CHAPTER V
A BOMBING RAID
DAWN was just breaking over Devil's Wood and Ginchy. The owls andbats which had flitted over the night-bivouacs had returned to theirhiding places about the battered towers of the old church near by. Asaffron tint flushed the low summit of the eastern ridge, beyondCombles and Ginchy, while thin blue-grey columns of smoke showedwhere the Germans held fast their steel line from the Somme toBapaume.
Scarcely had the stars faded away, however, and disappeared in themorning light, when the little field telephone in the orderlyofficer's tent at the aerodrome near Contalmaison went"Ting-a-ling-ling!"
"Are you there?" came the query over the wire.
"Yes. Who is that?"
"Advanced Headquarters, Section 47, East of Ginchy. Is that the WingH.Q., Royal Flying Corps?"
"Yes. What is the matter, that you ring a poor chap up for thetwentieth time in half an hour?"
"Matter enough, Grenfell, old fellow! Seven aeroplanes have justcrossed our lines from the direction of Morval and Lesboeufs. Theyare flying in your direction, west by west-sou'-west. Can you hearme?"
"Yes, yes, but I say, Ginchy. Hullo! Were they enemy 'planes?"
"Our sentries couldn't make out their nationality; it was too dark.That's why the O.C. wanted me to 'phone you, lest it should beanother raiding party coming to bomb you, as they did the othermorning at dawn. He wants you to take '_Air Raid Action_' at once.Got me, old fellow?"
"All right, Ginchy. We'll be ready for the blighters this time.S'long! Remember me to Crawford when you run across him."
"Can't, old man."
"How so?"
"He got a packet in the knapper this morning, and he's already on hisway to Blighty."
"Lucky beggar! Good-bye!"
"Goodbye."
"Ting-a-ling-ling!"
Thus the brief conversation closed, and within another thirty secondsthe orders had been given for "Air raid action" and every one wasready. The men of "B" Flight, No. -- Squadron under Dastral, werestanding by their machines, and the aerial gunners and observers wereplacing the last drums of ammunition in the cockpit, where they wouldbe ready to hand. Almost immediately afterwards the sentries on dutyat the eastern end of the aerodrome gave the alarm:
"Aeroplanes approaching from the east!" Half a dozen pairs of glassessoon found the machines, and, for a moment, there was a little thrillof excitement, as the anti-aircraft gunners received their orders toload up and fix the range.
"Stand by to start the propellors!" shouted Dastral, theFlight-Commander, to the air mechanics.
"Are all the pilots ready?" came next.
"Yes, sir," replied the Flight-Sergeant.
In another moment the whole flight would have been in the air doing arapid spiral, for the hum of the approaching aeroplane engines couldbe distinctly heard now.
"Whir-r-r! whir-r-r-r!" Nearer and nearer came the well-known soundof the propellors, when suddenly the Squadron-Commander, who had beenintently watching the early morning visitants through his glasses,called out:
"Dismiss, 'B' Flight. It's only Graham's party returning from theirreconnaissance."
There was not a little disappointment at this announcement, for everyone had been looking forward to a scrap before breakfast. The sun,which had just showed his upper edge above the ridge, however,revealed quite distinctly the rounded marks of the Allies on each ofthe 'planes.
Five minutes later the newcomers descended by rapid spirals, and,alighting on the aerodrome, taxied safely almost up to the veryentrance of the sheds, and the pilots and observers alighted toreport what they had discovered.
They had been away two hours, had traversed fifty miles beyond theenemy's lines, and had picked up several night signals by aprearranged code, using the Morse flash and the Klaxon Horn. Thisinformation, which was of the utmost importance, had been collectedfrom some of our most daring intelligence officers, who controlled anetwork of British spies behind the German lines.
"Well done, Graham!" exclaimed the Major commanding the Squadron, ashe grasped the Flight-Commander's hand on alighting. "Did you pick upanything?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then slip off your helmet and heavy coat, and make your report atonce, and--hullo, there, Johnson!"
"Sir," replied the sergeant in charge of the officers' mess,springing smartly to the salute.
"Have breakfast ready in ten minutes in the private mess. Lay coversfor all the pilots."
"Yes, sir," replied Johnson, saluting once more, and clicking hisheels at the "about-turn" he disappeared to introduce a littlethunder amongst the early morning "fatigues" in the cook-house.
