A SUMMER JOY-RIDE.
It happened late in the afternoon, one August dog-day. No wind leavened
the languid air, and hut, hangar, tent, and workshop were oppressive
with a heavy heat, so that we wanted to sleep. To taxi across the grass
in a chase for flying speed, to soar gently from the hot ground, and, by
leaning beyond the wind-screen, to let the slip-stream of displaced air
play on one's face--all this was refreshing as a cold plunge after a
Turkish bath. I congratulated myself that I was no longer a gunner,
strenuous over interminable corrections, or tiredly alert in a close
observation post.
Our party consisted of four machines, each complete with pilot,
observer, and several hundred rounds of ammunition. The job was an
offensive patrol--that is to say, we were to hunt trouble around a given
area behind the Boche lines. A great deal of the credit for our "mastery
of the air"--that glib phrase of the question-asking politician--during
the Somme Push of 1916, belongs to those who organised and those who led
these fighting expeditions over enemy country. Thanks to them, our
aircraft were able to carry out reconnaissance, artillery observation,
and photography with a minimum of interruption, while the German planes
were so hard pressed to defend their place in the air that they could
seldom guide their own guns or collect useful information. To this
satisfactory result must be added the irritative effect on enemy morale
of the knowledge that whenever the weather was fine our machines hummed
overhead, ready to molest and be molested.
Offensive patrols are well worth while, but for the comfort of those
directly concerned they are rather too exciting. When friends are below
during an air duel a pilot is warmly conscious that should he or his
machine be crippled he can break away and land, and there's an end of
it. But if a pilot be wounded in a scrap far away from home, before he
can land he must fly for many miles, under shell fire and probably
pursued by enemies. He must conquer the blighting faintness which
accompanies loss of blood, keep clear-headed enough to deal
instantaneously with adverse emergency, and make an unwilling brain
command unwilling hands and feet to control a delicate apparatus. Worst
of all, if his engine be put out of action at a spot beyond gliding
distance of the lines, there is nothing for it but to descend and tamely
surrender. And always he is within reach of that vindictive exponent of
frightfulness, Archibald the Ever-Ready.
As we climbed to 4000 feet the machines above threw glints of sunlight
on the screen of blue infinity. We ranged ourselves and departed.
Passing the red roofs and heart-shaped citadel of Doulens and a jagged
wood suggestive of a lion rampant, we followed the straight road to
Arras. Arrived there, the leader turned south, for we were not yet high
enough. As we moved along the brown band of shell-pocked desolation we
continued to climb. Patches of smoke from the guns hovered over the
ground at intervals. A score of lazy-looking kite balloons hung
motionless.
By the time we reached Albert our height was 12,000 feet, and we steered
eastward over the ground gained in the June-July advance. Beyond the
scrap-heap that once was Pozieres two enormous mine craters showed up,
dented into the razed surface, one on either side of the Albert-Bapaume
road. Flying very low a few buses were working on trench reconnaissance.
The sunshine rebounded from the top of their wings, and against the
discoloured earth they looked like fireflies. A mile or so behind the
then front lines were the twin villages of Courcelette and Martinpuich,
divided only by the road. Already they were badly battered, though,
unlike Pozieres, they still deserved the title of village. Le Sars,
which sat astride the road, nearer Bapaume, had been set afire by our
guns, and was smoking.
In those days, before the methodical advance of the British artillery
had begun to worry the stronghold overmuch, Bapaume was a hotbed of all
the anti-aircraft devilries. We therefore swerved toward the south.
Archie was not to be shaken off so easily, and we began a series of
erratic deviations as he ringed with black puffs first one machine,
then another. The shooting was not particularly good; for although no
clouds intervened between the guns and their mark, a powerful sun
dazzled the gunners, who must have found difficulty in judging height
and direction. From Archie's point of view, the perfect sky is one
screened from the sunlight, at 20,000 to 30,000 feet, by a mantle of
thin clouds against which aircraft are outlined boldly, like stags on a
snow-covered slope.
