Away in the distance a number of specks had risen, like vultures
scenting the carrion that had already been made. It was a German
squadron. The Archies had not bothered us much while we were spraying
the Prussian trenches, but now we had that other squadron to take care
of. Our orders were to bomb the trenches. We could not spare a bomb
or a cartridge from the task of putting the fear of Britain into the
hearts of the infantry below before our own "Tommies" should start over
the top.
I don't know what it was, but suddenly, just after my partner had let
go a rack of bombs, there was a terrific explosion just beneath us. My
machine leaped upward, twisted, then dropped suddenly. Death himself
was trying to wrench the control levers from my grip, but I clung to
them madly and we righted. A few inches more and I couldn't have told
you about this.
There was no longer any chance to worry about flying position. There
were too many things occupying my attention--that line of gray down
there that we were trying to erase and the Boche squadron thrumming
down on us.
One drum of our ammunition was already used up. My partner whirled
around on his stool--a sort of piano stool, which always made me think
of the tuneless, tinpanny instrument back in quarters--grabbed another
drum and slammed it into the machine gun. It was to be a parting
message for the Prussians, for the commander was just signalling to
retire.
My partner lurched forward. He was hit. A thin red stream trickled down
his face.
I raced westward, the air whistling through the bullet holes in the
wings of the machine and my partner leaning against the empty bomb
rack, silent.
As we sailed over the foremost Prussian trench some Scotch were just
leaping into it. The "ladies from hell" the Germans call them, because
of their kilts.
Several machines had landed before I took the ground. Ambulances were
dashing back and forth across the flying field.
They lifted my partner out of the aeroplane, but they did not put him
into an ambulance. He had answered another recall. I walked to quarters
ill--ill at heart, at stomach, at mind. I'll never know a better pal
than was Tom.
On the way I managed to help with a machine that had just landed. A big
Rolls-Royce it was, and the radiator had been hit by a bit of shrapnel.
The pilot and observer were both terribly scalded.
Just by the aerodrome another biplane fluttered down. The observer
was dead. The pilot was hit in a dozen places. Somehow he brought the
machine in, switched off his engine and slopped forward in his seat,
stone dead.
Ten minutes later I was sound asleep. The next day we were at it again.
In battles of this kind it is more or less a matter of good fortune if
you escape with your life. Flying ability and trickiness can play but
little part. It is in the lone adventure that stunt flying helps.