THE PATRIOTIC, SCIENTIFIC MECHANICSTHE PATRIOTIC, SCIENTIFIC MECHANICS
In maps of the enemy territory are hundreds of red drawing-pins. These mark the positions of enemy anti-aircraft batteries. As soon as informationis received of the movement of one of these batteries, the pin which represents that particular battery is moved to the new position. Small yellow squares or oblongs with minute black marks represent the enemy aerodromes and hangars. These conventional signs correspond accurately to the aerial photographs of these aerodromes.
Small blue crosses represent the position of enemy balloon barrages and their height. The position of these barrages must be known accurately, for to run into them is fatal and at night they are very apt to trap the unwary. Roughly, they are a series of balloons supporting a huge wire net or cable streamers. The balloons, anchored to the ground and carrying the nets with them, are sent up to a considerable altitude about large cities and important industrial centres. They are to the night aviators what the spider's web is to the fly.
Another conventional sign of this map which is always puzzling to the uninitiated is a series of small pins with streamers attached. These streamers are marked with green dots. One streamer will have one green dot, another two green dots, another three, etc., while others will have different spaces between the dots. These pins mark the position of what is called the "Hun green-ball batteries," and these green balls, fired up to a height of about six thousand feet, direct the Hun aviators to their respective aerodromes when returning from a night raid.
A better system than this for directing aviators at night has never been devised, for low clouds or mist cannot obliterate the signal and they are visible to the aviator for over fifty miles. In fact, this type of signal was so very excellent that our knowledge of the exact positions of the various batteries was ofgreat assistance to us in our raids over Germany.
On our side of the lines this map was marked with conventional signs similar to those which marked the position of enemy anti-aircraft batteries, aerodromes, and balloon barrages; but on our side of the lines there were large areas marked in red to indicate what was called "prohibited areas"; i.e., areas over which no aeroplane, Allied or enemy, could fly without being subjected to the fire of our anti-aircraft batteries.
There were also white drawing-pins, each bearing a letter, placed at irregular intervals. These located accurately the position of small lighthouses which are usually about fifteen miles apart and from three to ten miles back of the front-line trenches; the letter marked on each drawing-pin designates the letter flashed in Morse code by that particular lighthouse. This system of signals, used bythe British to direct their night aviators to their aerodromes when returning from a raid, had but two great faults. In the first place, the signal was obliterated by low clouds and mist. In the second place, the flash of the light only carried a few miles even under the best conditions. On the other hand, the letters which the lighthouses flashed could be readily changed and consequently were of very little assistance to Hun aviators.
On the third wall of the map-room are aerial photographs of enemy aerodromes, railway stations, sidings, etc., and large-scale plans of German towns and factories.
On the table in the centre of the room are the various instruments by the aid of which the aviators are enabled to figure out their magnetic courses. Every afternoon the map-room is crowded with aviators. Here all the plans for the raid are made, the courses figured andmarked on individual charts, the photographs or plans of targets studied and the best methods of approaching the target discussed. In the evening the wind soundings made by the meteorological expert are reported and again the map-room is crowded with aviators figuring out "drift" and "ground speed" and making out charts which will facilitate their navigation when in the air.
Every precaution having been taken, the engines run, the controls tested, the compasses swung, the courses made out, the charts prepared, and the drift figured, the Bedouins sat down to dinner free from care or worry. The dinner hour was always set, winter or summer, at least two hours before the night's raid was to start.
A guest of the Bedouin mess on the night of an important raid would have been surprised if told that the jolly, laughing officers, who apparently had no thought in the world other than the enjoyment of various wines and viands, were soon to set out on a pioneer raid against a far-distant German industrial centre. For the Bedouins made the bestof the present; they all knew what a long-distance raid over Germany usually meant; many of their jolly comrades would not be seen again. So they made merry at dinner and drank each other's health. The wine, however, was light, and even the most reckless Bedouin drank it in tiny sips, for the work to be done was important. The personal dangers of the raid the reckless Bedouins might ignore, but they knew that these raids fitted into the general tactical plan of operations; consequently, every Bedouin was imbued with a spirit of determination in spite of an apparent frivolity.
On entering the ward-room a few moments before dinner, the guest of the Bedouin mess would have been greeted joyfully by the officers who were singing lustily in perfect tune with a piano which was very much out of tune. A few moments later he would see these rollicking fellows stand silently at attention on theentry of the Commanding Officer until "Good-evening, gentlemen," from the C.O. granted them permission to "carry on."
