A CLOUD RECONNAISSANCE.
Clouds, say the text-books of meteorology, are collections of partly
condensed water vapour or of fine ice crystals. Clouds, mentioned in
terms of the newspaper and the club, are dingy masses of nebulousness
under which the dubious politician, company promoter, or other merchant
of hot air is hidden from open attack and exposure. Clouds, to the
flying officer on active service, are either useful friends or
unstrafeable enemies. The hostile clouds are very high and of the
ice-crystal variety. They form a light background, against which
aeroplanes are boldly silhouetted, to the great advantage of
anti-aircraft gunners. The friendly or water-vapour clouds are to be
found several thousands of feet lower. If a pilot be above them they
help him to dodge writs for trespass, which Archibald the bailiff seeks
to hand him. When numerous enough to make attempts at observation
ineffective, they perform an even greater service for him--that of
arranging for a day's holiday. And at times the R.F.C. pilot, like the
man with a murky past, is constrained to have clouds for a covering
against attack; as you shall see if you will accompany me on the trip
about to be described.
* * * * *
The period is the latter half of September, 1916, a time of great doings
on the Somme front. After a few weeks of comparative inaction--if
methodical consolidation and intense artillery preparation can be called
inaction--the British are once more denting the Boche line. Flers,
Martinpuich, Courcelette, and Eaucourt l'Abbaye have fallen within the
past week, and the tanks have made their first ungainly bow before the
curtain of war, with the superlatives of the war correspondent in close
attendance. Leave from France has been cancelled indefinitely.
Our orders are to carry through all the reconnaissance work allotted to
us, even though weather conditions place such duties near the
border-line of possible accomplishment. That is why we now propose to
leave the aerodrome, despite a great lake of cloud that only allows the
sky to be seen through rare gaps, and a sixty-mile wind that will fight
us on the outward journey. Under these circumstances we shall probably
find no friendly craft east of the trenches, and, as a consequence,
whatever Hun machines are in the air will be free to deal with our
party. However, since six machines are detailed for the job, I console
myself with the old tag about safety in numbers.
We rise to a height of 3000 feet, and rendezvous there. From the
flight-commander's bus I look back to see how the formation is shaping,
and discover that we number but five, one machine having failed to start
by reason of a dud engine. We circle the aerodrome, waiting for a sixth
bus, but nobody is sent to join us. The "Carry on" signal shows up from
the ground, and we head eastward.
After climbing another fifteen hundred feet, we enter the clouds. It is
now impossible to see more than a yard or two through the intangible
wisps of grey-white vapour that seem to float around us, so that our
formation loses its symmetry, and we become scattered. Arrived in the
clear atmosphere above the clouds my pilot throttles down until the rear
machines have appeared and re-formed. We then continue in the direction
of the trenches, with deep blue infinity above and the unwieldy
cloud-banks below. Familiar landmarks show up from time to time through
holes in the white screen.
Against the violent wind, far stronger than we found it near the ground,
we make laboured progress. Evidently, two of the formation are in
difficulties, for they drop farther and farther behind. Soon one gives
in and turns back, the pilot being unable to maintain pressure for his
petrol supply. I shout the news through the speaking-tube, and hear, in
reply from the flight-commander, a muffled comment, which might be
"Well!" but it is more likely to be something else. Three minutes later
the second bus in trouble turns tail. Its engine has been missing on one
cylinder since the start, and is not in a fit state for a trip over
enemy country. Again I call to the leader, and again hear a word ending
in "ell." The two remaining machines close up, and we continue. Very
suddenly one of them drops out, with a rocker-arm gone. Its nose goes
down, and it glides into the clouds. Yet again I call the
flight-commander's attention to our dwindling numbers, and this time I
cannot mistake the single-syllabled reply. It is a full-throated "Hell!"
