A BOMBING RAID
DAWN was just breaking over Devil's Wood and Ginchy. The owls and
bats which had flitted over the night-bivouacs had returned to their
hiding places about the battered towers of the old church near by. A
saffron tint flushed the low summit of the eastern ridge, beyond
Combles and Ginchy, while thin blue-grey columns of smoke showed
where the Germans held fast their steel line from the Somme to
Bapaume.
Scarcely had the stars faded away, however, and disappeared in the
morning light, when the little field telephone in the orderly
officer's tent at the aerodrome near Contalmaison went
"Ting-a-ling-ling!"
"Are you there?" came the query over the wire.
"Yes. Who is that?"
"Advanced Headquarters, Section 47, East of Ginchy. Is that the Wing
H.Q., Royal Flying Corps?"
"Yes. What is the matter, that you ring a poor chap up for the
twentieth time in half an hour?"
"Matter enough, Grenfell, old fellow! Seven aeroplanes have just
crossed our lines from the direction of Morval and Lesboeufs. They
are flying in your direction, west by west-sou'-west. Can you hear
me?"
"Yes, yes, but I say, Ginchy. Hullo! Were they enemy 'planes?"
"Our sentries couldn't make out their nationality; it was too dark.
That's why the O.C. wanted me to 'phone you, lest it should be
another raiding party coming to bomb you, as they did the other
morning at dawn. He wants you to take '_Air Raid Action_' at once.
Got me, old fellow?"
"All right, Ginchy. We'll be ready for the blighters this time.
S'long! Remember me to Crawford when you run across him."
"Can't, old man."
"How so?"
"He got a packet in the knapper this morning, and he's already on his
way to Blighty."
"Lucky beggar! Good-bye!"
"Goodbye."
"Ting-a-ling-ling!"
Thus the brief conversation closed, and within another thirty seconds
the orders had been given for "Air raid action" and every one was
ready. The men of "B" Flight, No. -- Squadron under Dastral, were
standing by their machines, and the aerial gunners and observers were
placing the last drums of ammunition in the cockpit, where they would
be ready to hand. Almost immediately afterwards the sentries on duty
at the eastern end of the aerodrome gave the alarm:
"Aeroplanes approaching from the east!" Half a dozen pairs of glasses
soon found the machines, and, for a moment, there was a little thrill
of excitement, as the anti-aircraft gunners received their orders to
load up and fix the range.
"Stand by to start the propellors!" shouted Dastral, the
Flight-Commander, to the air mechanics.
"Are all the pilots ready?" came next.
"Yes, sir," replied the Flight-Sergeant.
In another moment the whole flight would have been in the air doing a
rapid spiral, for the hum of the approaching aeroplane engines could
be distinctly heard now.
"Whir-r-r! whir-r-r-r!" Nearer and nearer came the well-known sound
of the propellors, when suddenly the Squadron-Commander, who had been
intently watching the early morning visitants through his glasses,
called out:
"Dismiss, 'B' Flight. It's only Graham's party returning from their
reconnaissance."
There was not a little disappointment at this announcement, for every
one had been looking forward to a scrap before breakfast. The sun,
which had just showed his upper edge above the ridge, however,
revealed quite distinctly the rounded marks of the Allies on each of
the 'planes.
Five minutes later the newcomers descended by rapid spirals, and,
alighting on the aerodrome, taxied safely almost up to the very
entrance of the sheds, and the pilots and observers alighted to
report what they had discovered.
They had been away two hours, had traversed fifty miles beyond the
enemy's lines, and had picked up several night signals by a
prearranged code, using the Morse flash and the Klaxon Horn. This
information, which was of the utmost importance, had been collected
from some of our most daring intelligence officers, who controlled a
network of British spies behind the German lines.
"Well done, Graham!" exclaimed the Major commanding the Squadron, as
he grasped the Flight-Commander's hand on alighting. "Did you pick up
anything?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then slip off your helmet and heavy coat, and make your report at
once, and--hullo, there, Johnson!"
"Sir," replied the sergeant in charge of the officers' mess,
springing smartly to the salute.
"Have breakfast ready in ten minutes in the private mess. Lay covers
for all the pilots."
"Yes, sir," replied Johnson, saluting once more, and clicking his
heels at the "about-turn" he disappeared to introduce a little
thunder amongst the early morning "fatigues" in the cook-house.
