CHAPTER XV

A TIGHT CORNER

_Somewhere in France, Friday._

The other day, yesterday afternoon to be exact, a most exciting adventure befell me. I was detailed to take part in a bombing raid at ----. We had not proceeded far beyond our own lines, after the customary bombardment of anti-aircraft shells, when suddenly the machine immediately in front of us rocked violently, and began to dive towards the earth. “B----’s been hit,” my observer bawled into my ear. I continued to watch the machine in its headlong descent. Alas, it was only too true! There was no possible escape: after diving steeply six hundred feet, the machine had begun to spin, and was now whirling round and round like a humming-top, and hardly a minute after, had crashed into the midst of a wood, from which there immediately came up a cloud of gray smoke and a leaping tongue of flame.

We had started out four strong; our mission being to raid M----, a large German military center, containing a staff headquarters, an ammunition park, and a large aerodrome. And now our machine was the sole survivor, two having been shot down when crossing the lines. Alone and single-handed, in a notoriously dangerous portion of the enemy’s lines, every moment we were liable to be fired at from all quarters, and attacked by enemy aircraft.

I looked searchingly at my observer; it was his first trip across the lines, and I had to admit to myself that never before, in my six months of flying at the front, had I been in such a deucedly uncomfortable position. How would he take it? I hesitated. Should we turn back to safety, or should we continue on our way to what was almost certain death? I glanced at his face, it was stern and set, with the deliberation of the man who is willing to risk everything. With his left hand he patted and fondled the deadly machine-gun. I determined to go on.

Then they opened fire on us again. Apparently for the last few minutes they had all deserted their guns and had been busy gaping at the remains of poor B----’s machine; but now, flushed with their recent success, they commenced to fire with demoniacal fury. Shots burst behind, before, above, below: one minute immediately over the nose, the next immediately beneath the tail of the machine. To avoid them we climbed, and dived, and banked in all directions, until her old ribs began to groan and creak from sheer exertion, and she threatened every moment to fly asunder in mid-air. At last we got clear of them, and sighted our objective, just as the sun broke through the clouds, and revealed to us a stretch of low, flat-lying country, dotted here and there with villages and camps and ammunition bases. M---- showed up easily, it was a moderate-sized town of ant-like pigmy dwellings, little white and gray patches in the brilliant sunlight. A small winding river skirted the town, looking for all the world against the dark background like the vein in a man’s arm. North and south ran the gleaming, glinting railway lines, and a large road led up from the town to the firing line. This road was now converged with traffic of all descriptions. We dropped a bomb, but it was very wide of the mark, and it served to draw the enemy’s fire, which again broke out all round us with renewed fury. M---- was better supplied with anti-aircraft guns than any other position on the German front. Higher and yet higher we climbed until we were well above the clouds, and the earth was almost hidden from our sight. By this simple and expedient _ruse de guerre_ we might be able to get over the city before the gunners were aware of our existence. But alas for our well laid plans! We had not gone far when we encountered a great double-engined Albatross, and there, with the white billowy clouds stretching like waves of a gigantic sea in all directions, we fought our battle of life and death. Fritz opened the encounter by sweeping down upon us at top speed, pouring out a steady stream of lead from the machine-gun in the nose of his machine. To avoid this we climbed rapidly, and he flashed by, beneath us, at an alarming rate. We attempted to bomb him, but it was futile, and the bomb fell downwards to the earth below.

We turned as soon as were able, and waited for the enemy to recommence the attack. He was all out now, and putting on top speed bore down upon us with the speed of an express train. Nearer and yet nearer he drew. Thankfully I noticed that we were both at the same altitude. When yet about a quarter of a mile distant, his observer opened fire, the bullets flying all around us in a leaden stream, and still we did not reply. I looked at my observer. He was bending over his gun, fumbling about with some portion of the mechanism. There was no need to ask what was the matter. Alas! I knew too well. The gun had jammed. Now followed a ticklish time for both of us, for without the gun we were completely unarmed, and Fritz was drawing nearer every second. Already I could hear and feel his bullets singing past my head, occasionally chipping portions of the machine. Now he was right level with us. What were we to do? To remain in that same position would mean certain death. If we climbed, he would climb faster, and would almost immediately be up with us again. There was only one thing to be done--the unexpected! So putting her nose-down, we dived towards the earth like a stone, and had gone over a thousand feet before I could get her level again. This maneuver so upset the calculations of the enemy, that he was now about three-quarters of a mile distant. This gave us precious time to prepare again for the attack. The observer was still working feverishly away, when we commenced to climb. Fritz had already turned and was coming down to meet us; but we had the advantage this time of having the wind behind our backs. If only that infernal gun were ready! Up we climbed, and down came Fritz; all the faster because he knew we were comparatively unarmed. Now we were under half a mile distant, now only a quarter, and now he had commenced to fire. Would we never reply? At last! Brrr! Brrr! Brrr! yapped the gun in our bows.

