undercarriage gave,
the propeller hit the earth and smashed itself, and the machine heeled
over and pulled up dead, with one wing leaning on the ground.
Marmaduke, our war baby, was the pilot of the maimed machine. He is
distinctly young, but he can on occasion declaim impassioned language in
a manner that would be creditable to the most liver-ridden major in the
Indian Army. The Brass Hats seemed mildly surprised when, after
inspecting the damage, Marmaduke danced around the unfortunate bus and
cursed systematically persons and things so diverse as the thingumy fool
whose machine had misled us into landing, the thingumy pond, the
thingumy weather expert who ought to have warned us of the thingumy
Channel mist, the Kaiser, his aunt, and his contemptible self.
He was no what-you-may-call-it good as a pilot, shouted Marmaduke to the
ruminative cow, and he intended to leave the blank R.F.C. for the Blanky
Army Service Corps or the blankety Grave-diggers Corps. As a last
resort, he would get a job as a double-blank Cabinet Minister, being no
blank-blank good for anything else.
The Brass Hats gazed and gazed and gazed. A heavy silence followed
Marmaduke's outburst, a silence pregnant with possibilities of Staff
displeasure, of summary arrest, of--laughter. Laughter won. The Brass
Hats belonged to the staff of an Anzadian division in the neighbourhood,
and one of them, a young-looking major with pink riding breeches and a
prairie accent, said--
"Gentlemen, some beautiful birds, some beautiful swear, and, by
Abraham's trousers, some beautiful angel boy."
Marmaduke wiped the foam from his mouth and apologised.
"Not at all," said the Brass Hat from one of our great Dominions of
Empire, "I do it every day myself, before breakfast generally."
Meanwhile the news of our arrival had rippled the calm surface of the
daily round at Dovstone. Obviously, said the good people to each other,
the presence of three aeroplanes in a lonely field, with a guard of
Anzadians around the said field, must have some hidden meaning. Perhaps
there had been a German air raid under cover of the mist. Perhaps a
German machine had been brought down. Within half an hour of our erratic
landing a dozen people in Dovstone swore to having seen a German
aeroplane touch earth in our field. The pilot had been made prisoner by
Anzadians, added the dozen eye-witnesses.
Such an event clearly called for investigation by Dovstone's detective
intellects. We were honoured by a visit from two special constables,
looking rather like the Bing Boys. Their collective eagle eye grasped
the situation in less than a second. I happened to be standing in the
centre of the group, still clad in flying kit. The Bing Boys decided
that I was their prey, and one of them advanced, flourishing a
note-book.
"Excuse me, sir," said he to a Brass Hat, "I represent the civil
authority. Will you please tell me if this"--pointing to me--"is the
captive baby-killer?"
"Now give us the chorus, old son," said Marmaduke. Explanations
followed, and the Bing Boys retired, rather crestfallen.
It is embarrassing enough to be mistaken for a German airman. It is
more embarrassing to be mistaken for an airman who shot down a German
airman when there was no German airman to shoot down. Such was the fate
of the four of us--two pilots and two observers--when we left our field
to the cow and the conference of Brass Hats, and drove to the Grand
Hotel. The taxi-driver, who, from his enthusiastic civility, had clearly
never driven a cab in London, would not be convinced.
"No, sir," he said, when we arrived at the hotel, "I'm proud to have
driven you, and I don't want your money. No, sir, I know you avi-yaters
are modest and aren't allowed to say what you've done. Good day,
gentlemen, and good luck, gentlemen."
It was the same in the Grand Hotel. Porters and waiters asked what had
become of "the Hun," and no denial could fully convince them. At a tango
tea held in the hotel that afternoon we were pointed out as the intrepid
birdmen who had done the deed of the day. Flappers and fluff-girls
further embarrassed us with interested glances, and one of them asked
for autographs.
Marmaduke rose to the occasion. He smiled, produced a gold-tipped
fountain-pen, and wrote with a flourish, "John James Christopher
Benjamin Brown. Greetings from Dovstone."
But Marmaduke the volatile was doomed to suffer a loss of dignity. He
had neglected to bring an emergency cap, which an airman on a
cross-country flight should never forget. Bareheaded he accompanied us
to a hatter's. Here the R.F.C. caps of the "stream-lined" variety had
all been sold, so the war baby was obliged to buy a general service hat.
The only one that fitted him was shapeless as a Hausfrau, ponderous as a
Bishop, unstable as a politician, grotesque as a Birthday Honours' List.
It was a nice quiet hat, we assured Marmaduke--just the thing for active
service. Did it suit him? Very well indeed, we replied--made him look
like Lord Haldane at the age of sixteen. Marmaduke bought it.
The monstrosity brought us a deal of attention in the streets, but this
Marmaduke put down to his fame as a conqueror of phantom raiders. He
began, however, to suspect that something was wrong when a newsboy
shouted, "Where jer get that 'at, leftenant?" The question was
unoriginal and obvious; but the newsboy showed imagination at his second
effort, which was the opening line of an old music-hall chorus:
"Sidney's 'olidays er in Septembah!" Marmaduke called at another shop
and chose the stiffest hat he could find.
By next morning the mist had cleared, and we flew across the Channel,
under a curtain of clouds, leaving Marmaduke to fetch a new machine.
When you visit the Continent after the war, friend the reader, travel by
the Franco-British service of aerial transport, which will come into
being with the return of peace. You will find it more comfortable and
less tiring; and if you have a weak stomach you will find it less
exacting, for none but the very nervous are ill in an aeroplane, if the
pilot behaves himself. Also, you will complete the journey in a quarter
of the time taken by boat. Within fifteen minutes of our departure from
Dovstone we were in French air country. A few ships specked the
sea-surface, which reflected a dull grey from the clouds, but otherwise
the crossing was monotonous.
We passed up the coast-line as far as the bend at Cape Grisnez, and so
to Calais. Beyond this town were two sets of canals, one leading south
and the other east. Follow the southern group and you will find our
immediate destination, the aircraft depot at Saint Gregoire. Follow the
eastern group and they will take you to the Boche aircraft depot at
Lille. Thus were we reminded that tango teas and special constables
belonged to the past.
The covey landed at Saint Gregoire without mishap, except for a bent
axle and a torn tyre. With these replaced, and the supplies of petrol
and oil replenished, we flew south during the afternoon to the
river-basin of war. Marmaduke arrived five days later, in time to take
part in our first patrol over the lines. On this trip his engine was put
out of action by a stray fragment from anti-aircraft. After gliding
across the trenches, he landed among some dug-outs inhabited by sappers,
and made use of much the same vocabulary as when he crashed at Dovstone
Marmaduke shot down several Hun machines during the weeks that followed,
but on the very day of his posting for a decoration a Blighty bullet
gave him a return ticket to England and a mention in the casualty list.
When last I heard of him he was at Dovstone aerodrome, teaching his
elders how to fly. I can guess what he would do if at the Grand Hotel
there some chance-introduced collector of autographs offered her book.
He would think of the cow and the Brass Hats, smile, produce his
gold-tipped fountain-pen, and write with a flourish, "John James
Christopher Benjamin Brown. Greetings from Dovstone."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Officers from Headquarters.