For my part I compare the party to the ten little nigger boys, and
wonder when the only survivor, apart from our own machine, will leave. I
look towards it anxiously. The wings on one side are much lighter than
those on the other, and I therefore recognise it as the Tripehound's
bus. There is ground for misgiving, for on several occasions during the
past ten minutes it has seemed to fly in an erratic manner. The cause of
this, as we find out on our return, is that for five minutes the
Tripehound has been leaning over the side, with the joystick held
between his knees while attempting to fasten a small door in the cowling
round the engine, left open by a careless mechanic. It is important to
shut the opening, as otherwise the wind may rush inside and tear off
the cowling. Just as a short band of the trench line south of Arras can
be seen through a gap, the Tripehound, having found that he cannot
possibly reach far enough to close the protruding door, signals that he
must go home.
I do not feel altogether sorry to see our last companion leave, as we
have often been told not to cross the lines on a reconnaissance flight
with less than three machines; and with the wind and the low clouds,
which now form an opaque window, perforated here and there by small
holes, a long observation journey over Bocheland by a single aeroplane
does not seem worth while. But the flight-commander, remembering the
recent order about completing a reconnaissance at all costs, thinks
differently and decides to go on. To get our bearings he holds down the
nose of the machine until we have descended beneath the clouds, and into
full view of the open country.
We find ourselves a mile or two beyond Arras. As soon as the bus appears
it is bracketed in front, behind, and on both sides by black
shell-bursts. We swerve aside, but more shells quickly follow. The
shooting is particularly good, for the Archie people have the exact
range of the low clouds slightly above us. Three times we hear the hiss
of flying fragments of high explosive, and the lower left plane is
unevenly punctured. We lose height for a second to gather speed, and
then, to my relief, the pilot zooms up to a cloud. Although the gunners
can no longer see their target, they loose off a few more rounds and
trust to luck that a stray shell may find us. These bursts are mostly
far wide of the mark, although two of them make ugly black blotches
against the whiteness of the vapour through which we are rising.
Once more we emerge into the open space between sky and cloud. The
flight-commander takes the mouthpiece of his telephone tube and shouts
to me that he intends completing the round above the clouds. To let me
search for railway and other traffic he will descend into view of the
ground at the most important points. He now sets a compass course for
Toutpres, the first large town of the reconnaissance, while I search all
around for possible enemies. At present the sky is clear, but at any
minute enemy police craft may appear from the unbroken blue or rise
through the clouds.
The slowness of our ground speed, due to the fierce wind, allows me
plenty of time to admire the strangely beautiful surroundings. Above is
the inverted bowl of blue, bright for the most part, but duller towards
the horizon-rim. The sun pours down a vivid light, which spreads
quicksilver iridescence over the cloud-tops. Below is the cloud-scape,
fantastic and far-stretching. The shadow of our machine is surrounded by
a halo of sunshine as it darts along the irregular white surface. The
clouds dip, climb, twist, and flatten into every conceivable shape.
Thrown together as they never could be on solid earth are outlines of
the wildest and tamest features of a world unspoiled by battlefield,
brick towns, ruins, or other ulcers on the face of nature. Jagged
mountains, forests, dainty hills, waterfalls, heavy seas, plateaux,
precipices, quiet lakes, rolling plains, caverns, chasms, and dead
deserts merge into one another, all in a uniform white, as though
wrapped in cotton wool and laid out for inspection in haphazard
continuity. And yet, for all its mad irregularity, the cloud-scape from
above is perfectly harmonious and never tiring. One wants to land on the
clean surface and explore the jungled continent. Sometimes, when passing
a high projection, the impulse comes to lean over and grab a handful of
the fleecy covering.
After being shut off from the ground for a quarter of an hour, we are
able to look down through a large chasm. Two parallel canals cut across
it, and these we take to be part of the canal junction below Toutpres.
This agrees with our estimate of speed, wind, and time, according to
which we should be near the town. The pilot takes the machine through
the clouds, and we descend a few hundred feet below them.
To disconcert Archie we travel in zigzags, while I search for items of
interest. A train is moving south, and another is entering Toutpres from
the east. A few barges are dotted among the various canals. Bordering a
wood to the west is an aerodrome. About a dozen aeroplanes are in line
on the ground, but the air above it is empty of Boche craft.