Before the chief steward announced dinner, "apéritifs" were passed around; then the C.O. led the way from the ward-room into the adjoining mess, where the officers stood at attention on each side of the long table until the C.O. said, "Gentlemen, be seated." If any one came in late to dinner, he apologized to the C.O. before taking his place at the table; and no matter how oily and dirty he may have been a few moments earlier, he entered the mess clean, freshly shaven, and in neat uniform. This mess etiquette, as it was called, did not interfere in any way with the good-fellowship existing between the C.O. and his junior officers; but it prevented men who had been away from home and the society of ladies for many years from growinglax in manners and careless of personal appearance.
After dinner, decanters of port were passed around and the King's health was drunk: "Gentlemen, The King."
This toast means nothing to us Americans unless we have drunk it among British officers at the front. Under such conditions, "Gentlemen, The King," is a call to patriotism, a spur to endeavor, and an ideal of courage which must be lived up to. We Americans are so apt to think of a king as a despot or tyrant that it takes us a long time to understand the love which the Englishman has for his King. The King of England is as much of a symbol to Englishmen as the Stars and Stripes are a symbol to us. The King, as an individual, has no power, except the power of influence. This power is great when the influence exerted is in the right direction, but the King has no dictatorial power similar to that which may begranted to our Presidents. The King is merely a symbol which stands in the minds of Englishmen for patriotism, justice, democracy, and humanity. So when the Bedouins raised their glasses to the toast, "Gentlemen, The King," they paid a tribute to all that Great Britain and her Allies were fighting for—democracy, justice, and freedom of the individual from oppression.
After this final toast, every aviator went to his quarters and clambered into his bulky but warm flying clothes. There was no hurry or bustle, but each aviator, thoroughly equipped for the raid with maps, charts, and instruments, arrived at the map-room on a definite moment. Here he received a few final instructions from the Commanding Officer; then, smoking a last cigarette, he made his way through the dusk to his own aeroplane.
While the aviators drank to "Gentlemen, The King," the mechanics werewarming up the twin motors of each aeroplane, the bomb-racks were being filled with fourteen one-hundred-and-twelve-pound bombs, the guns were being mounted, and by the time the aviators arrived on the aerodrome the huge Handley-Page bombing planes were in readiness for a nine hours' flight over Germany.
After climbing up a ladder to their respective positions, the aviators made a final survey of the machine on the reliability of which depended the success of their adventure. The engines were again run up to see that they gave the proper revolutions, the gauges inspected, the controls tested, and the return spring of each gun weighed. When thoroughly satisfied, each aviator took his place and his pilot signalled for the "chocks" to be withdrawn from in front of the wheels.
While the aviators carried on this final inspection of their machines, the aerodrome officer, stationed on a high platform situated in one corner of the field, awaited the signal to light the "landing T"; i.e., a huge "T" of electric lights headed into the wind, which shows to the aviators the taking-off and landing path. Each machine is given its respective letter for the day, which is flashed in Morse code on the navigation lights by the aviator when ready to leave the ground; he then awaits an answer from the directing stand. Simultaneously with the lighting up of the huge "landing T," the letter flashed from the first machine ready is repeated by the signal officer. The answer received, the machine taxies across the aerodrome to the starting-point, turns, hurtles down the flare-path and leaves the ground at the head of the "T." Under this simple method of direction I have seen twenty aeroplanes leave an aerodrome on a pitch-black night in twelve minutes without a single mishap.
On leaving the ground the aeroplanes fly dead into the wind for a couple of miles, circle back to the left around the aerodrome, and head into the wind again until the height at which the flight is to be carried out is reached. The first aeroplane to reach this height passes directly over the aerodrome and then steers a course to the first lighthouse. A comparison of this course with the previously figured course, and a comparison of the previously calculated ground speed with the time taken to travel from the aerodrome to the lighthouse enables the aviators, by the use of instruments and a few simple calculations, to gauge their drift. This process is continued on another course to the next lighthouse and the previously tested direction and velocity of wind are accurately checked in this way and future courses altered accordingly. These calculations are all important to the long-distance night bomber,for although roads show up in the moonlight like white threads, they are too numerous and interwoven to be followed for great distances, and although rivers and lakes look like silver ribbons and blotches, the moon may be obscured at any moment or the ground itself may be obliterated by low clouds or mist. Accuracy in aerial navigation, therefore, is of the utmost importance in long-distance night flying.