A powerful and crafty foe, whose emissaries have never been surpassedin the espionage in the world, prevents me from giving the details ofthe reports brought home that morning by Graham and his pilots. Letit suffice, however, to say that amongst other information collectedbeyond the enemy's front, by a wonderful intelligence system of ourown, it had been discovered in that dark hour before the dawn, by theMorse flash and the Klaxon Horn, that three German troop trains wereto leave Liege that morning at eight o'clock, and, travelling viaMauberge and Cambrai, were to reinforce the hardly pressed Germantroops facing the British soldiers on the Somme.
There was a jovial breakfast party that morning in the officers' messof the --th Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, for in this wonderfulCorps, which, in the short space of two years, has done the seeminglyimpossible, and taken the high jump from an insignificant detachment,and become the most brilliant service under the British flag, thereis an _esprit de jeu_ as well as an _esprit de corps_ unsurpassedeven by that of the Navy, with its centuries of tradition behind it.
"How shall I know a British 'plane, if I meet it suddenly inmid-air?" asked a German pilot once of his Flight-Commander.
"You'll know it because it will attack you!" was the reply.
And never yet has a British pilot, with a single round of ammunitionleft in his drum, turned tail upon the enemy, even though whenoutnumbered three to one. For such a pilot, there would be no room inthe Royal Flying Corps.
So, during breakfast that morning at the aerodrome near Contalmaison,every flight-commander vied with his comrade for the post of honour.Maps and railway routes were carefully consuled, for there were noless than three routes by which the troop trains might arrive at theSomme front.
"Liege--Namur--Mauberge," said the Squadron-Commander, as he bentover the large map, and ran his fingers lightly along the route,whilst the eager youths with the pilot's wings on the left breast oftheir soiled and greasy service tunics listened and waited eagerlyfor their final orders, each hoping in his inmost soul that the routeallotted to him might be the one by which the Huns would arrive.
"Let me see, now. After Mauberge and Cambrai the lines divide. Hum!Why, yes, they must come via Peronne, Velu or Lestree. There now. Areyou ready, boys?" asked the Commander, raising his head for the firsttime for five minutes, and looking keenly into the glowing faces ofthose lads, who, less than three years ago, in most cases, were atMarlborough, Cheltenham or Harrow.
"Aye, ready, sir!" they replied almost in one breath.
"Are you quite sure, Graham, you can manage it? You have already hadtwo hours up there in the dark, you know."
"We could do another four, sir, quite easily," replied the Commanderof "A" Flight, with just a shade of disappointment in his voice, asthough he feared the C.O. might hold him back.
"How are the engines running?"
"Perfectly, sir; never better! They never misfired once, and thereisn't a strut or control wire damaged."
"Right!" exclaimed the Commander laconically, who then rolled up thebig map, touched a bell, and ordered the aerodrome Flight-Sergeant torun out the machines and to let the air mechanics, observers,wireless men and aerial gunners fall in and stand by the 'planes.Then, turning to the three Flight-Commanders he said:
"Graham, you will take 'A' Flight and patrol the Lestree line. You,Dastral, will take charge of 'B' Fl
ight and watch theHavrincourt-Bapaume route, and Wilson there will watch the Peronneloop-line. They may come by any of those three routes. Where theywill detrain I cannot say. It will be for you to discover. Fill upwith the twenty-pound bombs, as they're the handiest, for I expect itwill be more of a bombing raid than anything else. But if the enemyis escorted by Fokkers or Rolands, you must be prepared for a fightin the air as well, and I want each Flight to act independently, butif necessary to co-operate, should Himmelman and his crowd turn up.Smoke signals will be the best, I think. Is that quite clear, boys?"
"Yes, sir. Quite clear," they replied, for they were all in highglee, and regarded it all as nothing more or less than a boyishadventure, though more than one of those brave youths was going forthto his death. And what a death it is to be hit in mid-air by burstingshrapnel, and hurled seven thousand feet to the earth! But such adeath they faced daily without flinching.
"Then fill up your glasses, boys, and I will give you The King! Godbless him!"
And standing up they drank confusion to the King's enemies, and if astranger had been there to note it, he would have seen that many aglass was filled with water, for the continuous demand upon thepilot's nerve and intelligence forbids his frequent use of alcohol.
Soon afterwards, the pilots, observers and gunners were carefullyexamining their machines, guns, fixing bombs, waterproof maps, andarranging every detail with care and skill. A faulty strut or controlwire, a defective bomb release, or a leaking petrol tank might meanfailure or disaster.
At last all was ready, and the final words of command were given tothe air mechanics.
"Stand clear! Away!"
"Good-bye, lads, and good luck!" called the Squadron-Commandercheerfully, though at that very moment he was inwardly cursing hisbad luck at having had his left arm seriously damaged in a recentcrash. For of all things upon earth Major Bulford loved to lead hisbrave lads and to wheel them into action against the enemy squadrons.
