Clouds, say the text-books of meteorology, are collections of partly condensed water vapour or of fine ice crystals. Clouds, mentioned in terms of the newspaper and the club, are dingy masses of nebulousness under which the dubious politician, company promoter, or other merchant of hot air is hidden from open attack and exposure. Clouds, to the flying officer on active service, are either useful friends or unstrafeable enemies. The hostile clouds are very high and of the ice-crystal variety. They form a light background, against which aeroplanes are boldly silhouetted, to the great advantage of anti-aircraft gunners. The friendly or water-vapour clouds are to be found several thousands of feet lower. If a pilot be above them they help him to dodge writs for trespass, which Archibald the bailiff seeks to hand him. When numerous enough to make attempts at observation ineffective, theyperform an even greater service for him—that of arranging for a day's holiday. And at times the R.F.C. pilot, like the man with a murky past, is constrained to have clouds for a covering against attack; as you shall see if you will accompany me on the trip about to be described.
The period is the latter half of September, 1916, a time of great doings on the Somme front. After a few weeks of comparative inaction—if methodical consolidation and intense artillery preparation can be called inaction—the British are once more denting the Boche line. Flers, Martinpuich, Courcelette, and Eaucourt l'Abbaye have fallen within the past week, and the tanks have made their first ungainly bow before the curtain of war, with the superlatives of the war correspondent in close attendance. Leave from France has been cancelled indefinitely.
Our orders are to carry through all the reconnaissance work allotted to us, even though weather conditions place such duties near the border-line of possibleaccomplishment. That is why we now propose to leave the aerodrome, despite a great lake of cloud that only allows the sky to be seen through rare gaps, and a sixty-mile wind that will fight us on the outward journey. Under these circumstances we shall probably find no friendly craft east of the trenches, and, as a consequence, whatever Hun machines are in the air will be free to deal with our party. However, since six machines are detailed for the job, I console myself with the old tag about safety in numbers.
We rise to a height of 3000 feet, and rendezvous there. From the flight-commander's bus I look back to see how the formation is shaping, and discover that we number but five, one machine having failed to start by reason of a dud engine. We circle the aerodrome, waiting for a sixth bus, but nobody is sent to join us. The "Carry on" signal shows up from the ground, and we head eastward.
After climbing another fifteen hundred feet, we enter the clouds. It is now impossible to see more than a yard or two through the intangible wisps of grey-white vapour thatseem to float around us, so that our formation loses its symmetry, and we become scattered. Arrived in the clear atmosphere above the clouds my pilot throttles down until the rear machines have appeared and re-formed. We then continue in the direction of the trenches, with deep blue infinity above and the unwieldy cloud-banks below. Familiar landmarks show up from time to time through holes in the white screen.
Against the violent wind, far stronger than we found it near the ground, we make laboured progress. Evidently, two of the formation are in difficulties, for they drop farther and farther behind. Soon one gives in and turns back, the pilot being unable to maintain pressure for his petrol supply. I shout the news through the speaking-tube, and hear, in reply from the flight-commander, a muffled comment, which might be "Well!" but it is more likely to be something else. Three minutes later the second bus in trouble turns tail. Its engine has been missing on one cylinder since the start, and is not in a fit state for a trip over enemy country. Again I call to the leader, and again hear a wordending in "ell." The two remaining machines close up, and we continue. Very suddenly one of them drops out, with a rocker-arm gone. Its nose goes down, and it glides into the clouds. Yet again I call the flight-commander's attention to our dwindling numbers, and this time I cannot mistake the single-syllabled reply. It is a full-throated "Hell!"
For my part I compare the party to the ten little nigger boys, and wonder when the only survivor, apart from our own machine, will leave. I look towards it anxiously. The wings on one side are much lighter than those on the other, and I therefore recognise it as the Tripehound's bus. There is ground for misgiving, for on several occasions during the past ten minutes it has seemed to fly in an erratic manner. The cause of this, as we find out on our return, is that for five minutes the Tripehound has been leaning over the side, with the joystick held between his knees while attempting to fasten a small door in the cowling round the engine, left open by a careless mechanic. It is important to shut the opening, as otherwise the wind mayrush inside and tear off the cowling. Just as a short band of the trench line south of Arras can be seen through a gap, the Tripehound, having found that he cannot possibly reach far enough to close the protruding door, signals that he must go home.
I do not feel altogether sorry to see our last companion leave, as we have often been told not to cross the lines on a reconnaissance flight with less than three machines; and with the wind and the low clouds, which now form an opaque window, perforated here and there by small holes, a long observation journey over Bocheland by a single aeroplane does not seem worth while. But the flight-commander, remembering the recent order about completing a reconnaissance at all costs, thinks differently and decides to go on. To get our bearings he holds down the nose of the machine until we have descended beneath the clouds, and into full view of the open country.
We find ourselves a mile or two beyond Arras. As soon as the bus appears it is bracketed in front, behind, and on both sides by black shell-bursts. We swerve aside, butmore shells quickly follow. The shooting is particularly good, for the Archie people have the exact range of the low clouds slightly above us. Three times we hear the hiss of flying fragments of high explosive, and the lower left plane is unevenly punctured. We lose height for a second to gather speed, and then, to my relief, the pilot zooms up to a cloud. Although the gunners can no longer see their target, they loose off a few more rounds and trust to luck that a stray shell may find us. These bursts are mostly far wide of the mark, although two of them make ugly black blotches against the whiteness of the vapour through which we are rising.