A few minutes in a south-easterly direction brought us to the Bois
d'Havrincourt, a large ungainly wood, the shape of which was something
between the ace of spades and the ace of clubs. This we knew as
Mossy-Face. The region around it was notorious in R.F.C. messes as being
the chief centre of the Boche Flying Corps on the British Front.
From the south-west corner Archie again scattered burst and bark at our
group, but his inaccuracy made dodging hardly necessary. A lull
followed, and I twisted my neck all round the compass, for, in the
presence of hostile aeroplanes, Archie seldom behaves, except when
friendly machines are about. Two thousand feet below three biplanes were
approaching the wood from the south. Black crosses showed up plainly on
their grey-white wings. We dropped into a dive toward the strangers.
Under normal conditions a steep dive imparts a feeling of being hemmed
in from every side. One takes a deep breath instinctively, and the
novice to flying will grip the fuselage, as if to avoid being crushed.
And, indeed, a passenger in a diving aeroplane is hemmed in, by the
terrific air-pressure to which the solid surface is subjected. If he
attempt to stand up or lean over the side, he will be swept back, after
a short struggle, beneath the shelter of wind-screen and fuselage. But
when diving on a Hun, I have never experienced this troubled sensation,
probably because it has been swamped under the high tension of readiness
for the task. All the faculties must be concentrated on opening the
attack, since an air duel is often decided in the first few seconds at
close quarters. What happens during these few seconds may depend on a
trifle, such as the position of the gun-mounting, an untried drum of
ammunition, a slight swerve, or firing a second too soon or too late. An
airman should regard his body as part of the machine when there is a
prospect of a fight, and his brain, which commands the machine, must be
instinctive with insight into what the enemy will attempt.
As we dived, then, I estimated the angle at which we might cross the
Boche trio, watched for a change of direction on their part, slewed
round the gun-mounting to the most effective setting for what would
probably be my arc of fire, and fingered the movable back-sight. At
first the Huns held to their course as though quite unconcerned. Later,
they began to lose height. Their downward line of flight became steeper
and steeper, and so did ours.
Just as our leading bus arrived within range and began to spit bullets
through the propeller, a signal rocket streaked from the first Boche
biplane, and the trio dived almost vertically, honking the while on
Klaxon horns. We were then at about 6000 feet.
We were expecting to see the Huns flatten out, when--"_Wouff!_ _wouff!_
_wouff!_ _wouff!_ _wouff!_" said Archie. The German birds were not hawks
at all; they were merely tame decoys used to entice us to a pre-arranged
spot, at a height well favoured by A.-A. gunners. The ugly puffs
encircled us, and it seemed unlikely that an aeroplane could get away
without being caught in a patch of hurtling high explosive. Yet nobody
was hit. The only redeeming feature of the villain Archibald is that his
deeds are less terrible than his noise, and even this is too flat to be
truly frightful. Although I was uncomfortable as we raced away, the
chorused _wouffs!_ reminded me of an epidemic of coughing I heard in
church one winter's Sunday, while a fatuous sermon was read by a
dull-voiced vicar.
Mingled with the many black bursts were a few green ones, probably gas
shells, for Archie had begun to experiment with the gas habit. Very
suddenly a line of fiery rectangles shot up and curved towards us when
they had reached three-quarters of their maximum height. They rose and
fell within thirty yards of our tail. These were "onions," the flaming
rockets which the Boche keeps for any hostile aircraft that can be lured
to a height between 4000 and 6000 feet.
I yelled to V., my pilot, that we should have to dodge. We side-slipped
and swerved to the left. A minute later the stream of onions had
disappeared, greatly to my relief, for the prospect of a fire in the air
inspires in me a mortal funk. Soon we were to pass from the unpleasant
possibility to the far more unpleasant reality.