Fritz was so startled at this unexpected development that for a moment he paused in his firing. This was our opportunity; taking steady aim J---- put the whole drum of 47 cartridges into his back in three bursts. He staggered and reeled, he was hit; I felt I wanted to cry out for sheer joy, but my throat was parched and dry. Oh! the reaction after that dreadful ten minutes. But although we had hit him, Fritz was yet by no means out of running, that is if he elected to remain and fight it out, which I doubted extremely; for the Hun is ever super-courageous when he has an unarmed and helpless foe to deal with. So throttling her down I watched him anxiously. Turning to the left he started off at top speed in the direction of his own base. This I had expected, and off we started in his trail with only another half-hour’s petrol in our tanks. On and on he flew, over wood and town, and we were close in the rear, both flying at top speed. Every moment he was getting lower. I knew only too well what that meant. He was trying to lead us into a trap, where we would make a set target for a ring of his anti-aircraft guns. We must never let this happen or we should be finished for a certainty. If we could only catch up with him; but it was in vain we wished, for he was yet a quarter of a mile ahead, when, as usual, the unexpected happened. He had engine trouble. Within five minutes we were almost on top of him. He commenced to sink like a stone. Now was our opportunity, an opportunity which our observer was not slow to take advantage of. Right into the middle of his back flew the steady stream of bullets. Again he reeled, and this time there was that peculiar fluttering of the wings, which tells only too plainly that an aeroplane is “out of control.” Like poor B---- he commenced to whirl round like a humming-top, then with one long last plunge he had crashed into one of his own encampments, and all was over.

We were left to reach our own lines with twenty minutes’ petrol remaining, and under a violent bombardment of the enemy “Archies.”

* * * * *

Again an interesting personal account, told in the words of the pilot participating in a Zepp Strafe:--

The orderly from the telephone room brought the news. Zeppelins had been sighted at ---- and were proceeding in a northerly direction. This meant that they would be overhead at any moment.

A few sharp orders and the station began to throb with life.

Mechanics hurried hither and thither, some to the sheds to get out the machine, others to fetch the bombs and a Véry’s pistol from the armory; yet others to lay out the light flares across the aerodrome in order that upon our return we might perchance be able to define the right landing ground.

Compasses, electric light torches and maps were dragged hurriedly from their hiding-places in lockers. A general bearing was taken of the enemy’s course, and we ran out on to the aerodrome, where a searchlight had already begun to work, sending long, scintillating beams of light across the dark night sky, turning and twisting, first in one quarter, then in another, covering the heavens in the twinkling of an eye, but never disclosing the true object of its search.

At last there is a shout from one of the men by the light. He had discovered the whereabouts of the Zeppelin. Yes! there she is! A long, gray, cigar-shaped object far up in the clouds.

We hurried across to the machine, and while I examined the bombs in the bomb-rack beneath the fuselage (body), and attended to the fitting-in of the Lewis-gun, the pilot tested the engine. And before five minutes had elapsed since the first alarm we were off the ground.

Who can well and truly describe the sensations of night flying? Suddenly one is hurled from the ground into an unbounded space of darkness at the rate of fifty miles an hour. It is like jumping off a cliff on a dark night and plunging on and on, one knows not where. It is impossible to see beyond one’s nose, and the only thing that seems real and natural is the incessantly loud hum of the engine. It is a by no means pleasant task.

Leaving the ground we miss a roof-top by inches, and, feeling considerably shaken, climb rapidly. At first it is dark, pitch dark. We see nothing, we know not where we are. One would lose one’s reason were it not for the hum of the racing engine.

At last there breaks through the long shadows of darkness, beneath us, a long, narrow, winding ribbon of shimmering gray. The young moon has broken through the clouds and the reflection of its light upon the water gives us the position of the river. On either side or moving slowly along the surface are small pin-pricks of colored lights; I switch on my electric light in front of the observer’s seat, glance at the altimeter, and discover that we are already 500 feet up.

The glare of that light, feeble though it be when contrasted with the black darkness of the atmosphere around, has got into my eyes, and for a moment or two I can distinguish absolutely nothing. Then lights begin to make themselves visible.

The street lamps can easily be distinguished; as being darkened at the top the light is concentrated downwards in a circle onto the pavement beneath, which serves the purpose of reflecting it heavenwards and upwards. The main streets can be picked out by the two parallel lines of colored lights; the windows of shops, the lights of which have been covered with red and green shades.

I have another look at the altimeter. Only a thousand, but still climbing steadily. Into a dark bare patch of land far below there comes rushing a flaring, glaring gleam of light, followed by a string of smaller lights. I puzzle out what this strange apparition may be. It is a railway train.

As we mount yet higher we begin to lose all our bearings, and all sight of the earth beneath. A much more beautiful earth when compared with the dull, prosaic everyday affair, looking for all the world like a huge garden decorated with a myriad of multi-colored lights. It is difficult to realize that those few, straggling, irregular rows of lamps encompass seven million living souls; that there far below us sleepily blinking and twinkling is the greatest city of the world.

The altimeter registers 5000 ft. Getting nearer to the Zepp altitude, yet no sign! The anxiety of waiting and suspense is becoming insufferable. Nothing but the incessant throb of the engine. But I have spoken too soon! Out of the darkness and blackness there rushes past, with the speed of an express train, a black unholy shape.

Suddenly there is the most violent cannonade; a sure sign that the anti-aircraft gunners have spotted their quarry. Searchlights from all directions are in a second of time concentrated upon ourselves, while they are endeavoring to get the range. This latter, much to the disgust of the pilot, who, blinded by the glare, banks too steeply, just in time saves her from a nose-dive, and consigns all anti-aircraft gunners to a certain well-known locality possessed of a permanent and extremely warm climate.

We are in luck’s way, however; for presently the guns are all silenced. The searchlights go out one by one. All becomes quiet and dark, dismally dark. We cruise around for another ten minutes or so, then descend cautiously and gradually. With one eye glued to the altimeter, to make certain of the height, I peer over the side with the other to pick up the first sign of lights or landmarks.

Eight thousand feet! Seven thousand feet! Getting horribly cold! Six thousand! Five thousand! Shall we never get down? Four thousand! Three thousand! it seems like an age. Two thousand! One thousand! Cautiously now or our necks will be broken!

At last we are safe back on Mother Earth again, and very thankfully seek the refuge of our beds!