A powerful and crafty foe, whose emissaries have never been surpassed
in the espionage in the world, prevents me from giving the details of
the reports brought home that morning by Graham and his pilots. Let
it suffice, however, to say that amongst other information collected
beyond the enemy's front, by a wonderful intelligence system of our
own, it had been discovered in that dark hour before the dawn, by the
Morse flash and the Klaxon Horn, that three German troop trains were
to leave Liege that morning at eight o'clock, and, travelling via
Mauberge and Cambrai, were to reinforce the hardly pressed German
troops facing the British soldiers on the Somme.
There was a jovial breakfast party that morning in the officers' mess
of the --th Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, for in this wonderful
Corps, which, in the short space of two years, has done the seemingly
impossible, and taken the high jump from an insignificant detachment,
and become the most brilliant service under the British flag, there
is an _esprit de jeu_ as well as an _esprit de corps_ unsurpassed
even by that of the Navy, with its centuries of tradition behind it.
"How shall I know a British 'plane, if I meet it suddenly in
mid-air?" asked a German pilot once of his Flight-Commander.
"You'll know it because it will attack you!" was the reply.
And never yet has a British pilot, with a single round of ammunition
left in his drum, turned tail upon the enemy, even though when
outnumbered three to one. For such a pilot, there would be no room in
the Royal Flying Corps.
So, during breakfast that morning at the aerodrome near Contalmaison,
every flight-commander vied with his comrade for the post of honour.
Maps and railway routes were carefully consuled, for there were no
less than three routes by which the troop trains might arrive at the
Somme front.
"Liège--Namur--Mauberge," said the Squadron-Commander, as he bent
over the large map, and ran his fingers lightly along the route,
whilst the eager youths with the pilot's wings on the left breast of
their soiled and greasy service tunics listened and waited eagerly
for their final orders, each hoping in his inmost soul that the route
allotted to him might be the one by which the Huns would arrive.
"Let me see, now. After Mauberge and Cambrai the lines divide. Hum!
Why, yes, they must come via Peronne, Velu or Lestrée. There now. Are
you ready, boys?" asked the Commander, raising his head for the first
time for five minutes, and looking keenly into the glowing faces of
those lads, who, less than three years ago, in most cases, were at
Marlborough, Cheltenham or Harrow.
"Aye, ready, sir!" they replied almost in one breath.
"Are you quite sure, Graham, you can manage it? You have already had
two hours up there in the dark, you know."
"We could do another four, sir, quite easily," replied the Commander
of "A" Flight, with just a shade of disappointment in his voice, as
though he feared the C.O. might hold him back.
"How are the engines running?"
"Perfectly, sir; never better! They never misfired once, and there
isn't a strut or control wire damaged."
"Right!" exclaimed the Commander laconically, who then rolled up the
big map, touched a bell, and ordered the aerodrome Flight-Sergeant to
run out the machines and to let the air mechanics, observers,
wireless men and aerial gunners fall in and stand by the 'planes.
Then, turning to the three Flight-Commanders he said:
"Graham, you will take 'A' Flight and patrol the Lestrée line. You,
Dastral, will take charge of 'B' Flight and watch the
Havrincourt-Bapaume route, and Wilson there will watch the Peronne
loop-line. They may come by any of those three routes. Where they
will detrain I cannot say. It will be for you to discover. Fill up
with the twenty-pound bombs, as they're the handiest, for I expect it
will be more of a bombing raid than anything else. But if the enemy
is escorted by Fokkers or Rolands, you must be prepared for a fight
in the air as well, and I want each Flight to act independently, but
if necessary to co-operate, should Himmelman and his crowd turn up.
Smoke signals will be the best, I think. Is that quite clear, boys?"
"Yes, sir. Quite clear," they replied, for they were all in high
glee, and regarded it all as nothing more or less than a boyish
adventure, though more than one of those brave youths was going forth
to his death. And what a death it is to be hit in mid-air by bursting
shrapnel, and hurled seven thousand feet to the earth! But such a
death they faced daily without flinching.
"Then fill up your glasses, boys, and I will give you The King! God
bless him!"
And standing up they drank confusion to the King's enemies, and if a
stranger had been there to note it, he would have seen that many a
glass was filled with water, for the continuous demand upon the
pilot's nerve and intelligence forbids his frequent use of alcohol.
Soon afterwards, the pilots, observers and gunners were carefully
examining their machines, guns, fixing bombs, waterproof maps, and
arranging every detail with care and skill. A faulty strut or control
wire, a defective bomb release, or a leaking petrol tank might mean
failure or disaster.
At last all was ready, and the final words of command were given to
the air mechanics.
"Stand clear! Away!"
"Good-bye, lads, and good luck!" called the Squadron-Commander
cheerfully, though at that very moment he was inwardly cursing his
bad luck at having had his left arm seriously damaged in a recent
crash. For of all things upon earth Major Bulford loved to lead his
brave lads and to wheel them into action against the enemy squadrons.