Once outside the unhealthy region, we climbed to a less dangerous
height. Again we became the target for a few dozen H.E. shells. We broke
away and swooped downward. Some little distance ahead, and not far
below, was a group of five Albatross two-seaters. V. pointed our machine
at them, in the wake of the flight-commander's bus.
Next instant the fuselage shivered. I looked along the inside of it and
found that a burning shell fragment was lodged on a longeron, half-way
between my cockpit and the tail-plane. A little flame zigzagged over
the fabric, all but died away, but, being fanned by the wind as we lost
height, recovered and licked its way toward the tail. I was too far away
to reach the flame with my hands, and the fire extinguisher was by the
pilot's seat. I called for it into the speaking-tube. The pilot made no
move. Once more I shouted. Again no answer. V.'s earpiece had slipped
from under his cap. A thrill of acute fear passed through me as I stood
up, forced my arm through the rush of wind, and grabbed V.'s shoulder.
"Fuselage burning! Pass the fire extinguisher!" I yelled.
My words were drowned in the engine's roar; and the pilot, intent on
getting near the Boches, thought I had asked which one we were to
attack.
"Look out for those two Huns on the left," he called over his shoulder.
"Pass the fire extinguisher!"
"Get ready to shoot, blast you!"
"Fire extinguisher, you ruddy fool!"
A backward glance told me that the fire was nearing the tail-plane at
the one end and my box of ammunition at the other, and was too serious
for treatment by the extinguisher unless I could get it at once.
Desperately I tried to force myself through the bracing-struts and
cross-wires behind my seat. To my surprise, head and shoulders and one
arm got to the other side--a curious circumstance, as afterwards I tried
repeatedly to repeat this contortionist trick on the ground, but failed
every time. There I stuck, for it was impossible to wriggle farther.
However, I could now reach part of the fire, and at it I beat with
gloved hands. Within half a minute most of the fire was crushed to
death. But a thin streak of flame, outside the radius of my arm, still
flickered towards the tail. I tore off one of my gauntlets and swung it
furiously on to the burning strip. The flame lessened, rose again when I
raised the glove, but died out altogether after I had hit it twice more.
The load of fear left me, and I discovered an intense discomfort, wedged
in as I was between the two crossed bracing-struts. Five minutes passed
before I was able, with many a heave and gasp, to withdraw back to my
seat.
By now we were at close grips with the enemy, and our machine and
another converged on a Hun. V. was firing industriously. As we turned,
he glared at me, and knowing nothing of the fire, shouted: "Why the hell
haven't you fired yet?" I caught sight of a Boche bus below us, aimed at
it, and emptied a drum in short bursts. It swept away, but not before
two of the German observer's bullets had plugged our petrol tank from
underneath. The pressure went, and with it the petrol supply. The needle
on the rev.-counter quivered to the left as the revolutions dropped, and
the engine missed on first one, then two cylinders. V. turned us round,
and, with nose down, headed the machine for the trenches. Just then the
engine ceased work altogether, and we began to glide down.
All this happened so quickly that I had scarcely realised our plight.
Next I began to calculate our chances of reaching the lines before we
would have to land. Our height was 9000 feet, and we were just over
nine and a half miles from friendly territory. Reckoning the gliding
possibilities of our type of bus as a mile to a thousand feet, the odds
seemed unfavourable. On the other hand, a useful wind had arisen from
the east, and V., a very skilful pilot, would certainly cover all the
distance that could be covered.
I located our exact position and searched the map for the nearest spot
in the lines. The village of Bouchavesnes was a fraction south of due
west, and I remembered that the French had stormed it two days
previously. From the shape of the line before this advance, there was
evidently a small salient, with Bouchavesnes in the middle of the curve.
I scribbled this observation on a scrap of paper, which I handed to V.
with the compass direction. V. checked my statements on the map, nodded
over his shoulder, and set a course for Bouchavesnes.