The night aviator, however, has many things to think of besides a constant checking and readjustment of his course according to variations in direction and velocity of wind. On his own side of the lines he is constantly challenged by searchlights which must be answered immediately if the aviator wishes to avoid the risk of being shot down by his own anti-aircraft guns or of being attacked by his own night-patrol machines. The method of answering these challenges is extremely simple. All that is required of the aviator is to shoot at the searchlight with a large pistol loaded with an enormous cartridge. The aviator, intent on his calculations and annoyed by any interruption, often wishes that this pistol was a deadly weapon, but it is not. It merely fires a certain colored light which floats slowly down changing in its descent to certain other colors, which prove to the officer in charge of the challenging searchlight that an Allied aeroplane is above him. The colors which are shown on one night, however, will not do on another, for these "colors of the day," as they are inappropriately called, are changed every night and the utmost secrecy is maintained in regard to them. Even the aviators do not know the "color of the day" until ten minutes before the start of a raid, neither do the officers in charge of the anti-aircraft batteries. The reason for this secrecybecame apparent to the Bedouins one night when a Hun flew over our aerodrome shooting down our "color of the day," blinking his navigation lights, and finally firing down a red light which was our prearranged forced-landing signal. The aerodrome officer, believing that one of the Bedouin machines was returning from that night's raid with engine trouble, lit up the "landing T" and brought upon himself a shower of bombs which carried him into the Unknown.
After crossing the lines the aviators are intent on steering an accurate compass course, checking their position from time to time by various landmarks such as canals, rivers, cross-roads, and woods, and figuring changes in wind. The bursting shells of the enemy anti-aircraft batteries must be disregarded, for a slight détour around a particularly heavy barrage might mean an error of several degrees in their course which, unless corrected, would bring them twenty to thirty miles away from their objective after a flight of one hundred and seventy miles or more, and an accurate correction of a compass course after a wide détour is always difficult and sometimes impossible. Therefore, it is of the utmost importance for long-distance night bombers to hold their course regardless of the enemy's efforts at destruction.
The hatred in the hearts of the Huns, expressed by the constant "whonk" of bursting anti-aircraft shells, contrasts disagreeably with the loveliness of the moonlit panorama. All man's disfigurements of the earth are obliterated by distance and nothing but a scene of inspiring beauty is in view from the aviaors' lofty outlook at a height of several thousand feet.
The flashings of the guns, the "flaming onions,"—i.e., strings of phosphorus balls shot up to light the sky and to igniteany inflammable substance with which they come in contact,—and the black puffs of smoke from the bursting shells add a weird and startling brilliancy to the surroundings. No matter how many times a man may fly at night the immensity of the heavens above him, crowded with unknown worlds, cannot fail to impress him with his own insignificance in the general scheme of the universe, and Death itself appears of small importance compared to the way in which he faces it.
The aviators, however, have little time for reflection, for on a long flight they must keep a constant outlook for such landmarks as will enable them from time to time to mark their exact position on the chart and by comparison with their compass course and "ground speed" vary their course according to changes in direction and velocity of wind. An instrument called the "pitot tube" indicates the speed at which theaeroplane passes through the air, but the speed at which the plane travels in relation to the ground depends on the direction and velocity of the wind. They must also watch the flashes from anti-aircraft batteries and pin-point them on their maps if possible; aerodromes which are lit up, train movements, the lighting of towns, the blaze of steel factories; in fact everything of military importance must be recorded and reported upon, if accurately located. The night aviator, however, must be extremely careful in his observations, for it is very easy to get lost and it is extremely difficult to keep an accurate check, on the charts, of your exact position over the ground, even after long practice; especially is this true when the flight covers three to four hundred miles in distance and lasts from eight to nine hours.
