Part 4 (1/2)
There was now no obstacle to the long glide. As we went lower, the torn ground showed up plainly. From 2000 feet I could almost count the sh.e.l.l-holes. Two battery positions came into view, and near one of them I saw tracks and could distinguish movements by a few tiny dots. It became evident that, barring accident, we should reach the French zone.
When slightly behind the trenches a confused chatter from below told us that machine-guns were trained on the machine. By way of retaliation, I leaned over and shot at what looked like an emplacement. Then came the Boche front line, ragged and unkempt. I fired along an open trench.
Although far from fearless as a rule, I was not in the least afraid during the eventful glide. My state of intense ”wind up” while the fuselage was burning had apparently exhausted my stock of nervousness. I seemed detached from all idea of danger, and the desolated German trench area might have been a side-show at a fair.
We swept by No Man's Land at a height of 600 feet, crossed the French first- and second-line trenches, and, after pa.s.sing a small ridge, prepared to settle on an uneven plateau covered by high bracken. To avoid landing down wind and down-hill, the pilot banked to the right before he flattened out. The bus pancaked gently to earth, ran over the bracken, and stopped two yards from a group of sh.e.l.l-holes. Not a wire was broken. The propeller had been scored by the bracken, but the landing was responsible for no other damage. Taking into consideration the broken ground, the short s.p.a.ce at our disposal, and the fact that we landed cross-wind, V. had exhibited wonderful skill.
We climbed out, relieved but cantankerous. V., still ignorant of the fire, wanted to know why my gun was silent during our first fight; and I wanted to know why he hadn't shut off the engine and listened when I shouted for the fire extinguisher. Some French gunners ran to meet us.
The sight that met them must have seemed novel, even to a poilu of two and a half years' understanding.
Supposing that the aeroplane had crashed, they came to see if we were dead or injured. What they found was one almost complete aeroplane and two leather-coated figures, who cursed each other heartily as they stood side by side, and performed a certain natural function which is publicly represented in Brussels by a famous little statue.
”Quels types!” said the first Frenchman to arrive.
An examination of the bus revealed a fair crop of bullet holes through the wings and elevator. A large gap in one side of the fuselage, over a longeron that was charred to powder in parts, bore witness to the fire.
Petrol was dripping from the spot where the tank had been perforated. On taking a tin of chocolate from his pocket, V. found it ripped and gaping. He searched the pocket and discovered a bright bullet at the bottom. We traced the adventures of that bullet; it had grazed a strut, cut right through the petrol union, and expended itself on the chocolate tin.
Soon our attention was attracted to several French machines that were pa.s.sing through a barrage of Archie bursts. The bombardment of an aeroplane arouses only the sporting instinct of the average soldier. His interest, though keen, is directed towards the quality of the shooting and the distance of the sh.e.l.ls for their target; his att.i.tude when watching a pigeon-shoot would be much the same. But an airman has experience of what the aeroplane crews must be going through, and his thought is all for them. He knows that dull, loud cough of an Archie sh.e.l.l, the hiss of a flying fragment, the wicked black puffs that creep towards their mark and follow it, no matter where the pilot may swerve.
Should a friendly machine tumble to earth after that rare occurrence, a direct hit, all the sensations of an uncontrolled nose-dive are suggested to his senses. He hears the shriek of the up-rus.h.i.+ng air, feels the helpless terror. It hurts him to know that he is powerless to save a friend from certain death. He cannot even withdraw his eyes from the falling craft. I was glad we had not viewed the disaster while we were in the air, for nothing is more unnerving than to see another machine crumbled up by a direct hit when Archie is firing at yourself.
”Me,” said a French gunner by my side, ”I prefer the artillery.” With which sentiment I have often agreed when dodging Archie, though at every other time I prefer the Flying Corps work to all other kinds of fighting.
V. disappeared to phone the Squadron Commander, and I was left with the crippled bus and the crowd of Frenchmen. The poilus questioned me on subjects ranging from the customary length of a British officer's moustache to the possible length of the war. Yes, we had been hit in a fight with Boche aeroplanes. Yes, there had also been a slight fire on board. Yes, I had great fear at the time. Yes, I would accept a cigarette with pleasure. No, it was untrue that England contained four million civilian _embusques_ of military age. No, the report that officers of the British Flying Corps received fifty francs a day was inaccurate, unfortunately. But no, my good-for-nothing opinion was that we should not finish the Boche within a year; and so on.
”How is it,” said one man in faded uniform, ”that the British always manage to keep themselves correct and shaven?”
”La barbe!” interrupted another; ”the Tommies don't keep clean on the Somme. Even the lilies of the etat-majeur can't.” And he began to quote:
”Si ma fi-fi-fiancee me voyait, Elle m' dirait en me donnant cinq sous: 'Va t' faire raser!' mais moi, j' repondrais Que moi j'ai toujours les memes deux joues.”
V. was away for an hour and a half and when he did return it was to announce that he had been unable to phone because the line was blocked under pressure of important operations. Deciding to report in person, we declined an offer of hospitality from the French officers, but gratefully accepted a guard for the machine, and the loan of a car.
A young lieutenant accompanied us as far as Amiens. There we stopped for supper, and were joined by some civilian friends of our French companion. The _filet de sole au vin blanc_ engendered a feeling of deep content. Now that it was over, I felt pleased with the day's excitement and the contrast it afforded. Three hours beforehand it seemed likely that the evening would see us prisoners. Yet here we were, supping in a comfortable hotel with three charming ladies and the widow Clicquot.
Arrived at the aerodrome, we visited the hut inhabited by the Squadron Commander, who wore pyjamas and a smile of welcome. We were just in time, he said, to rescue our names from the list of missing. Our tale impressed him so much that, after making arrangements for the stranded bus to be brought back by a repair party, he remarked: ”You can both have a rest to-morrow.”
”Welcome home, you rotten night-bird,” said my tent companion, and mentioned in a hurt tone that our flight was booked for the 5 A.M. reconnaissance. But my last thought before sinking into sleep was of the blessed words: ”You can have a rest to-morrow.”
CHAPTER IV.
SPYING OUT THE LAND.
For thirty hours the flight had ”stood by” for a long reconnaissance. We were dragged from bed at 4.30 of dawn, only to return gratefully beneath the blankets three-quarters of an hour later, when a slight but steady rain washed away all chance of an immediate job. The drizzle continued until after sundown, and our only occupations throughout the day were to wade from mess to aerodrome, aerodrome to mess, and to overhaul in detail machines, maps, guns, and consciences.
Next morning again we dressed in the half-light, and again went back to bed in the daylight. This time the show had been postponed because of low clouds and a thick ground-mist that hung over the reeking earth. It was a depressing dawn--clammy, moist, and sticky.
But by early afternoon the mist had congealed, and the sheet of clouds was torn to rags by a strong south-west wind. The four craft detailed for the reconnaissance were therefore lined outside their shed, while their crews waited for flying orders. I was to be in the leading bus, for when C.'s death left vacant the command of A Flight, the good work of my pilot had brought him a flight-commanders.h.i.+p, a three-pipped tunic, and a sense of responsibility which, to my relief, checked his tendency to over-recklessness. He now came from the squadron office with news of a changed course.
”To get the wind behind us,” he explained, ”we shall cross well to the south of Peronne. Next, we go to Boislens. After that we pa.s.s by Nimporte, over the Foret de Charbon to Siegecourt; then up to Le Recul and back by Princebourg, St. Guillaume, and Toutpres.