Part 1 (1/2)
Eastern Nights - and Flights.
by Alan Bott.
PROLOGUE
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLa.s.s
Most of us who were at close grips with the Great War will remember the habit of speculation about life on the far side of the front. Somewhere beyond the frontier of trenches, we realized, were our opposite numbers--infantrymen, gunners, aviators, staff officers, mess orderlies, generals, captains, lance-corporals--each according to character, rank, and duties, and to the position he occupied by reason of ability, courage, initiative, old age, self-advertis.e.m.e.nt, or wire-pulling. We saw them through a gla.s.s, darkly--a gla.s.s that, being partly concave, partly convex, and almost impenetrable throughout, showed us our opposite numbers as distorted reflections of ourselves.
We knew well that a journey through, round, or over this gla.s.s would take us into an unnatural world where we should be negative instead of positive, pa.s.sive instead of active, useless sc.r.a.p-iron instead of working parts of a well-constructed machine. Yet we never considered the possibility of being obliged, in that unreal world, to live a life of impotence. Our companions, now, might have the bad luck to be dragged there; but our sense of normality would not let us reckon with such an unusual happening in our own case.
And then, perhaps, one fine day or night found us isolated in an attack, or shot down in an air fight; and we would be in the topsy-turvy country of captivity. Some of us, who pa.s.sed into this country from the curious East, tumbled head over heels upon adventures fantastic as those of any imaginative explorer of the wonderland Through the Looking Gla.s.s of fancy.
We were a small band of six scout pilots, one monkey-mascot, and a team of Baby Nieuports, hangared in a large meadow that was the nearest aerodrome to the then front in Palestine.
Slightly to the south was the one-time German colony of Sorona, with houses empty but for ugly furniture and ornaments, left behind when the routed Turco-Germans scurried up the coast-line after Allenby's victory at Gaza. A few miles north was the trench-line, a few miles west were row upon row of sand-dunes, a sea of that intense blue which is the secret of the Syrian coast, and the ancient port of Jaffa, misnamed ”The Beautiful.”
The particular task of our detached flight of Nieuports was always to be ready, between dawn and sunrise, to leap into the air at a moment's notice and climb toward whatever enemy aircraft were signalled as approaching from the north. Usually we flew in pairs, for the work was of the tip-and-run variety, and needed, above all things, speed in leaving the ground and speed in climbing; and a larger party would have been slower, because of the exigencies of formation flying.
”A A A four H.A. flying S. toward Mulebbis 10,000 feet A A A,” would be telephoned by an anti-aircraft battery. The bell (made out of a Le Rhone cylinder) would clang, the ”standing by” pilots would fasten caps and goggles as they raced to their buses, the mechanics would swing the propellers into position as the pilots climbed into the c.o.c.kpits, the engines would swell from a murmur to a roar; and, three minutes after the sentinel-operator had scribbled the warning, two Nieuports would be away across the sun-browned gra.s.s and up into the cool air. A climbing turn, at about 100 feet, and they would streak upward, at an angle of 45 degrees, to the air country above Mulebbis. And the next two pilots on the waiting list would come within easy reach of their flying kit.
Even with the fast-climbing Nieuport it was difficult indeed to reach a height of 10,000 to 12,000 feet in time to get to grips with machines which were at that height while we were reading month-old newspapers on solid earth. But practice and cooperation with anti-aircraft gunners, by means of directional shots, enabled us to find the black-crossed trespa.s.sers often enough to inoculate them with a wholesome fear of venturing any distance beyond the lines.
At the period of which I write--March to May, 1918--it was not too much to say that enemy machines in Palestine, even when in superior force, never fought our Bristol Fighters, S.E. 5's, or Nieuports, unless there was no chance of keeping at a safe distance. Once, three of us were able to chase five German scouts and one two-seater for twenty miles over enemy country until they reached their hangars at Jenin, out-dived us because of their heavier weight, and landed without the least pretence of showing fight; while we relieved our feelings by looping the loop over their aerodrome.