After several hours of intense concentration the aviators approach their target, and although they have charted the course constantly they now spend some time in flying back and forth while they check off on a large-scale map the landmarks about the target and satisfy themselves that their long flight will not be valueless if the bombs are dropped with accuracy. In the meantime the sound of the motors, together with the telegraphed intelligence from other Hun towns, tells the enemy that Allied night bombers are in the vicinity. The Huns in charge of the anti-aircraft defences stationed about the target direct huge beams of numerous searchlights toward the sky and an intense barrage is put up above and around the target by the Hun batteries. The air is filled with shrapnel from bursting shells at the altitude at which the machine is flying, for the Huns have accurate instruments which gauge the altitude of an aeroplane from the sound vibrations of its engines. The aviators, however, are still intent on picking out their target (probably a factory which manufactures war material) and have not yet entered the barrage. The Huns, I imagine, often wondered why British bombers flew about a town for such a long time before bombing; the inhabitants always had more than enough time to enter the dug-outs before the bombs dropped. The British bombers, however, were not making war on women and children; they were intent on destroying a poisonous gas factory or other targets of military importance; so they flew about the town until the target was accurately located; then and not till then, they throttled down their engines and glided swiftly down between the searchlight beams and below the barrage of bursting shells, for once the engines are throttled down the enemy's sound instruments are valueless and the anti-aircraft barrage ranged at the previousaltitude of the aeroplane fills the air with shrapnel far above the rapidly descending plane. A quick adjustment of bomb-sights to compensate for the altitude, speed, and drift of the plane and the front fore-sight soon is in line with the target, and after a pause the back fore-sight coming in line with the back-sight gives, with the previously adjusted stop-watch, the exact moment for releasing the first bombs. The plane passes over the target and turns on a steep "bank," while the aviators watch for the burst of the bombs. The bomb-sight is readjusted to the reduced altitude, another sight taken, the remainder of the bombs released, and then, nose down, engine "full out," the huge plane rushes through the lowered barrage for more congenial surroundings.
Great care must be taken when bombing a factory, for usually very close to it the Hun has located an unprotectedprison camp filled with Allied prisoners, and we have official information that prisoners have so infuriated the Hun guards by singing "God save the King" or the "Marseillaise" during a bombardment of the near-by factory that they have been bayoneted to punish them for their "insolence." As soon as the aviators are away from the barrage, they steer a straight course for home, and again an intent outlook is kept for landmarks which will enable them to mark their position on the charts and figure their ground speed and drift. If their course is correct, they will see after a few hours a lighthouse several miles away dimly flashing a letter in Morse code. They head straight for this, and when over it they steer a course which will bring them to the lighthouse situated near their aerodrome. As they approach the aerodrome they fire down the "color of the day" and if the aerodrome is not under bombardment by the Huns the flare-path is lighted and the pilot spirals slowly down while the allotted letter of the plane is being flashed in Morse code on its navigation lights; as soon as this signal is answered from the ground, the pilot glides swiftly down to the flare-path. When fifteen to ten feet from the ground the Holt's flares attached to the wing tips of the planes are lit by electrical contact and the landing is made in a momentary but brilliant blaze of light.
It is interesting to sit in the officers' mess of a night-bombing squadron and watch the returning aviators enter. They are cold and stiff and all are very tired, for no man can fly without fatigue from dusk to dawn under conditions which demand intense concentration and entail a considerable amount of nervous strain, but now is shown the difference in temperament; some return with bloodshot eyes and haggard faces which indicate a condition of intense fatigue; others come in gaily as though home from a late dance; still others thoughtfully quiet. All of them, however, show signs of nervous strain and mental tension and they must relax their taut nerves before going to bed, especially if the raid was but another similar to those that had been carried out on several previous nights. So, while relaxing they eat bully beef sandwiches and drink hot chocolate or beer or, if the night has been particularly cold, a glass of hot rum. Deafened by the roar of the engines and the sudden change in atmospheric pressure they either whisper or yell if they speak at all, during the first few minutes after entering the mess. But the raid is over, so very little is said about it; every now and then some one looks at his watch and sees that nine hours have elapsed since the raid started; he says nothing but he and all realize that the machine which has notreturned has used up its supply of petrol and that the fate of a dear friend will remain unknown perhaps for weeks, perhaps for all time.
In the summer of 1917 the Germans were rushing troops up to the Ypres front, where the activities of the British threatened them at this point in their line. This movement of troops was made at night, as usual,becauseif made in daylight they would have been plainly visible to our reconnaissance and artillery observation squadrons. These troops were detrained at Menin and were transported by motor lorry along the Menin-Gelevelt road. On a certain evening the first night-bombing squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, then situated west of Nieppe Forest, was ordered to delay in every possible way this movement of enemy troops. The result must have beensatisfactory, for the General in command of the British Army on that front sent us, a few days later, the glad tidings that no German reinforcements arrived at the critical moment and all the British objectives had been captured and held. Whether or not the only night-bombing squadron engaged in that action was responsible for the tie-up of the Hun transportation system is problematical, but all the members of the squadron remember that night and hope that their efforts were of value.
The only thing out of the ordinary that evening in the squadron's routine was the mounting of double guns in the aeroplanes and an earlier dinner hour; the dinner, possibly, was gayer than usual. The machines left the ground in daylight, gained their height over Nieppe Forest and crossed the lines at dusk, swooped down over Menin Station and dropped their bombs at an altitude ofone thousand to five hundred feet. Then, nose down, engine "full out," they raced away from Menin and followed, in the brilliant moonlight, the road to Gelevelt, flying within one hundred feet of the ground.