Evidently the Huns below had not expected a visit from hostile machines
on such a day, for Archie allows several minutes to pass before
introducing himself. A black puff then appears on our level some
distance ahead. We change direction, but the gunners find our new
position and send bursts all round the bus. The single _wouff_ of the
first shot has become a jerky chorus that swells or dwindles according
to the number of shells and their nearness.
I signal to the flight-commander that I have finished with Toutpres,
whereupon we climb into the clouds and comparative safety. We rise above
the white intangibility and steer north-east, in the direction of
Passementerie. I continue to look for possible aggressors. The necessity
for a careful look-out is shown when a group of black specks appears
away to the south, some fifteen hundred feet above us. In this area and
under to-day's weather conditions, the odds are a hundred to one that
they will prove to be Boches.
We lose height until our bus is on the fringe of the clouds and ready
to escape out of sight. Apparently the newcomers do not spot us in the
first place, for they are flying transverse to our line of flight. A few
minutes later they make the discovery, turn in our direction, and begin
a concerted dive. All this while I have kept my field-glasses trained on
them, and as one machine turns I can see the Maltese crosses painted on
the wings. The question of the strangers' nationality being answered, we
slip into a cloud to avoid attack.
The flight-commander thinks it advisable to remain hidden by keeping
inside the clouds. He must therefore steer entirely by compass, without
sun or landmark to guide him. As we leave the clear air a left movement
of the rudder, without corresponding bank, swings the machine to the
north, so that its nose points away from the desired course. The pilot
puts on a fraction of right rudder to counteract the deviation. We veer
eastward, but rather too much, if the swaying needle of the compass is
to be believed. A little left rudder again puts the needle into an
anti-clockwise motion. With his attention concentrated on our
direction, the pilot, impatient at waiting for the needle to become
steady, unconsciously kicks the rudder-controls, first to one side, then
to the other. The needle begins to swing around, and the compass is thus
rendered useless for the time being. For the next minute or two, until
it is safe to leave the clouds, the pilot must now keep the machine
straight by instinct, and trust to his sense of direction.
A similar mishap often happens when flying through cloud. Pilots have
been known to declare that all compasses are liable to swing of their
own accord when in clouds, though the real explanation is probably that
they themselves have disturbed the needle unduly by a continuous
pressure on each side of the rudder-bar in turn, thus causing an
oscillation of the rudder and a consequent zigzagged line of flight. The
trouble is more serious than it would seem to the layman, as when the
compass is out of action, and no other guides are available, one tends
to drift round in a large circle, like a man lost in the jungle. Should
the craft be driven by a rotary engine, the torque, or outward wash
from the propeller, may make a machine edge more and more to the left,
unless the pilot is careful to allow for this tendency.
Such a drift to the left has taken us well to the north of a straight
line between Toutpres and Passementerie, as we discover on leaving the
clouds for a second or two, so as to correct the error with the aid of
landmarks. But the compass has again settled down to good behaviour, and
we are able to get a true course before we climb back to the sheltering
whiteness.
A flight inside the clouds is far from pleasant. We are hemmed in by a
drifting formlessness that looks like thin steam, but, unlike steam,
imparts a sensation of coldness and clamminess. The eye cannot penetrate
farther than about a yard beyond the wing tips. Nothing is to be seen
but the aeroplane, nothing is to be heard but the droning hum of the
engine, which seems louder than ever amid the isolation.
I am bored, cold, and uncomfortable. Time drags along lamely; five
minutes masquerade as half an hour, and only by repeated glances at the
watch do I convince myself that we cannot yet have reached the next
objective. I study the map for no particular reason except that it is
something to do. Then I decide that the Lewis gun ought to be fired as a
test whether the working parts are still in good order. I hold the
spade-grip, swing round the circular mounting until the gun points to
the side, and loose five rounds into the unpleasant vapour. The
flight-commander, startled at the sudden clatter, turns round. Finding
that the fire was mine and not an enemy's, he shakes his fist as a
protest against the sudden disturbance. Even this action is welcome, as
being evidence of companionship.