Once more we emerge into the open space between sky and cloud. The flight-commander takes the mouthpiece of his telephone tube and shouts to me that he intends completing the round above the clouds. To let me search for railway and other traffic he will descend into view of the ground at the most important points. He now sets a compass course for Toutprès, the first large town of the reconnaissance, while I search allaround for possible enemies. At present the sky is clear, but at any minute enemy police craft may appear from the unbroken blue or rise through the clouds.
The slowness of our ground speed, due to the fierce wind, allows me plenty of time to admire the strangely beautiful surroundings. Above is the inverted bowl of blue, bright for the most part, but duller towards the horizon-rim. The sun pours down a vivid light, which spreads quicksilver iridescence over the cloud-tops. Below is the cloud-scape, fantastic and far-stretching. The shadow of our machine is surrounded by a halo of sunshine as it darts along the irregular white surface. The clouds dip, climb, twist, and flatten into every conceivable shape. Thrown together as they never could be on solid earth are outlines of the wildest and tamest features of a world unspoiled by battlefield, brick towns, ruins, or other ulcers on the face of nature. Jagged mountains, forests, dainty hills, waterfalls, heavy seas, plateaux, precipices, quiet lakes, rolling plains, caverns, chasms, and dead deserts merge into one another, all in a uniform white, as thoughwrapped in cotton wool and laid out for inspection in haphazard continuity. And yet, for all its mad irregularity, the cloud-scape from above is perfectly harmonious and never tiring. One wants to land on the clean surface and explore the jungled continent. Sometimes, when passing a high projection, the impulse comes to lean over and grab a handful of the fleecy covering.
After being shut off from the ground for a quarter of an hour, we are able to look down through a large chasm. Two parallel canals cut across it, and these we take to be part of the canal junction below Toutprès. This agrees with our estimate of speed, wind, and time, according to which we should be near the town. The pilot takes the machine through the clouds, and we descend a few hundred feet below them.
To disconcert Archie we travel in zigzags, while I search for items of interest. A train is moving south, and another is entering Toutprès from the east. A few barges are dotted among the various canals. Bordering a wood to the west is an aerodrome. About a dozen aeroplanes are in line on the ground,but the air above it is empty of Boche craft.
Evidently the Huns below had not expected a visit from hostile machines on such a day, for Archie allows several minutes to pass before introducing himself. A black puff then appears on our level some distance ahead. We change direction, but the gunners find our new position and send bursts all round the bus. The singlewouffof the first shot has become a jerky chorus that swells or dwindles according to the number of shells and their nearness.
I signal to the flight-commander that I have finished with Toutprès, whereupon we climb into the clouds and comparative safety. We rise above the white intangibility and steer north-east, in the direction of Passementerie. I continue to look for possible aggressors. The necessity for a careful look-out is shown when a group of black specks appears away to the south, some fifteen hundred feet above us. In this area and under to-day's weather conditions, the odds are a hundred to one that they will prove to be Boches.
We lose height until our bus is on thefringe of the clouds and ready to escape out of sight. Apparently the newcomers do not spot us in the first place, for they are flying transverse to our line of flight. A few minutes later they make the discovery, turn in our direction, and begin a concerted dive. All this while I have kept my field-glasses trained on them, and as one machine turns I can see the Maltese crosses painted on the wings. The question of the strangers' nationality being answered, we slip into a cloud to avoid attack.
The flight-commander thinks it advisable to remain hidden by keeping inside the clouds. He must therefore steer entirely by compass, without sun or landmark to guide him. As we leave the clear air a left movement of the rudder, without corresponding bank, swings the machine to the north, so that its nose points away from the desired course. The pilot puts on a fraction of right rudder to counteract the deviation. We veer eastward, but rather too much, if the swaying needle of the compass is to be believed. A little left rudder again puts the needle into an anti-clockwise motion. With hisattention concentrated on our direction, the pilot, impatient at waiting for the needle to become steady, unconsciously kicks the rudder-controls, first to one side, then to the other. The needle begins to swing around, and the compass is thus rendered useless for the time being. For the next minute or two, until it is safe to leave the clouds, the pilot must now keep the machine straight by instinct, and trust to his sense of direction.
A similar mishap often happens when flying through cloud. Pilots have been known to declare that all compasses are liable to swing of their own accord when in clouds, though the real explanation is probably that they themselves have disturbed the needle unduly by a continuous pressure on each side of the rudder-bar in turn, thus causing an oscillation of the rudder and a consequent zigzagged line of flight. The trouble is more serious than it would seem to the layman, as when the compass is out of action, and no other guides are available, one tends to drift round in a large circle, like a man lost in the jungle. Should the craft be driven by a rotary engine, the torque, or outwardwash from the propeller, may make a machine edge more and more to the left, unless the pilot is careful to allow for this tendency.
Such a drift to the left has taken us well to the north of a straight line between Toutprès and Passementerie, as we discover on leaving the clouds for a second or two, so as to correct the error with the aid of landmarks. But the compass has again settled down to good behaviour, and we are able to get a true course before we climb back to the sheltering whiteness.