"Whir-r-r! Whir-r-r!" went the first propellor, as the air-mechanic
who had started it sprang back to safety. Then, one after another the
machines of the three Flights taxied across the level ground of the
aerodrome, and sprang into the air at the first movement of the
elevator.
"Goodbye!" waved the pilots in answer to the last greeting of their
chief, for the human voice could not carry two feet in that wild roar
of propellors and engines, which seemed to make the whole atmosphere
pulsate with a whirring sound.
After a few rapid spirals a height of two thousand feet was quickly
attained, and then, still climbing, the 'planes, like huge birds of
prey, disappeared for a while behind the British lines as though for
a cross-Channel flight to England, in order to confuse the enemy
observers. Then, by a wide sweep at seven thousand feet, the flights
became detached, and each, under its own commander, went its own way
by a circuitous route to the appointed station.
Dastral, with the four Sopwiths of "B" Flight, crossed the enemy's
lines at nine thousand feet, somewhere between Ligny and Grévillers.
As he did so he received his first baptism of fire from "Archie."
White puffs of smoke and fierce red jets of flame seemed to burst
noiselessly around them, for the roar of the propellors drowned or
subdued even the sound of the shrapnel as it exploded. Heedless of
such small things, however, Dastral and his brave comrades sailed on,
sometimes doing a spiral or a rapid nose-dive, if the enemy appeared
to have found the range too closely.
Soon, however, they were ambushed in a friendly cloud, which hid them
from the Huns far below, and when they had emerged from the clinging
moisture, they were far beyond the enemy's third line trenches, and
out into the open, with smiling fields and vineyards beneath them.
"Is that it?" yelled Dastral to his observer, jerking his head
sideways, and pointing with his finger to something like a railway
cutting far below.
"Yes. The Bapaume-Havrincourt railway line!" shouted his companion
through the speaking-tube which ended close to the pilot's ear, for
although only a few feet away, that was the only possible method of
communication without shutting off the engines.
"Good!" nodded the pilot, for, despite the speaking-tube,
conversation was chiefly carried on by well understood cabalistic
signs.
A few minutes later Dastral pointed to a cluster of red roofs about a
little church.
"What is that place?"
The observer, with one finger still on the little waterproof map in
front of him, shouted back, "Beugny on the left. Haplincourt on the
right."
"Yes, yes!" nodded the pilot, edging a little more south-east, as
though the railway were not his objective. In so doing he alarmed
Fisker, his companion, who feared he had misunderstood him.
"What's the matter?" he shouted. "You're leaving the target. The
bridge-head and the ravine is over there, east-nor'-east. That's
where the junction is, at Velu."
"Right-o, old man! Glad you're awake. Keep your eyes well skinned
away to the east for Fokkers and Rolands. This is Himmelman's
favourite hunting-ground. He'll be down on us from the clouds like a
thunderbolt, if we're not careful. I want to get up to twelve
thousand, and come back on to the junction from the east."
"Oh-ay!" came the laconic rejoinder from Fisker, who quickly
understood the manoeuvre. Then, leaving his map for a moment, he
swept the horizon for any signs there might be of the enemy's
'planes.
So for nearly an hour the machines, playing at "follow-my-leader,"
swept round and round, watching and waiting in an altitude where, to
put it mildly, it was cold enough to freeze a kettle of boiling water
in ten minutes.
Cold? Yes, it was bitterly cold. Both Dastral and Fisker felt it
through their thick leather, wool-lined coats.
They patrolled the country behind the German lines, and watched the
smoke curling upwards from a dozen French villages in the enemy's
possession. At length they crossed the loop line near Barastre,
skimmed along over Ytres, and the Bois Havrincourt; sailed lightly
across the silvery streak of the river Exuette, until, beyond the
wood and the village they espied the main railway line that threaded
its way to Bapaume.
"There it is, Fisker. Can you see it?" were Dastral's first words,
when he sighted it.
"Yes, I see it," came the reply.
Dastral had timed his arrival nicely. Scarcely had they reached the
railway when out of the eastern horizon a trail of white steam,
followed by another and yet another, at intervals of perhaps half a
mile, attracted their attention.
"Look! There they come, Dastral!" cried Fisker, putting down the
glasses and waving his arms frantically to attract the attention of
the other three pilots, and to indicate the target, now rapidly
approaching.
One look in the direction indicated sufficed for Dastral. He made a
sudden dip, then gave one of his rapid spirals, at which he was such
an adept. This movement of the Flight-Commander's machine was the
pre-arranged signal for the rest of the company and meant:
"Enemy approaching from the east. Prepare to engage him."