Could we do it? I prayed to the gods and trusted to the pilot. Through
my mind there flitted impossible plans to be tried if we landed in Boche
territory. After setting fire to the machine we would attempt to hide,
and then, at night-time, creep along a communication trench to the enemy
front line, jump across it in a gap between the sentries, and chance
getting by the barbed wire and across No Man's Land. Or we would steal
to the Somme, float down-stream, and somehow or other pass the
entanglements placed across the river by the enemy. _Wouff!_ _wouff!_
Archie was complicating the odds.
Further broodings were checked by the sudden appearance of a German
scout. Taking advantage of our plight, its pilot dived steeply from a
point slightly behind us. We could not afford to lose any distance by
dodging, so V. did the only thing possible--he kept straight on. I
raised my gun, aimed at the wicked-looking nose of the attacking craft,
and met it with a barrage of bullets. These must have worried the Boche,
for he swerved aside when a hundred and fifty yards distant, and did not
flatten out until he was beneath the tail of our machine. Afterwards he
climbed away from us, turned, and dived once more. For a second time we
escaped, owing either to some lucky shots from my gun or to the lack of
judgment by the Hun pilot. The scout pulled up and passed ahead of us.
It rose and manoeuvred as if to dive from the front and bar the way.
Meanwhile, four specks, approaching from the west, had grown larger and
larger, until they were revealed as of the F.E. type--the British
"pusher" two-seater. The Boche saw them, and hesitated as they bore down
on him. Finding himself in the position of a lion attacked by hunters
when about to pounce on a tethered goat, he decided not to destroy, for
in so doing he would have laid himself open to destruction. When I last
saw him he was racing north-east.
There was now no obstacle to the long glide. As we went lower, the torn
ground showed up plainly. From 2000 feet I could almost count the
shell-holes. Two battery positions came into view, and near one of them
I saw tracks and could distinguish movements by a few tiny dots. It
became evident that, barring accident, we should reach the French zone.
When slightly behind the trenches a confused chatter from below told us
that machine-guns were trained on the machine. By way of retaliation, I
leaned over and shot at what looked like an emplacement. Then came the
Boche front line, ragged and unkempt. I fired along an open trench.
Although far from fearless as a rule, I was not in the least afraid
during the eventful glide. My state of intense "wind up" while the
fuselage was burning had apparently exhausted my stock of nervousness. I
seemed detached from all idea of danger, and the desolated German trench
area might have been a side-show at a fair.
We swept by No Man's Land at a height of 600 feet, crossed the French
first- and second-line trenches, and, after passing a small ridge,
prepared to settle on an uneven plateau covered by high bracken. To
avoid landing down wind and down-hill, the pilot banked to the right
before he flattened out. The bus pancaked gently to earth, ran over the
bracken, and stopped two yards from a group of shell-holes. Not a wire
was broken. The propeller had been scored by the bracken, but the
landing was responsible for no other damage. Taking into consideration
the broken ground, the short space at our disposal, and the fact that
we landed cross-wind, V. had exhibited wonderful skill.
We climbed out, relieved but cantankerous. V., still ignorant of the
fire, wanted to know why my gun was silent during our first fight; and I
wanted to know why he hadn't shut off the engine and listened when I
shouted for the fire extinguisher. Some French gunners ran to meet us.
The sight that met them must have seemed novel, even to a poilu of two
and a half years' understanding.
Supposing that the aeroplane had crashed, they came to see if we were
dead or injured. What they found was one almost complete aeroplane and
two leather-coated figures, who cursed each other heartily as they stood
side by side, and performed a certain natural function which is publicly
represented in Brussels by a famous little statue.
"Quels types!" said the first Frenchman to arrive.
An examination of the bus revealed a fair crop of bullet holes through
the wings and elevator. A large gap in one side of the fuselage, over a
longeron that was charred to powder in parts, bore witness to the fire.