When the pilot, judging that Passementerie should be below, takes the
machine under the clouds, I feel an immense relief, even though the exit
is certain to make us a target for Archie. We emerge slightly to the
west of the town. There is little to be observed; the railways are bare
of trains, and the station contains only an average number of trucks.
Four black-crossed aeroplanes are flying over their aerodrome at a
height of some two thousand feet. Three of them begin to climb, perhaps
in an attempt to intercept us. However, our bus has plenty of time to
disappear, and this we do quickly--so quickly that the A.-A. batteries
have only worried us to the extent of half a dozen shells, all wide of
the mark.
We rise right through the white screen into full view of the sun.
Apparently the sky is clear of intruders, so we turn for three-quarters
of a circle and head for Pluspres, the third point of call. The wind now
being behind the machine in a diagonal direction, our speed in relation
to the ground is twice the speed of the outward half of the journey. The
sun is pleasantly warming, and I look towards it gratefully. A few small
marks, which may or may not be sun-spots, flicker across its face. To
get an easier view I draw my goggles, the smoke-tinted glasses of which
allow me to look at the glare without blinking. In a few seconds I am
able to recognise the spots as distant aeroplanes moving in our
direction. Probably they are the formation that we encountered on the
way to Passementerie. Their object in keeping between us and the sun is
to remain unobserved with the help of the blinding stream of light,
which throws a haze around them. I call the pilot's attention to the
scouts, and yet again we fade into the clouds. This time, with the
sixty-mile wind as our friend, there is no need to remain hidden for
long. Quite soon we shall have to descend to look at Pluspres, the most
dangerous point on the round.
When we take another look at earth I find that the pilot has been exact
in timing our arrival at the important Boche base--too exact, indeed,
for we find ourselves directly over the centre of the town. Only
somebody who has been Archied from Pluspres can realise what it means to
fly right over the stronghold at four thousand feet. The advanced lines
of communication that stretch westward to the Arras-Peronne front all
hinge on Pluspres, and for this reason it often shows activity of
interest to the aeroplane observer and his masters. The Germans are
therefore highly annoyed when British aircraft arrive on a tour of
inspection. To voice their indignation they have concentrated many
anti-aircraft guns around the town. What is worse, the Archie fire at
Pluspres is more accurate than at any other point away from the actual
front, as witness the close bracket formed by the sighting shots that
greet our solitary bus.
From a hasty glance at the station and railway lines, while we slip away
to another level, I gather that many trains and much rolling stock are
to be bagged. The work will have to be done under serious difficulties
in the shape of beastly black bursts and the repeated changes of
direction necessary to dodge them. We bank sharply, side-slip, lose
height, regain it, and perform other erratic evolutions likely to spoil
the gunners' aim; but the area is so closely sprinkled by shells that,
to whatever point the machine swerves, we always hear the menacing
report of bursting H.E.
It is no easy matter to observe accurately while in my present condition
of "wind up," created by the coughing of Archie. I lean over to count
the stationary trucks in the sidings. "_Wouff_, _wouff_, _wouff_,"
interrupts Archie from a spot deafeningly near; and I withdraw into "the
office," otherwise the observer's cockpit. Follows a short lull, during
which I make another attempt to count the abnormal amount of rolling
stock. "_Wouff--Hs--sss!_" shrieks another shell, as it throws a large
H.E. splinter past our tail. Again I put my head in the office. I write
down an approximate estimate of the number of trucks, and no longer
attempt to sort them out, so many to a potential train. A hunt over the
railway system reveals no fewer than twelve trains. These I pencil-point
on my map, as far as I am able to locate them.