A flight inside the clouds is far from pleasant. We are hemmed in by a drifting formlessness that looks like thin steam, but, unlike steam, imparts a sensation of coldness and clamminess. The eye cannot penetrate farther than about a yard beyond the wing tips. Nothing is to be seen but the aeroplane, nothing is to be heard but the droning hum of the engine, which seems louder than ever amid the isolation.
I am bored, cold, and uncomfortable. Time drags along lamely; five minutes masquerade as half an hour, and only by repeated glances at the watch do I convince myself that wecannot yet have reached the next objective. I study the map for no particular reason except that it is something to do. Then I decide that the Lewis gun ought to be fired as a test whether the working parts are still in good order. I hold the spade-grip, swing round the circular mounting until the gun points to the side, and loose five rounds into the unpleasant vapour. The flight-commander, startled at the sudden clatter, turns round. Finding that the fire was mine and not an enemy's, he shakes his fist as a protest against the sudden disturbance. Even this action is welcome, as being evidence of companionship.
When the pilot, judging that Passementerie should be below, takes the machine under the clouds, I feel an immense relief, even though the exit is certain to make us a target for Archie. We emerge slightly to the west of the town. There is little to be observed; the railways are bare of trains, and the station contains only an average number of trucks. Four black-crossed aeroplanes are flying over their aerodrome at a height of some two thousand feet. Three ofthem begin to climb, perhaps in an attempt to intercept us. However, our bus has plenty of time to disappear, and this we do quickly—so quickly that the A.-A. batteries have only worried us to the extent of half a dozen shells, all wide of the mark.
We rise right through the white screen into full view of the sun. Apparently the sky is clear of intruders, so we turn for three-quarters of a circle and head for Plusprès, the third point of call. The wind now being behind the machine in a diagonal direction, our speed in relation to the ground is twice the speed of the outward half of the journey. The sun is pleasantly warming, and I look towards it gratefully. A few small marks, which may or may not be sun-spots, flicker across its face. To get an easier view I draw my goggles, the smoke-tinted glasses of which allow me to look at the glare without blinking. In a few seconds I am able to recognise the spots as distant aeroplanes moving in our direction. Probably they are the formation that we encountered on the way to Passementerie. Their object in keeping between us and the sun is to remainunobserved with the help of the blinding stream of light, which throws a haze around them. I call the pilot's attention to the scouts, and yet again we fade into the clouds. This time, with the sixty-mile wind as our friend, there is no need to remain hidden for long. Quite soon we shall have to descend to look at Plusprès, the most dangerous point on the round.
When we take another look at earth I find that the pilot has been exact in timing our arrival at the important Boche base—too exact, indeed, for we find ourselves directly over the centre of the town. Only somebody who has been Archied from Plusprès can realise what it means to fly right over the stronghold at four thousand feet. The advanced lines of communication that stretch westward to the Arras-Péronne front all hinge on Plusprès, and for this reason it often shows activity of interest to the aeroplane observer and his masters. The Germans are therefore highly annoyed when British aircraft arrive on a tour of inspection. To voice their indignation they have concentrated many anti-aircraft guns around thetown. What is worse, the Archie fire at Plusprès is more accurate than at any other point away from the actual front, as witness the close bracket formed by the sighting shots that greet our solitary bus.
From a hasty glance at the station and railway lines, while we slip away to another level, I gather that many trains and much rolling stock are to be bagged. The work will have to be done under serious difficulties in the shape of beastly black bursts and the repeated changes of direction necessary to dodge them. We bank sharply, side-slip, lose height, regain it, and perform other erratic evolutions likely to spoil the gunners' aim; but the area is so closely sprinkled by shells that, to whatever point the machine swerves, we always hear the menacing report of bursting H.E.
It is no easy matter to observe accurately while in my present condition of "wind up," created by the coughing of Archie. I lean over to count the stationary trucks in the sidings. "Wouff,wouff,wouff," interrupts Archie from a spot deafeningly near; and I withdraw into "the office," otherwise theobserver's cockpit. Follows a short lull, during which I make another attempt to count the abnormal amount of rolling stock. "Wouff—Hs—sss!" shrieks another shell, as it throws a large H.E. splinter past our tail. Again I put my head in the office. I write down an approximate estimate of the number of trucks, and no longer attempt to sort them out, so many to a potential train. A hunt over the railway system reveals no fewer than twelve trains. These I pencil-point on my map, as far as I am able to locate them.
A massed collection of vehicles remain stationary in what must be either a large square or the market-place. I attempt to count them, but am stopped by a report louder than any of the preceding ones. Next instant I find myself pressed tightly against the seat. The whole of the machine is lifted about a hundred feet by the compression from a shell that has exploded a few yards beneath our undercarriage. I begin to wonder whether all our troubles have been swept away by a direct hit; but an examination of the machine shows no damage beyond a couple of rents in the fabric of the fuselage.That finishes my observation work for the moment. Not with a court-martial as the only alternative could I carry on the job until we have left Archie's inferno of frightfulness. The flight-commander is of the same mind, and we nose into the clouds, pursued to the last by the insistent smoke-puffs.
