CHAPTER X

THE FIRST TRIP ACROSS THE LINE

_Somewhere in France, Monday._

A most important entry in my little diary, this, the day of my first trip across the “lines.”

And here in the privacy of my thoughts and of my pen let it be said that at first I was troubled with qualms of fear--qualms that I had experienced in the previous life after a stormy Channel crossing, or prior to a visit to my dentist.

As I stood there on the dreary, wind-swept aerodrome in the chilly rays of the early morning sun, forebodings filled my mind. Visions of an awful death in mid-air, and a yet more awful vision of a downward rush of thousands of feet to the ground below. Comforting myself with the reflections that, after all, out of the large number of machines that must daily cross the lines the proportion of those reported missing was extremely small, I was roused from my pessimistic thoughts by the voice of the pilot, who was already in his seat enjoying the luxury of the last few puffs at his “gasper” (cigarette) before testing the engine.

He invited me cordially to “hop in,” and once in to strap myself in securely. With his calm matter-of-fact air, which, incidentally cheered me up considerably, one would have thought that we were about to start for a motor run through Piccadilly and the Park rather than, as he so picturesquely styled it, “to play the part of a clay pigeon atop of a firework show.”

Three heavy-eyed mechanics now appeared upon the scene, and, after having been slanged roundly for their late arrival by our cheery Jehu, the engine was started with an alarming whirr. A few preliminaries and she got well away.

For a few moments we circled round the neighborhood of the aerodrome, to gain height. Then in the first contact with the icy-cold morning breeze I felt thankful that I had taken the sound advice of clothing myself well. I must have looked for all the world like an Eskimo or an Arctic explorer in my wool-lined leather coat and overall trousers, a knitted Balaclava hat or helmet, and over that again a skull-cap, the whole tied down tightly beneath my chin. A huge woolen muffler round my neck and a pair of unsightly goggles completed the picture. I had treated my hands and face with a generous dose of vaseline, which I had been assured would keep out the cold, and which advice I now gratefully acknowledge to be correct.

As we mount higher my perspective extends, and out of the gray mists and the dark shadows land and sea begin to assume their natural form and color. On the former there are now signs of movement; along the roads crawl the ant-like procession of ammunition columns back from their nightly trip to the firing lines. A steaming “Puffing Billy” slowly drags along on a limber, a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) blocking up the whole roadway, which must cause considerable annoyance to the long string of cars and motorbike dispatch riders held up in the rear.

On the roadside, by a wood, a company of infantry are falling in for early parade; they look up at us in a half interested sort of way. Some wave their hats and rifles at us. I wave my hand in reply, but know they cannot see us. We keep on climbing steadily. Out at sea are two French torpedo-boats making up the coast towards ----, and a few small trawlers sailing off in the direction of England. Happy thought!

Every moment we are getting nearer to the dreaded area. In the far distance I can see the red flashes of the rifles, the smoke clouds of the heavy guns, and the long gray lines of winding trenches. I look at my map, to discover that we are passing over a junction of two main roads, one of which is crossed by a railway, while beneath the other runs a narrow stream. It is ----.

Five miles to the firing line. With my glasses I can already pick out several of our own field-artillery emplacements, and a moving up of reinforcements from the rear--I would surmise about two battalions of infantry. I time the observation on my report sheet; also I discover from my wrist compass--my most prized and valued possession--that we are going too much to the north-west and tell the pilot so by means of a written message.

Course changed! What are Headquarters orders for the flight? A reconnaissance over ----, I puzzle out as well as my now fevered brain will allow me, whether reconnaissance will be tactical or strategical, and again whether “line” or “area.” For the benefit of those who may perhaps read my diary I will here endeavor to explain the fine points which divide the two. The former reconnaissance necessitates flying and observing along a line between two given points on the map, these points having already been marked in before leaving the ground. Area reconnaissance, on the other hand, comprises observation of a whole area or district. To do this successfully it is necessary to fly backward and forward several times, thus adding greater risk to the adventure, and taking a great deal longer time to accomplish. Hence they are not undertaken very far away from our own lines, and then only if particular information is required.

Thus far the weather had rendered the trip ideal. But it would be an entirely different matter, I surmised, when we came within reach of the enemy anti-aircraft guns. Already they were getting uncomfortably near. Should we have an easy passage across or should we have to climb up for our lives above the bursting “Archies”?

We were not left long in doubt. Their men must have been up particularly early that morning, for the very first shot came within an ace of blighting two young and promising careers. There was a loud report on the ground below, the familiar “sing” of an approaching shell, which at first interests one, but which in the course of time one gets to dread. Then it seemed for the moment that the whole machine had been blown to atoms. But no! We started to climb hurriedly.

“High explosive,” the pilot bawled in my ear. “Going up higher.”

For the next three minutes my feelings were the reverse of pleasant, and I fervently hoped that other observers did not suffer in the same way. Shells burst above, below, to the right, to the left, and all round us; but never near enough to do us any serious harm, though the bullets of one shrapnel shell certainly did rattle against the wings, piercing them with minute holes in several places, and I felt very thankful for the uncomfortable sandbag on which I sat, which protected me from bursting shells beneath.

As we climbed to a higher altitude the Huns ceased their attentions, and we very soon arrived over the scene of our “line.” My bad attack of “cold feet” now having passed over, I set myself to think seriously upon the precepts drummed into my thick head by the instructor at the training school. “The observer” he was wont to say, “should always try to keep in touch with the military situation, and particularly in the encounter battle, and discover the disposition of our own troops.”

One point I could and did satisfy myself upon--this was no encounter battle. So I ignored our own forces and kept my attention fixed upon ----. Nothing extraordinary met my eye. I saw a camp here and there, and turned my glasses upon them and discovered that they were composed of huts. Hurriedly I counted them, and noted the number in my report, together with the altitude, 12,000 ft. Again the solemn advice of my worthy instructor passed through my brain: “The eyes must constantly turn to each likely spot, and each spot must be examined carefully with the glasses if it offers anything useful for the observer’s report.”

I examined each likely spot, and discovered to my delight a broad grass meadow across which ran several pathways of very recent construction. Footpaths, I argued to myself (and I may possibly have been wrong) are not made across fields for the mere pleasure of constructing them. There is more in this than meets the eye. I signaled to my companion and he quickly grasped the situation, and in long sweeping circles, brought her down some 2000 ft. The lower we came the more distinctly I could make out that some sort of emplacement was being built up--the new emplacement for a 17-inch howitzer. I noted the same.

An excellent morning’s work. We turn to go home. But the enemy has not appreciated our attentions and most unthoughtfully turns his guns upon us.

Then the fun begins. It was bad enough crossing the lines, but child’s-play when compared with this; and besides we are two thousand lower. A perfect inferno of “Archies.” We bank first to one side then to the other; put her nose down for a moment or so, then climb for all we are worth.

But it is no good. We are hit!

Down goes her nose, down and down. The air whistles past our ears. The earth rushes up to meet us. The discs of the machine-gun topple overboard, so steep has the angle become. ---- must have been hit. Yes! there he is, all huddled up over the joy-stick (control-stick). I give up all hope, when suddenly, the machine starts to right herself. I look around, and find that the rush through the air must have brought him to. He is manfully straining every nerve to get her out of the nose-dive. By a superhuman effort he succeeds. We manage to get across the lines unnoticed save by a few infantrymen, who fire futilely at us, and land a bare hundred yards the other side of our own trenches. ---- makes a beautiful landing, pulls her up dead, and promptly faints in his seat. My first trip!