A heavy fire at close range at the transports on the road and at the shadows of the trees cast by the moon, as the case might be, soon exhausted the drums of ammunition. Each aviator did his level best to get results, all the time trying to avoid landing on the tree-tops; some of them did so land; they were shot down by the Huns. As soon as their ammunition was gone they headed for home and, crossing the lines at a low altitude, were shot at by anti-aircraft batteries and machine guns from the ground and "bumped" here and there by the air displacement of passing shells from the steadily flashing guns of both their own and the enemy's artillery.
When they arrived at their aerodrome there was a breathing-spell for the aviators while the bomb-racks were being refilled with bombs, the empty ammunition drums replaced with full ones, and the engines replenished with petrol, oil, and water. The planes then roared into the air again, climbed for a short time, and then headed for Menin, where railway communications were again bombed and the Menin-Gelevelt road was again raked with machine-gun fire.
After a brief respite on the return from this second raid, the machines again took off and raided the Huns for the third time that night. All that were left of this weary group of aviators returned from this third raid in broad daylight, with nerves strained to the verge of a breakdown; some were in tears, some striving to be gay, and some were very quiet, but all were happy in knowing that they had "done their damndest."
When afterward they learned that the "push" had been successful and that the Hun reserves had failed to appear, their grief for the "missing" was softened by the thought thattheirsacrifice had not been in vain; it had brought about the full accomplishment of the purpose of the raids—C'est la Guerre—
Probably the first time that a Rhine town was bombed on a densely cloudy night was in the spring of 1918 and it was bombed by a small Scotchman called "Jock."
The wind that night was from the northeast, a favorable wind from the aviators' point of view because it was against them on the outward voyage. Shortly after crossing the lines, however, dense clouds coming up with the wind obliterated the earth, and all the aviators except Jock turned back hoping to findtheir aerodrome before it was also blotted out by the low-lying clouds.
Jock, however, was "keen" on bombing Hun factories, and the objective that night was the Badische Works situated on the river Rhine; so Jock held to his compass course and flew for over four hours without once seeing the ground. When a sufficient time had elapsed to bring him over his target, if his previous reckoning, of course, of ground speed and drift was correct, and if the wind had not varied in velocity or strength, Jock "spiralled" down through the clouds and, finding the ground beneath him nothing but dense blackness, glided lower and lower until eventually a large town directly beneath him became visible and then the river Rhine, passing between Ludwigshafen on the west and Mannheim on the east, was lit up by the rays of the moon coming through a sudden rift in the clouds. Jock by now wasonly eight hundred feet above Mannheim; he opened up his throttle and circled around the city while his navigation officer on his large-scale chart compared the landmarks momentarily made visible by the rift in the clouds. At last, thoroughly satisfied as to their position, fourteen one-hundred-and-twelve-pound bombs were dropped as near the factory as possible. If some of these bombs dropped in the town itself, it was not due to intention on the part of the aviators, who, blinded by searchlights, could not be sure of sending all the bombs with accuracy. With over one hundred and sixty miles to travel in a plane riddled with shrapnel from the bursting shells, the prominent thought in the minds of the aviators was, that their work being accomplished, their next move was to "beat it" in the direction where lay friendly country.
After the release of the bombs, Jockclimbed up through the clouds and steered a direct course for home. Since the ground could not be studied because of the intervening clouds, the aviators devoted their entire attention to compass, time, and the stars. During this flight above the clouds the efficiency of the Hun's sound instruments was thoroughly demonstrated, for, although the clouds were too dense for any searchlight to penetrate and this effectually screened the machine from observation from below, again and again Jock's plane was surrounded by the black puffs of bursting anti-aircraft shells.
After flying for a sufficient number of hours to bring them above their aerodrome, if their calculations were correct, Jock and his companion discussed the advisability of coming down through the clouds; the unanimous decision, however, was to continue on until a lack of petrol would force them to land, forchanges in wind might have created a considerable error in their calculations, unchecked as they were by observations of landmarks; so after flying for another hour they came down through the clouds and succeeded in making a safe landing near a small French village just before their supply of petrol was exhausted.