Those were pleasant days, in pleasant surroundings. Our tents were pitched in an orange grove, which provided shade from the midday sun, privacy from the midnight pilfering of Bedouins, and loveliness at all times. The fruit had just ripened, and by stretching an arm outside the tent-flap, one could pick full-blooded giant oranges. Pa.s.sing troops bought at the rate of five a penny the best Jaffas, stolen from our enclosure by young imps of Arabs.
In the heat of afternoon the four of us who were not waiting for the next call would mooch through the orange-trees for a siesta; and in the cool of evening we would drive to the sands for a moonlight bathe in the Mediterranean. For the rest, one could always visit Jaffa, where were some friendly nurses, and a Syrian barber who could cut hair quite decently. Apart from these attractions, however, and the mud hovel that may or may not have been the house of Simon the Tanner, Jaffa was just like any other town in the Palestine zone of occupation, with its haphazard medley of Arabs, Jews, and Syrians, all bent on getting rich quick by exploiting that highly exploitable person, the British soldier.
On the evening before my capture I bathed in the company of a German cadet; a circ.u.mstance which I thought unusually novel, not foreseeing that my next bathe would also be in the company of a German, although under very different conditions.
One Offizierstellvertreter Willi Hampel had been shot down and captured, and was in the prisoners' compound at Ludd. It was decided that before forwarding Hampel to Egypt, the best way to milk him of information would be for another aviator to discuss aeronautics on a basis of common interest; and I was detailed for the duty. This rather went against the grain; but Willi knew neither French nor English, and I was the only pilot in the brigade who could speak German, so that there was no alternative. From his cage I motored Willi to lunch in our mess, showed him our machines and our monkey, and even took him to tea with an agreeable compatriot, a beautiful German Jewess who was the landlady of some houses at Ramleh.
The information he let slip was not very illuminating--a few truthful statements about machines, pilots, and aerodromes, and a great many obvious lies. But his opinions on our aviators and machines were interesting. Our pilots were splendid, but too reckless, he thought. As for the machines, the Bristol Fighter was the work of the devil, and to be avoided at all costs; the R.E.8 might safely be attacked unless it were well protected; the British single-seaters were good; but the German Flying Corps regarded the B.E. types as _sehr komisch_.
As Willi was well-behaved and occasionally informative, and as he had been a flying contemporary of mine on the Western front in 1916 and 1917, I took him for a sea-bathe before he went back to his cage, while taking the precaution to swim closely behind him.
Next day the heat was intense, so that I was glad indeed when the arrival of an A.E.G. from the north gave me the chance to climb to the cool levels of 8,000 to 10,000 feet, flying hatless and in s.h.i.+rt-sleeves. The trespa.s.sing two-seater spotted us, and retired before we could reach its height.
But the next turn of my flying partner and me, in the late afternoon, brought us the good fortune of sending a Hun bus to earth--from sheer fright and not out of control, unfortunately--in open country. I was well content on landing, for the atmosphere was cooler and almost pleasant, and my day's work should have been done.
But a pony, a monkey, and mischance conspired to send me beyond the lines for the third time that day, and the last time for many months.
Instead of leaving the aerodrome at once I remained to play with Bohita, the marmoset mascot. Ten minutes later the bell clanged a warning. One of the waiting pilots raced to his machine, and was away; but the other, mounted on an energetic little pony, was chasing a polo ball. The pony, being jerked backward suddenly, reared up and threw its rider. Seeing that he must be hurt, or at any rate shaken, I climbed into his machine and sent word that I would replace him, so that no time should be wasted. It was then about one hour before sunset.
The first Nieuport had a good start, but the pilot was new to the game, and failed to see the white puffs from directional shots fired by the nearest A.A. battery. The last I saw of his bus was as it climbed due east, with the apparent intention of sniffing at a harmless R.E.8 to see if it were a Hun, and without noticing when I continually switch-backed my machine fore and aft, as a signal that a real Hun was near. I therefore left what should have been my companion craft to its own amus.e.m.e.nt, and climbed toward the British anti-aircraft bursts.