"Whir-r-r! Whir-r-r!" went the first propellor, as the air-mechanicwho had started it sprang back to safety. Then, one after another themachines of the three Flights taxied across the level ground of theaerodrome, and sprang into the air at the first movement of theelevator.
"Goodbye!" waved the pilots in answer to the last greeting of theirchief, for the human voice could not carry two feet in that wild roarof propellors and engines, which seemed to make the whole atmospherepulsate with a whirring sound.
After a few rapid spirals a height of two thousand feet was quicklyattained, and then, still climbing, the 'planes, like huge birds ofprey, disappeared for a while behind the British lines as though fora cross-Channel flight to England, in order to confuse the enemyobservers. Then, by a wide sweep at seven thousand feet, the flightsbecame detached, and each, under its own commander, went its own wayby a circuitous route to the appointed station.
Dastral, with the four Sopwiths of "B" Flight, crossed the enemy'slines at nine thousand feet, somewhere between Ligny and Grevillers.As he did so he received his first baptism of fire from "Archie."
White puffs of smoke and fierce red jets of flame seemed to burstnoiselessly around them, for the roar of the propellors drowned orsubdued even the sound of the shrapnel as it exploded. Heedless ofsuch small things, however, Dastral and his brave comrades sailed on,sometimes doing a spiral or a rapid nose-dive, if the enemy appearedto have found the range too closely.
Soon, however, they were ambushed in a friendly cloud, which hid themfrom the Huns far below, and when they had emerged from the clingingmoisture, they were far beyond the enemy's third line trenches, andout into the open, with smiling fields and vineyards beneath them.
"Is that it?" yelled Dastral to his observer, jerking his headsideways, and pointing with his finger to something like a railwaycutting far below.
"Yes. The Bapaume-Havrincourt railway line!" shouted his companionthrough the speaking-tube which ended close to the pilot's ear, foralthough only a few feet away, that was the only possible method ofcommunication without shutting off the engines.
"Good!" nodded the pilot, for, despite the speaking-tube,conversation was chiefly carried on by well understood cabalisticsigns.
A few minutes later Dastral pointed to a cluster of red roofs about alittle church.
"What is that place?"
The observer, with one finger still on the little waterproof map infront of him, shouted back, "Beugny on the left. Haplincourt on theright."
"Yes, yes!" nodded the pilot, edging a little more south-east, asthough the railway were not his objective. In so doing he alarmedFisker, his companion, who feared he had misunderstood him.
"What's the matter?" he shouted. "You're leaving the target. Thebridge-head and the ravine is over there, east-nor'-east. That'swhere the junction is, at Velu."
"Right-o, old man! Glad you're awake. Keep your eyes well skinnedaway to the east for Fokkers and Rolands. This is Himmelman'sfavourite hunting-ground. He'll be down on us from the clouds like athunderbolt, if we're not careful. I want to get up to twelvethousand, and come back on to the junction from the east."
"Oh-ay!" came the laconic rejoinder from Fisker, who quicklyunderstood the manoeuvre. Then, leaving his map for a moment, heswept the horizon for any signs there might be of the enemy's'planes.
So for nearly an hour the machines, playing at "follow-my-leader,"swept round and round, watching and waiting in an altitude where, toput it mildly, it was cold enough to freeze a kettle of boiling waterin ten minutes.
Cold? Yes, it was bitterly cold. Both Dastral and Fisker felt itthrough their thick leather, wool-lined coats.
They patrolled the country behind the German lines, and watched thesmoke curling upwards from a dozen French villages in the enemy'spossession. At length they crossed the loop line near Barastre,skimmed along over Ytres, and the Bois Havrincourt; sailed lightlyacross the silvery streak of the river Exuette, until, beyond thewood and the village they espied the main railway line that threadedits way to Bapaume.
"There it is, Fisker. Can you see it?" were Dastral's first words,when he sighted it.
"Yes, I see it," came the reply.
Dastral had timed his arrival nicely. Scarcely had they reached therailway when out of the eastern horizon a trail of white steam,followed by another and yet another, at intervals of perhaps half amile, attracted their attention.
"Look! There they come, Dastral!" cried Fisker, putting down theglasses and waving his arms frantically to attract the attention ofthe other three pilots, and to indicate the target, now rapidlyapproaching.
One look in the direction indicated sufficed for Dastral. He made asudden dip, then gave one of his rapid spirals, at which he was suchan adept. This movement of the Flight-Commander's machine was thepre-arranged signal for the rest of the company and meant:
"Enemy approaching from the east. Prepare to engage him."