When the bus is once again flying between sky and cloud, we begin to feel more at home. No other craft come within range of vision, so that without interruption we reach Aucoin, the fourth railway junction to be spied upon. The rolling stock there is scarcely enough for two train-loads, and no active trains can be spotted. We hover above the town for a minute, and then leave for Boislens.
The machine now points westward and homeward, and thus has the full benefit of the wind, which accelerates our ground speed to about a hundred and fifty miles an hour. The gods take it into their heads to be kind, for we are not obliged to descend through the clouds over Boislens, as the region can be seen plainly through a gap large enoughto let me count the R.S. and note that a train, with steam up, stands in the station.
As Boislens is the last town mentioned by the H.Q. people who mapped out the reconnaissance, the job is all but completed. Yet twelve miles still separate us from the nearest bend of the trench line, and a twelve-mile area contains plenty of room for a fight. Since the open atmosphere shows no warning of an attack, I look closely toward the sun—for a fast scout will often try to surprise a two-seater by approaching between its quarry and the sun.
At first I am conscious of nothing but a strong glare; but when my goggled eyes become accustomed to the brightness, I see, or imagine I see, an indistinct oblong object surrounded by haze. I turn away for a second to avoid the oppressive light. On seeking the sun again I find the faint oblong more pronounced. For one instant it deviates from the straight line between our bus and the sun, and I then recognise it as an aeroplane. I also discover that a second machine is hovering two thousand feet above the first.
The chief hobby of the flight-commander is to seek a scrap. Immediately I make known to him the presence of hostile craft he tests his gun in readiness for a fight. Knowing by experience that if he starts manœuvring round a Hun he will not break away while there is the slightest chance of a victory, I remind him, by means of a note-book leaf, that since our job is a reconnaissance, the R.F.C. law is to return quickly with our more or less valuable information, and to abstain from such luxuries as unnecessary fights, unless a chance can be seized over British ground. Although he does not seem too pleased at the reminder he puts down the nose of the machine, so as to cross the lines in the shortest possible time.
The first Hun scout continues the dive to within three hundred yards, at which range I fire a few short bursts, by way of an announcement to the Boche that we are ready for him and protected from the rear. He flattens out and sits behind our tail at a respectful distance, until the second scout has joined him. The two separate and prepare to swoop down one from each side.
But we are now passing the trenches, and just as one of our attackers begins to dive, a formation of de Havilands (British pusher scouts) arrives to investigate. The second Boche plants himself between us and the newcomers, while his companion continues to near until he is a hundred and fifty yards from us. At this range I rattle through the rest of the ammunition drum, and the Hun swerves aside. We now recognise the machine as an Albatross scout or "German spad," a most successful type that only entered the lists a fortnight beforehand. Finding that they have to reckon with five de Havilands, the two Huns turn sharply and race eastward, their superior speed saving them from pursuit.
We pass through the clouds for the last time on the trip, and fly home very soberly, while I piece together my hurried notes. The Squadron Commander meets us in the aerodrome with congratulations and a desire for information.
"Seen anything?" he asks.
"Fourteen trains and some M.T.," I reply.
"And a few thousand clouds," adds the flight-commander.
By the time I have returned from the delivery of my report at G.H.Q., the wing office has sent orders that we are to receive a mild censure for carrying out a reconnaissance with only one machine. The Squadron Commander grins as he delivers the reproof, so that we do not feel altogether crushed.
"Don't do it again," he concludes.
As we have not the least desire to do it again, the order is likely to be obeyed.
As a highly irresponsible prophet I am convinced that towards the end of the war hostilities in the air will become as decisive as hostilities on land or sea. An obvious corollary is that the how and when of peace's coming must be greatly influenced by the respective progress, during the next two years, of the belligerents' flying services.
This view is far less fantastic than the whirlwind development of war-flying witnessed by all of us since 1914. Indeed, to anybody with a little imagination and some knowledge of what is in preparation among the designers and inventors of various countries, that statement would seem more self-evident than extreme. Even the average spectator of aeronautical advance in the past three years must see that if anything like the same rate of growth be maintained, by the end of 1918 aircraft numbered in tens of thousands and with extraordinarycapacities for speed, climb, and attack will make life a burden to ground troops, compromise lines of communication, cause repeated havoc to factories and strongholds, and promote loss of balance among whatever civilian populations come within range of their activity.
To emphasise the startling nature of aeronautical expansion—past, present, and future—let us trace briefly the progress of the British Flying Corps from pre-war conditions to their present state of high efficiency. When the Haldane-Asquith brotherhood were caught napping, the Flying Corps possessed a seventy odd (very odd) aeroplanes, engined by the unreliable Gnome and the low-powered Renault. Fortunately it also possessed some very able officers, and these succeeded at the outset in making good use of doubtful material. One result of the necessary reconstruction was that a large section of the original corps seceded to the Navy and the remainder came under direct control of the Army. The Royal Naval Air Service began to specialise in bomb raids, while the Royal Flying Corps (Military Wing) sent whatever machines it could lay hands on to join theold contemptibles in France. Both services proceeded to increase in size and importance at break-neck speed.