The movement was answered by each of the following 'planes. The
formation of the flight was altered accordingly, and the machines now
fell into their allotted places ready for descent.
The three trains were soon in full view, and the first one was just
passing the village of Hermies. The trains were of enormous length,
and were crowded with troops. What still puzzled Dastral, however,
was that there appeared to be no escort of aircraft with them. Again
and again, during the approach of the long procession, he had scanned
the heavens all around and above him, for a sight of his most crafty
foe, Himmelman, for, if the British machines had been sighted, there
had been plenty of time for the enemy to bring up his aircraft from
the nearest aerodrome.
Even yet Dastral was very suspicious. He knew Himmelman only too well
already. He was the demon of the air on the western front, and loved
nothing better than to make a dramatic entry into a half-finished
fight. His greatest and most daring method was to climb out of sight,
often up to seventeen thousand feet and more, or better still, to
make an ambush in a dark cloud, then suddenly to swoop down,
hawk-like, upon his opponent, in an almost vertical nose-dive, and to
overwhelm him with a spray of well-directed machine gun fire.
A dozen of the best British pilots had already gone down in a crash
or a forced landing before this demon of the air, and more than once
Dastral himself had encountered him. Before he led his men to the
attack therefore, upon this occasion, he scanned the heavens again
and again in search of his opponent, and actually waited until a tiny
cloud far above had been scattered and pierced, before he gave the
final signal to attack.
At length, fearing to lose his target by longer delay, for the first
train was now abreast of the tiny hamlet of Beaumetz, and nearing the
junction and the bridge-head at Velu, he threw out the signal for the
attack.
A smoke bomb to the right and another to the left: that was the
pre-arranged signal, and then, pulling over the joy-stick, down, down
went Dastral, followed at regular intervals by the three other
'planes.
Down, down with a swoop, through the exhilarating rush of air, they
went. All the engines had been shut off, and the pilots, with one
hand on the joy-stick, and the other on the bomb release, waited
almost breathlessly through those wild, thrilling seconds, while they
fell with ever-gathering impetus, like a stone to the earth. Thus
they went down to what seemed like certain death, while every instant
during that mad dive seemed an age.
"Click! click!" went the little instrument that measured the
altitudes. "Seven, six- five, three thousand feet," it tried to say,
but its voice could not be heard.
At two thousand feet Dastral pushed back the joy-stick, and flattened
out. His comrades did the same, all except Franklin in the last
'plane, who had trouble with his control wires and flattened out only
at five hundred feet. Another five seconds would have dashed him to
death. He was game, however, and though his face blanched, and his
heart stayed its beating for an instant, he was soon climbing again
to rejoin his comrades.
They had been seen now, for the smoke bombs had first given them
away. The commandants of the German communications were hotly engaged
on the telephone wires, reporting to headquarters and to the nearest
aerodromes the presence of the intruders, and demanding that
Himmelman and his comrades should come at once to deal with the
sky-fiends.
The engine-driver of the first train also had seen the danger that
threatened, and, putting on all speed, he tried foolishly to get away
from the air peril. Velu was scarcely a mile distant, and there at
least he could find some protection, if only in the "Archies."
But he was too late. When Dastral flattened out at two thousand feet
he was almost abreast of the train. A neck-and-neck race commenced,
but what chance has a heavily laden troop train, even though it has
three engines, against a Sopwith which can do one hundred and thirty
miles on occasion? It was like a race between a hare and a tortoise.
"Puff-puff-puff! Shriek!" went the train, but the scream of the siren
was drowned in the whirr-r-r of the propellors racing alongside and
just overhead, for the engines had been started again by the pilots
as soon as they flattened out.
It was a matter of seconds now, for Dastral only waited until he had
dropped down to one hundred feet. He was already in line with the
engine, and directly above. Just ahead was the railway bridge, and
the viaduct over the road leading into the village.
"Yes, my beautiful Boche, it's ten to one against you now!" muttered
the Flight-Commander as he raced ahead, amid a spatter of rifle
bullets from the soldiers guarding the bridge.
The engine-driver had seen the danger ahead now. He shut off steam,
and put on his brakes, but the bridge was too near, and Dastral was
already there.
"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m! Crash!"
It was one of the new 112lb. bombs that Dastral dropped; the only one
carried by the flight, who were chiefly armed with 20-pounders for
the occasion. The aeroplane gave a lift and a lurch as the heavy
missile left her, and had it not been for her great speed, the
explosion that immediately followed would have caused her to crash.