One evening in August, 1918, there was a strong southwest wind blowing across the eastern part of France and severe thunderstorms were reported to be approaching. Nevertheless, certain Bedouins were selected to raid the railway station and sidings at Frankfort; "intelligence" having reported important rail movements in that vicinity. The Bedouins were ordered to return if they found, after testing the air, the weather conditions unfavorable for a flight ofsuch long distance. As an alternative target to Frankfort they were given the Burbach Hutte Works at Saarbrucken.
After gaining their height above the aerodrome, Jock and his navigation officer steered a direct course for "D" lighthouse, situated north of Barcarat and but a few miles from the front-line trenches. Having accurately figured their drift and ground speed on this course, Jock and his companion calculated that, by steering a straight course to Frankfort, spending five minutes over the target, and steering a straight course back to their aerodrome, they could make sufficient headway against the wind on the return voyage to bring them safely home with a ten minutes' supply of petrol left in their tanks; any error in course necessitating a deviation, or any increase in the velocity of the wind, might mean a prolonged sojourn in a German prison camp if not subjection to the well-known tortures of a German hospital.
After an accurate calculation of direction and velocity of wind, a course of thirty-nine degrees was steered from "D" lighthouse; the river Saar was crossed north of Saarburg; Bitsch and Pirmasens were passed to the north and Kaiserlautern to the south and then, the Vosges Mountains having been crossed, Jock and his companion looked down on the Rhine valley. The Rhine River was crossed north of Oppenheim, and from an elevation of six thousand feet, Mainz, at the juncture of the rivers Main and Rhine, showed clearly in the moonlight. Still holding their course, the aviators looked out to the left, followed up the river Main to Frankfort, here they throttled back the engines, glided swiftly down through the anti-aircraft barrage and searchlights and released their bombs as accurately as possible. Then,after an almost vertical "bank" so sudden was the turn, Jock steered a straight course for the nearest point in the lines, which was considerably over one hundred miles away. Now the aviators had to face a strong head wind and steer straight into a rapidly approaching storm. The time taken to fly from Frankfort to the Rhine River, together with a change in drift, proved to the aviators that the wind had varied slightly in direction and had increased somewhat in velocity. They immediately decided not to lose time by climbing above the approaching storm, but to pass beneath it. This they did, and those aviators never went through a nastier experience than this homeward journey. Blinded and stung as they were by the downpour of rain, while their aeroplane was hurled about by the wind to such an extent that it appeared to be completely out of control, the voyage seemed interminable.The clouds above belched flashes of lightning in apparent unison with the Hun anti-aircraft batteries below. Held in the beams of the enemy's searchlights and plainly visible against the dark clouds above, Jock's plane was an easy target for the Hun gunners.
But who can account for the fortunes of war? Jock brought his plane, riddled with shrapnel, into the moonlight beyond, showing up Kaiserlautern directly below, with its searchlights sweeping the sky while its anti-aircraft batteries filled the air with bursting shells; but in spite of this "hate" it was a pleasant sight to the aviators, for it showed them that their course was correct and that there was still time to gain the lines unless the wind increased. Again they passed below another dense bank of clouds, to experience again being blinded with the rain and shaken by the violence of the wind by which their plane was tossed about,all the while subjected to an attack by lightning from above and by anti-aircraft guns from below. It is a little trying to the nerves to fly for an hour without being able to see the earth beneath, and surrounded by the incessant flashings of lightning and the "whonkings" of bursting shells, but when homeward bound these little incidents are of minor import.
AFTER THE LANDINGAFTER THE LANDING
For the second time Jock brought the plane, tossing about like a cork on a mountainous sea, out into comparative light. As landmarks were recognized, the course was checked and changed, when a third storm was encountered. This last storm was furious, and it was impossible to hold the plane on a compass course; fortunately, however, the storm lasted but a short time, and when Jock brought his plane out into the breaking dawn, the Marne-Rhine Canal was visible to the south. A few moments later the lineswere crossed and a direct course was steered to the nearest aerodrome. Just then the engines spluttered, then stopped, the petrol was exhausted, and Jock was forced to land in a field near Lunéville after a sustained flight of eight hours and fifty minutes.
Mysterious Dick, or "Mystery" as he was usually called, was a slender, anæmic-looking boy with deep brown eyes. He was nicknamed "Mystery" for several reasons. In the first place, he gave every one on first acquaintance an uncomfortable feeling; no one could explain this, but every one admitted that he was a "bit queer." When he looked at you his eyes never appeared to be focused on you, but to be looking at something back of you; I have seen a man to whom Dick was talking suddenly turn and look over his shoulder. Another very noticeable trait of Dick's was to answer an unasked question, or to interrupt a man at the beginning of an argument with a refutation or agreement, as the case might be.