The rapid expansion of the R.N.A.S. allowed for a heavy surplus of men and machines beyond the supply necessary for the purely naval branch of the service. From this force a number of squadrons went to the Dardanelles, Africa, the Tigris, and other subsidiary theatres of war; and an important base was established at Dunkirk, whence countless air attacks were made on all military centres in Belgium. Many more R.N.A.S. squadrons, well provided with trained pilots and good machines, patrolled the East Coast while waiting for an opportunity of active service. This came early in 1917, when, under the wise supervision of the Air Board, the section of the Naval Air Service not concerned with naval matters was brought into close touch with the Royal Flying Corps, after it had pursued a lone trail for two years. The Flying Corps units on the Western Front and elsewhere are now splendidly backed by help from the sister service. For the present purpose, therefore,the military efforts of the R.N.A.S. can be included with those of the R.F.C., after a tribute has been paid to the bombing offensives for which the Naval Air Service has always been famous, from early exploits with distant objectives such as Cuxhaven and Friedrichshafen to this year's successful attacks on German munition works, in conjunction with the French, and the countless trips from Dunkirk that are making the Zeebrugge-Ostend-Bruges sector such an unhappy home-from-home for U-boats, destroyers, and raiding aircraft. Meanwhile the seaplane branch, about which little is heard, has reached a high level of efficiency. When the screen of secrecy is withdrawn from the North Sea, we shall hear very excellent stories of what the seaplanes have accomplished lately in the way of scouting, chasing the Zeppelin, and hunting the U-boat.
But from the nature of its purpose, the R.F.C. has borne the major part of our aerial burden during the war. In doing so, it has grown from a tiny band of enthusiasts and experimentalists to a great service which can challenge comparison with any otherbranch of the Army. The history of this attainment is intensely interesting.
The few dozen airmen who accompanied the contemptible little army on the retreat from Mons had no precedents from other campaigns to guide them, and the somewhat vague dictum that their function was to gather information had to be interpreted by pioneer methods. These were satisfactory under the then conditions of warfare, inasmuch as valuable information certainly was gathered during the retreat, when a blind move would have meant disaster,—how valuable only the chiefs of the hard-pressed force can say. This involved more than the average difficulties, for as the battle swayed back towards Paris new landing-grounds had to be sought, and temporary aerodromes improvised every few days. The small collection of serviceable aeroplanes again justified themselves at the decisive stand in the Marne and Ourcq basin, where immediate reports of enemy concentrations were essential to victory. Again, after the Hun had been swept across the Aisne and was stretching north-eastward tentaclesto clutch as much of the coast as was consonant with an unbroken line, the aerial spying out of the succeeding phases of retirement was of great service. Indeed, tentative though it was, the work of the British, French, and German machines before the advent of trench warfare proved how greatly air reconnaissance would alter the whole perspective of an open country campaign.
After the long barrier of trenches deadlocked the chances of extended movement and opened the dreary months of more or less stationary warfare, the R.F.C. organisation in France had time and space for self-development. Aerodromes were selected and erected, the older and less satisfactory types of machine were replaced by the stable B.E2.C., the active service squadrons were reconstructed and multiplied.
To the observation of what happened behind the actual front was added the mapping of the enemy's intricate trench-mosaic. For a month or two this was accomplished by the methodical sketches of a few observers. It was an exceedingly difficult task to trace every trench and sap and to pattern thenetwork from a height of about 2000 feet, but the infantry found small ground for dissatisfaction as regards the accuracy or completeness of the observers' drawings. Then came the introduction of aerial photography on a large scale, and with it a complete bird's-eye plan of all enemy defence works, pieced together from a series of overhead snapshots that reproduced the complete trench-line, even to such details as barbed wire. By the infallible revelations of the camera, untricked by camouflage, concealed gun positions were spotted for the benefit of our artillery, and highly useful information about likely objectives was provided for the bombing craft.
The frequent bombing of German supply centres in Belgium and North France came into being with the development of aerial photography. Owing to the difficulty of correct aim, before the advent of modern bomb-sights, all the early raids were carried out from a low altitude, sometimes from only a few hundred feet. For every purpose, moreover, low altitudes were the rule in the earlier months of the war, as most of the machineswould not climb above 4000-7000 feet. Much of the observation was performed at something between 1000 and 2000 feet, so that aircraft often returned with a hundred or so bullet-holes in them.
Meanwhile the important work of artillery spotting was being developed. New systems of co-operation between artillery and aeroplanes were devised, tested, and improved. At first lamps or Very's lights were used to signal code-corrections, but these were soon replaced by wireless transmission from the observation machine. Targets which could not be ranged on through ground observation posts became targets no longer, after one shoot ranged from the air. As the number of available aircraft increased, so did the amount of observation for the guns, until finally the entire front opposite the British was registered for bombardment and divided into sections covered by specified artillery machines.
Aerial fighting, now so essential and scientific a branch of modern war, was rudimentary in 1914. Pilots and observers of the original Flying Corps carried revolvers, andmany observers also equipped themselves with rifles, but the aeroplanes were not fitted with machine-guns. Such scraps as there were consisted of one machine manœuvring round an opponent at close quarters for the chance of a well-aimed shot. Under these circumstances to "bring down" or "drive down out of control" an enemy was extremely difficult, though a very gallant officer, since killed in action, once killed two German pilots within five minutes with his revolver.
Soon the possibilities of aerial machine-guns were quickly recognised. The R.F.C. adopted the Lewis, which from the points of view of lightness and handiness was well suited for aircraft, and the German airmen countered with a modified Hotchkiss and other types.
