There were one hundred of us--fifty on a side--but we turned the
heavens into a hell, up in the air there, more terrible than ten
thousand devils could have made running rampant in the pit.
The sky blazed and crackled with bursting time bombs, and the machine
guns spitted out their steel venom, while underneath us hung what
seemed like a net of fire, where shells from the Archies, vainly trying
to reach us, were bursting.
We had gone out early in the morning, fifty of us, from the Royal
Canadian Flying Corps barracks, back of the lines, when the sun was low
and my courage lower, to bomb the Prussian trenches before the infantry
should attack.
Our machines were stretched out across a flat tableland. Here and there
in little groups the pilots were receiving instructions from their
commander and consulting maps and photographs.
At last we all climbed into our machines. All along the line engines
began to roar and sputter. Here was a 300 horsepower Rolls-Royce, with
a mighty, throbbing voice; over there a $10,000 Larone rotary engine
vieing with the others in making a noise. Then there were the little
fellows humming and spitting the "vipers" or "maggots," as they are
known in the service.
At last the squadron commander took his place in his machine and rose
with a whirr. The rest of us rose and circled round, getting our
formation.
Crack! At the signal from the commander's pistol we darted forward,
going ever higher and higher, while the cheers of the mechanicians and
riggers grew fainter.
Across our own trenches we sailed and out over No Man's Land, like a
huge, eyeless, pock-scarred earth face staring up at us.
There was another signal from the commander. Down we swooped. The bomb
racks rattled as hundreds of bombs were let loose, and a second later
came the crackle of their explosions over the heads of the Boches in
their trenches.
Lower and lower we flew. We skimmed the trenches and sprayed bullets
from our machine guns. The crashing of the weapons drowned the roar of
the engines.
I saw ahead of me a column of flame shoot up from one of our
machines, and I caught a momentary glance at the pilot's face. It was
greenish-ash color. His petrol tank had been hit. I hope the fall
killed him and that he did not burn to death.