The movement was answered by each of the following 'planes. Theformation of the flight was altered accordingly, and the machines nowfell into their allotted places ready for descent.
The three trains were soon in full view, and the first one was justpassing the village of Hermies. The trains were of enormous length,and were crowded with troops. What still puzzled Dastral, however,was that there appeared to be no escort of aircraft with them. Againand again, during the approach of the long procession, he had scannedthe heavens all around and above him, for a sight of his most craftyfoe, Himmelman, for, if the British machines had been sighted, therehad been plenty of time for the enemy to bring up his aircraft fromthe nearest aerodrome.
Even yet Dastral was very suspicious. He knew Himmelman only too wellalready. He was the demon of the air on the western front, and lovednothing better than to make a dramatic entry into a half-finishedfight. His greatest and most daring method was to climb out of sight,often up to seventeen thousand feet and more, or better still, tomake an ambush in a dark cloud, then suddenly to swoop down,hawk-like, upon his opponent, in an almost vertical nose-dive, and tooverwhelm
him with a spray of well-directed machine gun fire.
A dozen of the best British pilots had already gone down in a crashor a forced landing before this demon of the air, and more than onceDastral himself had encountered him. Before he led his men to theattack therefore, upon this occasion, he scanned the heavens againand again in search of his opponent, and actually waited until a tinycloud far above had been scattered and pierced, before he gave thefinal signal to attack.
At length, fearing to lose his target by longer delay, for the firsttrain was now abreast of the tiny hamlet of Beaumetz, and nearing thejunction and the bridge-head at Velu, he threw out the signal for theattack.
A smoke bomb to the right and another to the left: that was thepre-arranged signal, and then, pulling over the joy-stick, down, downwent Dastral, followed at regular intervals by the three other'planes.
Down, down with a swoop, through the exhilarating rush of air, theywent. All the engines had been shut off, and the pilots, with onehand on the joy-stick, and the other on the bomb release, waitedalmost breathlessly through those wild, thrilling seconds, while theyfell with ever-gathering impetus, like a stone to the earth. Thusthey went down to what seemed like certain death, while every instantduring that mad dive seemed an age.
"Click! click!" went the little instrument that measured thealtitudes. "Seven, six- five, three thousand feet," it tried to say,but its voice could not be heard.
At two thousand feet Dastral pushed back the joy-stick, and flattenedout. His comrades did the same, all except Franklin in the last'plane, who had trouble with his control wires and flattened out onlyat five hundred feet. Another five seconds would have dashed him todeath. He was game, however, and though his face blanched, and hisheart stayed its beating for an instant, he was soon climbing againto rejoin his comrades.
They had been seen now, for the smoke bombs had first given themaway. The commandants of the German communications were hotly engagedon the telephone wires, reporting to headquarters and to the nearestaerodromes the presence of the intruders, and demanding thatHimmelman and his comrades should come at once to deal with thesky-fiends.
The engine-driver of the first train also had seen the danger thatthreatened, and, putting on all speed, he tried foolishly to get awayfrom the air peril. Velu was scarcely a mile distant, and there atleast he could find some protection, if only in the "Archies."
But he was too late. When Dastral flattened out at two thousand feethe was almost abreast of the train. A neck-and-neck race commenced,but what chance has a heavily laden troop train, even though it hasthree engines, against a Sopwith which can do one hundred and thirtymiles on occasion? It was like a race between a hare and a tortoise.
"Puff-puff-puff! Shriek!" went the train, but the scream of the sirenwas drowned in the whirr-r-r of the propellors racing alongside andjust overhead, for the engines had been started again by the pilotsas soon as they flattened out.
It was a matter of seconds now, for Dastral only waited until he haddropped down to one hundred feet. He was already in line with theengine, and directly above. Just ahead was the railway bridge, andthe viaduct over the road leading into the village.
"Yes, my beautiful Boche, it's ten to one against you now!" mutteredthe Flight-Commander as he raced ahead, amid a spatter of riflebullets from the soldiers guarding the bridge.
The engine-driver had seen the danger ahead now. He shut off steam,and put on his brakes, but the bridge was too near, and Dastral wasalready there.
"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m! Crash!"
It was one of the new 112lb. bombs that Dastral dropped; the only onecarried by the flight, who were chiefly armed with 20-pounders forthe occasion. The aeroplane gave a lift and a lurch as the heavymissile left her, and had it not been for her great speed, theexplosion that immediately followed would have caused her to crash.
Fairly hit in the centre of the track the brick and timber piles andbeams collapsed, and the middle of the structure crumpled up and fellcrashing into the roadway.