But the stable observation machines, while excellent for reconnaissance and artillery spotting, allowed their crews only a small arc of fire, and not until the German single-seater scouts and our Bristol scout, then a comparatively fast machine, appeared on the western front in the spring of 1915 did the destruction of aeroplanes become an everydayoccurrence. With the introduction of scouts for escort and protective duties came formation flying and concerted attack.
Fighting craft continued to increase in speed and numbers. As the struggle became more and more intense, so did the scene of it move higher and higher, prodded by an ever-growing capacity for climb and the ever-growing menace of the anti-aircraft guns. The average air battle of to-day begins at an altitude between 12,000 and 20,000 feet.
The conflict for mechanical superiority has had its ebb and flow, and consequently of its proportional casualties; but the British have never once been turned from their programme of observation. There have been critical times, as for example when the Fokker scourge of late 1915 and early 1916 laid low so many of the observation craft. But the Fokkers were satisfactorily dealt with by the de Haviland and the F.E.8. pusher scouts and the F.E. "battleplane," as the newspapers of the period delighted to call it. Next the pendulum swung towards the British, who kept the whip hand during the summer and autumn of last year. Even when the Bocheagain made a bid for ascendancy with the Halberstadt, the Roland, the improved L.V.G., and the modern Albatross scout, the Flying Corps organisation kept the situation well in hand, though the supply of faster machines was complicated by the claims of the R.N.A.S. squadrons in England.
Throughout the Somme Push we were able to maintain that aerial superiority without which a great offensive cannot succeed. This was partly the result of good organisation and partly of the fighting capabilities of the men who piloted the Sopwith, the Nieuport, the de Haviland, the F.E., and other 1916 planes which were continually at grips with the Hun. The German airmen, with their "travelling circuses" of twelve to fifteen fast scouts, once more had an innings in the spring of the current year, and the older types of British machine were hard put to it to carry through their regular work. Then came the great day when scores of our new machines, husbanded for the occasion, engaged the enemy hell-for-leather at his own place in the air. An untiring offensive was continued by our patrols, and the temporary supremacypassed into British hands, where it very definitely remains, and where, if the shadows of coming events and the silhouettes of coming machines materialise, it is likely to remain.
Judged on a basis of losses, the unceasing struggle between aeroplane and aeroplane would seem to have been fairly equal, though it must be remembered that three-quarters of the fighting has had for itsmilieuthe atmosphere above enemy territory. Judged on a basis of the maintenance of adequate observation, which is the primary object of aerial attack and defence, the British have won consistently. At no time has the R.F.C. been obliged to modify its duties of reconnaissance, artillery spotting, photography, or co-operation with advancing infantry, which was introduced successfully last summer. On the contrary, each of these functions, together with bombing and "ground stunts" from low altitudes, has swollen to an abnormal extent.
An idea of the vastness of our aerial effort on the British front in France can be gathered from the R.F.C. work performed on a typical "big push" day.
Throughout the night preceding an advance, several parties, laden with heavy bombs, steer by compass to Hun headquarters or other objectives, and return no longer laden with bombs. The first streak of daylight is the herald of an exodus from west to east of many score fighting craft. These cross the lines, hover among the Archie bursts, and drive back or down all black-crossed strangers within sight. Some of them go farther afield and attack the Boche above his own aerodromes. Such enemy craft as manage to take the air without meeting trouble from the advanced offensive patrols are tackled by the scouts near the lines. The few that travel still farther eastward with the intention of swooping on our observation machines, or of themselves gathering information, receive a hearty welcome from our defensive patrols.
The British two-seaters are thus free to direct the artillery, link the attacking infantry with headquarters, and spy out the land. As soon as the early morning light allows, a host of planes will be darting backward and forward over the trench-line asthey guide the terrific bombardment preliminary to an attack. Other machines are searching for new emplacements and signs of preparation behind the enemy trenches. Several formations carry out tactical reconnaissances around an area stretching from the lines to a radius twenty miles east of them, and further parties perform strategic reconnaissance by covering the railways, roads, and canals that link the actual front with bases thirty to ninety miles behind it. When, at a scheduled time, the infantry emerge over the top behind a curtain of shells, the contact patrol buses follow their doings, inform the gunners of any necessary modifications in the barrage, or of some troublesome nest of machine-guns, note the positions held by the attackers, collect signals from the battalion headquarters, and by means of message bags dropped over brigade headquarters report progress to the staff. If, later, a further advance be made, the low-flying contact machines again play their part of mothering the infantry.
Machines fitted with cameras photograph every inch of the defences improvised bythe enemy, and, as insurance against being caught unprepared by a counter-attack, an immediate warning of whatever movement is in evidence on the lines of communication will be supplied by the reconnaissance observers. Under the direction of artillery squadrons the guns pound the new Boche front line and range on troublesome batteries.
The bombing craft are responsible for onslaughts on railways, supply depôts, garrison towns, headquarters, aerodromes, and chance targets. Other guerilla work is done by craft which, from a height of anything under a thousand feet, machine-gun whatever worthwhile objects they spot. A column of troops on the march, transport, ammunition waggons, a train, a stray motor-car—all these are greeted joyfully by the pilots who specialise in ground stunts. And at every hour of daylight the scouts and fighting two-seaters protect the remainder of the R.F.C. by engaging all Huns who take to the air.