I remember coming into the mess one morning about five o'clock after an all-night raid; our machine was the third back. It was a bitter cold winter's night and "upstairs" it was absolutely numbing. In the mess there were Mac and Dick and one or two others, thawing their congealed blood and numbed brains with hot rum. It had been a nasty trip that night, dense, low clouds and a head wind on the return voyage; there were many machines still unaccounted for, although the supply of petrol would "keep them up" but another fifteen minutes. So in the mess we sipped our hot rum and sat and thought, or just sat.
"I think they were south of Dieuze"; it was Dick who broke the silence.
Mac jumped and looked hard at "Mysterious Dick," and as we all looked at him inquiringly a faint flushrose to his face, he gulped down his rum and left the mess.
"It's queer," said Mac, "how often he does that."
"Does what?" I asked.
"Answer your unasked question," replied Mac. "The green balls must have been south of Dieuze just as 'Mystery' said, for after leaving Mannheim I followed up the Rhine to Hagenau Wald, turned west and crossed the Vosges over Zabern; here we went above low clouds and I didn't see the ground again for over an hour. I steered my course all right, but was fearing a change of wind when just ahead of me I saw the Hun signal of two green balls come up through the clouds; as the last 'intelligence' placed these two balls at Morchange, I changed my course from 270° to 245°. It was only luck that about half an hour later a rift in the clouds showed me 'F' lighthouse, and as that is about thirtymiles south of 'B' lighthouse, my original course over Zabern of 270° must have been about right to strike 'B' lighthouse. So the green-ball signal, as 'Mystery' said, must have been moved from Morchange to south of Dieuze, and that is just what I was puzzling out when Dick answered the puzzle for me. He's queer, all right." And Mac called for another rum.
And "queer" is the best description of Dick that any of the Bedouins could have given you, if you had asked them, until one night he was finally coaxed after many "treats" to tell about his earlier war experiences.
"In 1912 I was a subaltern in the Indian army," Dick said quietly; "a row over a woman resulted in my court martial and disgrace.
"When the war broke out I joined as a dispatch rider; I was wounded and was in the hospital for over five months.When I came out I succeeded in getting into the Royal Flying Corps and eventually was granted a commission. But as a pilot I was a complete failure; I 'wrote off' several machines and in my last crash I nearly 'wrote off' myself. I was unconscious for over a month and it was over eight months before I left the hospital.
"I finally got back to France as a recording officer to a Handley-Page squadron; here I ran into an old pal of mine, and one night, when his navigation officer was sick, my pal took me on a raid without saying a word to any one. It was the first time I had ever been in a Handley-Page aeroplane and it was the first time I had ever flown at night, but my pal was the best pilot in the squadron and the way to the Gontrode aerodrome was an open book to him, for he had been there many times before; he took me as a passenger for the experience.
"I remember as we 'taxied' over the aerodrome that the roar of the engine on each side of me, the flashing of lights, the other machines as they passed us or waited with slowly 'ticking-over props' for us to pass, the different-colored lights which were being fired down from machines already in the air and the lights fired up from the ground, all combined and whirled through my excited brain like a meaningless nightmare. Then there was a deafening roar and we shot down a path of light, bumped hard, bumped less hard, bumped again, and the huge plane with its great load of bombs was in the air. Lights on the ground and the lights of machines in the air became mixed until I could not tell one from the other.
"As we rose higher and higher, ground lights far off in the distance came hurtling toward us like the navigation lights of a fast approaching machine; I wouldclutch Jack, yell, and point out the lights in order to avoid a collision as it seemed to me; Jack would grin, pull me down on the seat beside him, and tell me the lights were on the ground and at least ten miles away. Gradually I got control of myself and tried to find the aerodrome we had just left; it was nowhere to be seen. There was a network of white threads on a black background, an occasional winding silver ribbon with here and there a silver blotch and queer-shaped blacker blacknesses on the general blackness; these were roads, rivers, lakes, and woods as they looked from the air at night.