A massed collection of vehicles remain stationary in what must be either
a large square or the market-place. I attempt to count them, but am
stopped by a report louder than any of the preceding ones. Next instant
I find myself pressed tightly against the seat. The whole of the machine
is lifted about a hundred feet by the compression from a shell that has
exploded a few yards beneath our undercarriage. I begin to wonder
whether all our troubles have been swept away by a direct hit; but an
examination of the machine shows no damage beyond a couple of rents in
the fabric of the fuselage. That finishes my observation work for the
moment. Not with a court-martial as the only alternative could I carry
on the job until we have left Archie's inferno of frightfulness. The
flight-commander is of the same mind, and we nose into the clouds,
pursued to the last by the insistent smoke-puffs.
When the bus is once again flying between sky and cloud, we begin to
feel more at home. No other craft come within range of vision, so that
without interruption we reach Aucoin, the fourth railway junction to be
spied upon. The rolling stock there is scarcely enough for two
train-loads, and no active trains can be spotted. We hover above the
town for a minute, and then leave for Boislens.
The machine now points westward and homeward, and thus has the full
benefit of the wind, which accelerates our ground speed to about a
hundred and fifty miles an hour. The gods take it into their heads to be
kind, for we are not obliged to descend through the clouds over
Boislens, as the region can be seen plainly through a gap large enough
to let me count the R.S. and note that a train, with steam up, stands
in the station.
As Boislens is the last town mentioned by the H.Q. people who mapped out
the reconnaissance, the job is all but completed. Yet twelve miles still
separate us from the nearest bend of the trench line, and a twelve-mile
area contains plenty of room for a fight. Since the open atmosphere
shows no warning of an attack, I look closely toward the sun--for a fast
scout will often try to surprise a two-seater by approaching between its
quarry and the sun.
At first I am conscious of nothing but a strong glare; but when my
goggled eyes become accustomed to the brightness, I see, or imagine I
see, an indistinct oblong object surrounded by haze. I turn away for a
second to avoid the oppressive light. On seeking the sun again I find
the faint oblong more pronounced. For one instant it deviates from the
straight line between our bus and the sun, and I then recognise it as an
aeroplane. I also discover that a second machine is hovering two
thousand feet above the first.
The chief hobby of the flight-commander is to seek a scrap. Immediately
I make known to him the presence of hostile craft he tests his gun in
readiness for a fight. Knowing by experience that if he starts
manoeuvring round a Hun he will not break away while there is the
slightest chance of a victory, I remind him, by means of a note-book
leaf, that since our job is a reconnaissance, the R.F.C. law is to
return quickly with our more or less valuable information, and to
abstain from such luxuries as unnecessary fights, unless a chance can be
seized over British ground. Although he does not seem too pleased at the
reminder he puts down the nose of the machine, so as to cross the lines
in the shortest possible time.
The first Hun scout continues the dive to within three hundred yards, at
which range I fire a few short bursts, by way of an announcement to the
Boche that we are ready for him and protected from the rear. He flattens
out and sits behind our tail at a respectful distance, until the second
scout has joined him. The two separate and prepare to swoop down one
from each side.
But we are now passing the trenches, and just as one of our attackers
begins to dive, a formation of de Havilands (British pusher scouts)
arrives to investigate. The second Boche plants himself between us and
the newcomers, while his companion continues to near until he is a
hundred and fifty yards from us. At this range I rattle through the rest
of the ammunition drum, and the Hun swerves aside. We now recognise the
machine as an Albatross scout or "German spad," a most successful type
that only entered the lists a fortnight beforehand. Finding that they
have to reckon with five de Havilands, the two Huns turn sharply and
race eastward, their superior speed saving them from pursuit.
We pass through the clouds for the last time on the trip, and fly home
very soberly, while I piece together my hurried notes. The Squadron
Commander meets us in the aerodrome with congratulations and a desire
for information.
"Seen anything?" he asks.
"Fourteen trains and some M.T.," I reply.
"And a few thousand clouds," adds the flight-commander.
By the time I have returned from the delivery of my report at G.H.Q.,
the wing office has sent orders that we are to receive a mild censure
for carrying out a reconnaissance with only one machine. The Squadron
Commander grins as he delivers the reproof, so that we do not feel
altogether crushed.
"Don't do it again," he concludes.
As we have not the least desire to do it again, the order is likely to
be obeyed.