Doubtless, when sunset has brought the roving birds back to their nest, there will be a few "missing"; but this, part of the day'swork, is a small enough sacrifice for the general achievement—the staff supplied with quick and accurate information, a hundred or two Boche batteries silenced, important works destroyed, enemy communications impeded, a dozen or so black-crossed aeroplanes brought down, valuable photographs and reports obtained, and the ground-Hun of every species harried.
The German Flying Corps cannot claim to perform anything like the same amount of aerial observation as its British counterpart. It is mainly occupied in fighting air battles and hampering the foreign machines that spy on their army. To say that the German machines are barred altogether from reconnaissance and artillery direction would be exaggeration, but not wild exaggeration. Seldom can an enemy plane call and correct artillery fire for longer than half an hour. From time to time a fast machine makes a reconnaissance tour at a great height, and from time to time others dart across the lines for photography, or to search for gun positions. An appreciable proportion of these do not return. Four-fifths of the Hun bombraids behind our front take place at night-time, when comparative freedom from attack is balanced by impossibility of accurate aim. Apart from these spasmodic activities, the German pilots concern themselves entirely with attempts to prevent allied observation. They have never yet succeeded, even during the periods of their nearest approach to the so-called "mastery of the air," and probably they never will succeed. The advantages attendant upon a maintenance of thorough observation, while whittling down the enemy's to a minimum, cannot be overestimated.
To determine how much credit for the brilliant achievement I have tried to outline belongs to the skill and adaptability of British airmen, and how much to successful organisation, would be difficult and rather unnecessary. But it is obvious that those who guided the R.F.C. from neglected beginnings to the status of a great air service had a tremendous task. Only the technical mind can realise all that it has involved in the production of trained personnel, aeroplanes, engines, aircraft depôts, aerodromes, wirelessequipment, photographic workshops and accessories, bombs, and a thousand and one other necessaries.
Many thousand pilots have been trained in all the branches of war flying. The number of squadrons now in France would surprise the layman if one were allowed to make it public; while other squadrons have done excellent work in Macedonia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, East Africa, and elsewhere. Mention must also be made of the Home Defence groups, but for which wholesale Zeppelin raids on the country would be of common occurrence.
How to make best use of the vast personnel in France is the business of the staff, who link the fighting members of the corps with the Intelligence Department and the rest of the Army in the field. To them has fallen the introduction and development of the various functions of war aircraft, besides the planning of bomb raids and concerted aerial offensives. On the equipment side there is an enormous wastage to be dealt with, and consequently a constant cross-Channel interchange of machines. Theamount of necessary replacement is made specially heavy by the short life of effective craft. A type of machine is good for a few months of active service, just holds its own for a few more, and then becomes obsolete except as a training bus. To surpass or even keep pace with the Boche Flying Corps on the mechanical side, it has been necessary for the supply department to do a brisk trade in new ideas and designs, experiment, improvement, and scrapping.
Although free-lance attacks by airmen on whatever takes their fancy down below are now common enough, they were unknown little over a year ago. Their early history is bound up with the introduction of contact patrols, or co-operation with advancing infantry. Previous to the Somme Push of 1916, communication during an attack between infantry on the one hand and the guns and various headquarters on the other was a difficult problem. A battalion would go over the top and disappear into the enemy lines. It might have urgent need of reinforcements or of a concentrated fire on some dangerous spot. Yet to make known its wants quicklywas by no means easy, for the telephone wires were usually cut, carrier-pigeons went astray, and runners were liable to be shot. When the British introduced the "creeping barrage" of artillery pounding, which moved a little ahead of the infantry and curtained them from machine-gun and rifle fire, the need for rapid communication was greater than ever. Exultant attackers would rush forward in advance of the programmed speed and be mown by their own barrage.
Credit for the trial use of the aeroplane to link artillery with infantry belongs to the British, though the French at Verdun first brought the method to practical success. We then developed the idea on the Somme with notable results. Stable machines, equipped with wireless transmitters and Klaxon horns, flew at a low height over detailed sectors, observed all developments, signalled back guidance for the barrage, and by means of message bags supplied headquarters with valuable information. Besides its main purpose of mothering the infantry, the new system of contact patrols was found to be useful in dealing with enemy movements directly behind the frontline. If the bud of a counter-attack appeared, aeroplanes would call upon the guns to nip it before it had time to blossom.
Last September we of the fighting and reconnaissance squadrons began to hear interesting yarns from the corps squadrons that specialised in contact patrols. An observer saved two battalions from extinction by calling up reinforcements in the nick of time. When two tanks slithered around the ruins of Courcelette two hours before the razed village was stormed, the men in the trenches would have known nothing of this unexpected advance-guard but for a contact machine. The pilot and observer of another bus saw two tanks converging eastward at either end of a troublesome Boche trench. A German officer, peering round a corner, drew back quickly when he found one of the new steel beasts advancing. He hurried to an observation post round a bend in the lines. Arrived there, he got the shock of his life when he found a second metal monster waddling towards him. Alarmed and unnerved, he probably ordered a retirement, for the trench was evacuated immediately.The observer in a watching aeroplane then delivered a much-condensed synopsis of the comedy to battalion headquarters, and the trench was peacefully occupied.