"How long we had been in the air I don't know. Time seemed nothing, or an eternity. We were suspended in a sphere. Lights or stars rushed at us or receded or whirled about. Time and distance became mere words without meaning and I had fallen into a stateresembling hypnotic sleep when suddenly roused by Jack. 'There are the lines,' he shouted, and as far as the eye could see, to left and right, out of the darkness beneath us were the constant flashes of the never silent guns of the Flanders front. Every now and then we got a sudden 'bump' as a shell passed near us. I had fallen into an almost semiconscious state when 'tut-tut-tut-tut-tut' jumped me off my seat; I realized that I was surrounded by a dazzling whiteness; the machine itself was brilliant. Amidst the 'tut-tut-tut' of our own machine guns shooting down at the searchlights there was a constant dull 'whonk,' 'whonk,' 'whonk,' and the whole machine seemed to be enveloped in puffs of black smoke as the anti-aircraft batteries found the range.
"Suddenly the nose of the machine went down and my breath left me in the crazy rush, my hands grasped atanything, and somehow, momentarily blinded with fright as I was, my right hand involuntarily clutching Jack conveyed the truth to my brain. Jack was dead. He had fallen forward on the wheel and the giant plane was rushing, roaring down to destruction. With a spasmodic effort I pulled his body from the seat onto the floor at my feet and pulled back the wheel. With a sickening change and a shrill singing of wires we were climbing. How the fuselage and tail plane stood the strain of it, God knows. I was in Jack's seat now pushing the wheel from me, pulling it toward me, turning it to the right, then to the left, pushing the rudder bar with my right foot, then with my left. Panic was in control. We must have dropped three thousand feet before a sudden calmness came over me and I found this aerial monster as gentle to manage as a perfectly bitted horse.
"But there was Jack, huddled on thefloor at my feet with part of his head gone. I remember leaning down and trying to pull him out of his cramped position, and then came an eternity of stargazing. I wondered why the stars didn't run into each other and crash. I leaned across the fuselage and turned a pet-cock; a little spray of petrol came out with the escaping air; the hands of two dials on the left side of the cock-pit began turning slowly anti-clockwise; I forgot them and looked at the stars. Later I pressed a button on the dashboard and looked out at my starboard engine; a small dial was lit up. I looked at the port engine, a similar dial was lit up. I took my right hand from the wheel and pulled the throttle slightly back; again I star-gazed as if in a dream and without any volition I closed the pet-cock which I had previously opened.
"This was my first time in a Handley-Page, and I knew nothing of pressures ortemperatures. How long I flew I don't know; what direction I should have flown I did not know at that time. Occasionally I glanced at the compass and as well as I can remember the needle pointed west generally, but I gave it no thought. Finally I pulled back the throttle and began to glide. I leaned over the next seat and pulled two levers. Remember that at this time I had never heard of shutters for the radiators. Down I came into heavier and heavier atmosphere. I was calm and happy. I never even gave the ground a thought, never even glanced at it. I remember taking from a rack on my left a stubby revolver with a huge bore, pointing it over the side and pulling the trigger, and I watched a green light go slowly down and searchlights that were blinking up at me went out. A few seconds later a knob on the dashboard seemed to rivet my attention; it was a small knob exactly like anelectric-light switch. I began to play with this. To do this I had to lean forward and stretch out my left arm; this action brought my face around to the right, and as I played with the knob I saw a light blinking on my right wing tip. I remember laughing at this.
"The plane took a sudden dip and I sat up. Just off to my right and very little below me were lights on the ground in the shape of a 'T,' and other lights were flashing at me. I turned toward the 'T' and stuck down the nose of the machine; I pulled the throttle farther back, and just as I seemed to be running into dense blackness I leaned forward and pressed a button; a brilliant light sprang up under the machine; there was the ground not two feet away, apparently. I yanked back the wheel and a moment later there was a great bump, another and another, and we came to rest on our own aerodrome.
"The doctor told me that he had never seen such a collapse. I had been unconscious for hours after being lifted from the machine together with my dead pal. I was awarded this decoration, gentlemen, for bringing that machine home safely. Since that time I have been awarded these other decorations for feats you have all heard of. But I want to tell you," and "Mystery Dick" stood up with flushed face and blazing eyes, "that I have never flown an aeroplane in France. Jack, my old pal, dare-devil Jack, whose head was blown off beside me during my first trip across the lines, flies my machine. Jack, dear old Jack, has won these medals I wear."
And Dick, no longer "Mystery Dick," left the mess. I say no longer "Mystery Dick" because from that day on there was nothing mysterious about Dick to the "Bedouins."
Explain it as you may, call it God, thespirit of a dead friend, or a thought vibration to which their mind is attuned, explain it as you choose, or try to explain it not at all, every member of the "Bedouin" Squadron has felt the "Guiding Hand" and every "Bedouin" knew, as every man who makes constant companions of danger and death must eventually know, that the dead still "carry on."
The Riverside Press
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