Fairly hit in the centre of the track the brick and timber piles and
beams collapsed, and the middle of the structure crumpled up and fell
crashing into the roadway.
The troops, aware of what was happening when they saw the 'planes
overhead, leapt from the doomed train, for no human effort could
prevent the impending disaster now. When the bomb dropped and split
the bridge, the train was but forty yards distant, and the sparks
were flying from her brakes, as from a blacksmith's anvil, but it was
of no avail. With a thunderous roar, followed by a mighty crash, and
the wild hiss of escaping steam she went over the chasm. Carriage
after carriage, crowded with the finest troops of Germany, followed
the engine.
Wild cries of pain and anger, curses and groans filled the air, as
wounded, scalded and half buried men dragged themselves from that
awful scene of carnage and death.
"Gott in Himmel! Donner und blitz! Himmelman, Himmelman, wer ist
Himmelman?" cried many an eye-witness of the terrible tragedy, as
though the German air-fiend were some deity.
The other three 'planes were bombing the long stretch of carriages
which had not leapt the chasm, and the hundreds of fugitives who were
trying to escape from the half-telescoped vehicles, which had not
gone over the precipice. But Dastral, banking swiftly on his machine,
came round, and with another smoke bomb called them off to attack the
other two trains.
Leaving the Bridge of Velu, they wheeled back swiftly, coming once
more into the zone of fire from the anti-aircraft guns. Stopping only
to drop a couple of bombs on the battery 'which had bespattered the
wings of the second machine with shrapnel, they noticed the second
train pulling up quickly, and the soldiers also leaping from the
carriages.
They proceeded to bomb it with the remainder of their 20-lb. bombs.
Then, suddenly, to their amazement the third train, which had not
received sufficient warning to stop on the steep gradient, crashed
into the second, and another scene of wild confusion occurred. The
German soldiers, taken for the most part by surprise, endeavoured to
get away by any and every means from the blazing wreckage, seeking
cover under clumps of trees, hedges, rising ground, etc., but the
airmen, having discharged all their bombs, turned their Lewis machine
guns upon them and scattered the fugitives in all directions.
At last, not a single round of ammunition remained in the drums, and
Dastral, knowing that all the machines had been more or less hit,
gave the signal to return.
It was time, for two at least of the machines had suffered severely,
and it was becoming very doubtful whether they would be able to
regain their own lines. They were of no further use for offence, so
they began their climb into the higher regions, preparatory to the
dash across the enemy's lines once again.
It was well that they did so, for at that very moment Himmelman, with
half a squadron of fast Fokkers, was leaving his own aerodrome but
ten miles distant, having received information of the raiders'
presence. The whole feat had taken place so quickly, however, and the
affair was so adroitly managed, that the intruders had just time to
make their escape.
Not all the aviators, however, succeeded in crossing the German
lines. Franklin's engine was missing so badly that he was unable to
climb above four thousand feet, and when, shortly after, they reached
the battle front, where the Allies and Germany kept their
battle-line, the fusillade of the "Archies" commenced again.
Cras-s-sh came a shell right into his engine, and the machine went
down in a wild spinning nose-dive, just behind the enemy's front line
trench.
Dastral and his comrades gnashed their teeth, as they saw their two
comrades thus hurled to death, but, after all, death is only an
incident in the life of a pilot of the Royal Flying Corps, and who
shall mourn when a hero dies? In these days of blood and iron, when
Britain stands once more at the cross roads, freedom and honour can
only be purchased by the blood of her bravest sons.
That evening the dinner party which was held in the officers' mess at
the aerodrome near Contalmaison, was less joyous and boisterous than
the breakfast held there that same morning. Three of the 'planes of B
flight had come back, it is true, and had brought their pilots and
observers safely home through the ordeal of shot and shell. Every
machine bore evidence of the fight. Scarcely one of them would be fit
to fly again for another week, and the air-mechanics were already
hard at work, fitting new struts and control wires, ailerons, and
petrol tanks, for two at least of the three aeroplanes had barely
held together to the end, so plugged were they with machine gun,
rifle bullets and shrapnel; while Winstone's "old bus" had literally
fallen to pieces on landing, and he had narrowly escaped a crash.
And when the second toast came, and Major Bulford rose to speak, his
glance fell upon the two vacant chairs (for according to custom the
places had been reserved); and his eyes glistened with something
suspiciously like a tear, and there was a strange huskiness about his
voice, as he uttered those words which had been so frequent of late,
"Let us drink to the memory of the brave lads who were with us this
morning, but whose faces we shall never see again!"
So they drank the toast in silence, and then the Squadron-Commander,
having regained his usual voice, added:--
"One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name...!"