Petrol was dripping from the spot where the tank had been perforated. On
taking a tin of chocolate from his pocket, V. found it ripped and
gaping. He searched the pocket and discovered a bright bullet at the
bottom. We traced the adventures of that bullet; it had grazed a strut,
cut right through the petrol union, and expended itself on the chocolate
tin.
Soon our attention was attracted to several French machines that were
passing through a barrage of Archie bursts. The bombardment of an
aeroplane arouses only the sporting instinct of the average soldier. His
interest, though keen, is directed towards the quality of the shooting
and the distance of the shells for their target; his attitude when
watching a pigeon-shoot would be much the same. But an airman has
experience of what the aeroplane crews must be going through, and his
thought is all for them. He knows that dull, loud cough of an Archie
shell, the hiss of a flying fragment, the wicked black puffs that creep
towards their mark and follow it, no matter where the pilot may swerve.
Should a friendly machine tumble to earth after that rare occurrence, a
direct hit, all the sensations of an uncontrolled nose-dive are
suggested to his senses. He hears the shriek of the up-rushing air,
feels the helpless terror. It hurts him to know that he is powerless to
save a friend from certain death. He cannot even withdraw his eyes from
the falling craft. I was glad we had not viewed the disaster while we
were in the air, for nothing is more unnerving than to see another
machine crumbled up by a direct hit when Archie is firing at yourself.
"Me," said a French gunner by my side, "I prefer the artillery." With
which sentiment I have often agreed when dodging Archie, though at every
other time I prefer the Flying Corps work to all other kinds of
fighting.
V. disappeared to phone the Squadron Commander, and I was left with the
crippled bus and the crowd of Frenchmen. The poilus questioned me on
subjects ranging from the customary length of a British officer's
moustache to the possible length of the war. Yes, we had been hit in a
fight with Boche aeroplanes. Yes, there had also been a slight fire on
board. Yes, I had great fear at the time. Yes, I would accept a
cigarette with pleasure. No, it was untrue that England contained four
million civilian _embusques_ of military age. No, the report that
officers of the British Flying Corps received fifty francs a day was
inaccurate, unfortunately. But no, my good-for-nothing opinion was that
we should not finish the Boche within a year; and so on.
"How is it," said one man in faded uniform, "that the British always
manage to keep themselves correct and shaven?"
"La barbe!" interrupted another; "the Tommies don't keep clean on the
Somme. Even the lilies of the etat-majeur can't." And he began to quote:
"Si ma fi-fi-fiancee me voyait,
Elle m' dirait en me donnant cinq sous:
'Va t' faire raser!' mais moi, j' repondrais
Que moi j'ai toujours les memes deux joues."
V. was away for an hour and a half and when he did return it was to
announce that he had been unable to phone because the line was blocked
under pressure of important operations. Deciding to report in person, we
declined an offer of hospitality from the French officers, but
gratefully accepted a guard for the machine, and the loan of a car.
A young lieutenant accompanied us as far as Amiens. There we stopped for
supper, and were joined by some civilian friends of our French
companion. The _filet de sole au vin blanc_ engendered a feeling of deep
content. Now that it was over, I felt pleased with the day's excitement
and the contrast it afforded. Three hours beforehand it seemed likely
that the evening would see us prisoners. Yet here we were, supping in a
comfortable hotel with three charming ladies and the widow Clicquot.
Arrived at the aerodrome, we visited the hut inhabited by the Squadron
Commander, who wore pyjamas and a smile of welcome. We were just in
time, he said, to rescue our names from the list of missing. Our tale
impressed him so much that, after making arrangements for the stranded
bus to be brought back by a repair party, he remarked: "You can both
have a rest to-morrow."
"Welcome home, you rotten night-bird," said my tent companion, and
mentioned in a hurt tone that our flight was booked for the 5
A.M. reconnaissance. But my last thought before sinking into
sleep was of the blessed words: "You can have a rest to-morrow."