The troops, aware of what was happening when they saw the 'planesoverhead, leapt from the doomed train, for no human effort couldprevent the impending disaster now. When the bomb dropped and splitthe bridge, the train was but forty yards distant, and the sparkswere flying from her brakes, as from a blacksmith's anvil, but it wasof no avail. With a thunderous roar, followed by a mighty crash, andthe wild hiss of escaping steam she went over the chasm. Carriageafter carriage, crowded with the finest troops of Germany, followedthe engine.
Wild cries of pain and anger, curses and groans filled the air, aswounded, scalded and half buried men dragged themselves from thatawful scene of carnage and death.
"Gott in Himmel! Donner und blitz! Himmelman, Himmelman, wer istHimmelman?" cried many an eye-witness of the terrible tragedy, asthough the German air-fiend were some deity.
The other three 'planes were bombing the long stretch of carriageswhich had not leapt the chasm, and the hundreds of fugitives who weretrying to escape from the half-telescoped vehicles, which had notgone over the precipice. But Dastral, banking swiftly on his machine,came round, and with another smoke bomb called them off to attack theother two trains.
Leaving the Bridge of Velu, they wheeled back swiftly, coming oncemore into the zone of fire from the anti-aircraft guns. Stopping onlyto drop a couple of bombs on the battery 'which had bespattered thewings of the second machine with shrapnel, they noticed the secondtrain pulling up quickly, and the soldiers also leaping from thecarriages.
They proceeded to bomb it with the remainder of their 20-lb. bombs.Then, suddenly, to their amazement the third train, which had notreceived sufficient warning to stop on the steep gradient, crashedinto the second, and another scene of wild confusion occurred. TheGerman soldiers, taken for the most part by surprise, endeavoured toget away by any and every means from the blazing wreckage, seekingcover under clumps of trees, hedges, rising ground, etc., but theairmen, having discharged all their bombs, turned their Lewis machineguns upon them and scattered the fugitives in all directions.
At last, not a single round of ammunition remained in the drums, andDastral, knowing that all the machines had been more or less hit,gave the signal to return.
It was time, for two at least of the machines had suffered severely,and it was becoming very doubtful whether they would be able toregain their own lines. They were of no further use for offence, sothey began their climb into the higher regions, preparatory to thedash across the enemy's lines once again.
It was well that they did so, for at that very moment Himmelman, withhalf a squadron of fast Fokkers, was leaving his own aerodrome butten miles distant, having received information of the raiders'presence. The whole feat had taken place so quickly, however, and theaffair was so adroitly managed, that the intruders had just time tomake their escape.
Not all the aviators, however, succeeded in crossing the Germanlines. Franklin's engine was missing so badly that he was unable toclimb above four thousand feet, and when, shortly after, they reachedthe battle front, where the Allies and Germany kept theirbattle-line, the fusillade of the "Archies" commenced again.Cras-s-sh came a shell right into his engine, and the machine wentdown in a wild spinning nose-dive, just behind the enemy's front linetrench.
Dastral and his comrades gnashed their teeth, as they saw their twocomrades thus hurled to death, but, after all, death is only anincident in the life of a pilot of the Royal Flying Corps, and whoshall mourn when a hero dies? In these days of blood and iron, whenBritain stands once more at the cross roads, freedom and honour canonly be purchased by the blood of her bravest sons.
That evening the dinner party which was held in the officers' mess atthe aerodrome near Contalmaison, was less joyous and boisterous thanthe breakfast held there that same morning. Three of the 'planes of Bflight had come back, it is true, and had brought their pilots andobservers safely home through the ordeal of shot and shell. Everymachine bore evidence of the fight. Scarcely one of them would be fitto fly again for another week, and the
air-mechanics were alreadyhard at work, fitting new struts and control wires, ailerons, andpetrol tanks, for two at least of the three aeroplanes had barelyheld together to the end, so plugged were they with machine gun,rifle bullets and shrapnel; while Winstone's "old bus" had literallyfallen to pieces on landing, and he had narrowly escaped a crash.
And when the second toast came, and Major Bulford rose to speak, hisglance fell upon the two vacant chairs (for according to custom theplaces had been reserved); and his eyes glistened with somethingsuspiciously like a tear, and there was a strange huskiness about hisvoice, as he uttered those words which had been so frequent of late,
"Let us drink to the memory of the brave lads who were with us thismorning, but whose faces we shall never see again!"
So they drank the toast in silence, and then the Squadron-Commander,having regained his usual voice, added:--
"One crowded hour of glorious life, Is worth an age without a name...!"
Dastral of the Flying Corps Page 5