Inevitably the nearness of the enemy to machines hovering over a given area bred in the airmen concerned a desire to swoop down and panic the Boche. Movement in a hostile trench was irresistible, and many a pilot shot off his engine, glided across the lines, and let his observer spray with bullets the home of the Hun. The introduction of such tactics was not planned beforehand and carried out to order. It was the outcome of a new set of circumstances and almost unconscious enterprise. More than any other aspect of war flying, it is, I believe, this imminence of the unusual that makes the average war pilot swear greatly by his job, while other soldiers temper their good work with grousing. His actions are influenced by the knowledge that somewhere, behind a ridge of clouds, in the nothingness of space, on the patchwork ground, the True Romance has hidden a new experience, which can only be found by the venturer with alertvision, a quick brain, and a fine instinct for opportunity.
The free-lance ground stunt, then, had its origin in the initiative of a few pilots who recognised a chance, took it, and thus opened yet another branch in the huge departmental store of aerial tactics. The exploits of these pioneers were sealed with the stamp of official approval, and airmen on contact patrol have since been encouraged to relieve boredom by joyous pounces on Brother Boche.
The star turn last year was performed by a British machine that captured a trench. The pilot guided it above the said trench for some hundred yards, while the observer emptied drum after drum of ammunition at the crouching Germans. A headlong scramble was followed by the appearance of an irregular line of white billowings. The enemy were waving handkerchiefs and strips of material in token of surrender! Whereupon our infantry were signalled to take possession, which they did. Don't shrug your shoulders, friend the reader, and say: "Quite a good story, but tall, very tall." The facts wererelated in the R.F.C. section of 'Comic Cuts,' otherwise G.H.Q. summary of work.
Fighting squadrons soon caught the craze for ground stunts and carried it well beyond the lines. One machine chased a train for miles a few hundred feet above, derailed it, and spat bullets at the lame coaches until driven off by enemy craft. Another made what was evidently an inspection of troops by some Boche Olympian look like the riotous disorder of a Futurist painting. A pilot with some bombs to spare spiralled down over a train, dropped the first bomb on the engine, and the second, third, fourth, and fifth on the soldiers who scurried from the carriages. When a detachment of cavalry really did break through for once in a while, it was startled to find an aerial vanguard. A frolicsome biplane darted ahead, pointed out positions worthy of attack, and created a diversion with Lewis gun fire.
At the end of a three-hour offensive patrol my pilot would often descend our bus to less than a thousand feet, cross No Man's Land again, and zigzag over the enemy trenches, where we disposed of surplusammunition to good purpose. On cloudy days, with the pretext of testing a new machine or a gun, he would fly just above the clouds, until we were east of the lines, then turn round and dive suddenly through the cloud-screen in the direction of the Boche positions, firing his front gun as we dropped. The turn of my rear gun came afterwards when the pilot flattened out and steered northward along the wrong border of No Man's Land. Once, when flying very low, we looked into a wide trench and saw a group of tiny figures make confused attempts to take cover, tumbling over each other the while in ludicrous confusion.
I remember a notable first trip across the lines made by a pilot who had just arrived from England. He had been sent up to have a look at the battle line, with an old-hand observer and instructions not to cross the trenches. However, he went too far east, and found himself ringed by Archie bursts. These did not have their customary effect on a novice of inspiring mortal funk, for the new pilot became furiously angry and flew Berserk. He dived towardsBapaume, dropped unscathed through the barrage of anti-aircraft shelling for which this stronghold was at the time notorious, fired a hundred rounds into the town square from a height of 800 feet, and raced back over the Bapaume-Pozières road pursued by flaming "onion" rockets. The observer recovered from his surprise in time to loose off a drum of ammunition at Bapaume, and three more along the straight road to the front line, paying special attention to the village of Le Sars.
It was above this village that I once was guilty of communicating with the enemy. During a three-hours' offensive patrol around the triangle—Bapaume-Mossy-Face Wood-Epehy—we had not seen a single Hun machine. Low clouds held Archie in check, and there was therefore small necessity to swerve from a straight course. Becoming bored, I looked at the pleasant-seeming countryside below, and reflected how ill its appearance harmonised with its merits as a dwelling-place, judged on the best possible evidence—the half-hysterical diaries found on enemy prisoners, the bitter outpourings anent themisery of intense bombardment and slaughter, the ominous title "The Grave" given to the region by Germans who had fought there. An echo of light-hearted incursions into German literature when I was a student at a Boche college suggested that the opening lines of Schiller's "Sehnsucht" were peculiarly apposite to the state of mind of the Huns who dwelt by the Somme. Wishing to share my discovery, I wrote the verse in large block capitals, ready to be dropped at a convenient spot. I took the liberty of transposing three pronouns from the first person to the second, so as to apostrophise our Boche brethren. The patrol finished, my pilot spiralled down to within a 300-yard range of the ground and flew along the road past Martinpuich, while I pumped lead at anything that might be a communication trench. We sprinkled Le Sars with bullets, and there I threw overboard the quotation from a great German poet, folded inside an empty Very's cartridge to which I had attached canvas streamers. If it was picked up, I trust the following lines were not regarded merely as wordy frightfulness: