CHAPTER XIXA MID-AIR BATTLE
Somewhere in France,Friday.
It was a sleepy old-world town hidden away in the sunny hills of Northern France, with a broad highway leading from the town in either direction and easily distinguishable from the air as being a first-class or main road, by its extraordinary width and the superabundance of traffic passing to and fro. We were still flying low and could easily distinguish the long strings of motor cars, convoys of ambulance wagons, supply and ammunition columns. In one place a battalion of reinforcements, marching up towards the firing line with their transport wagons in the rear. Further up and nearer to the firing line were a string of motor ’buses, crowded outside with Tommies, their bayonets gleaming silver as they caught the rays of the early sun. In another place a small traction-engine was hauling a chain of limbers, on which were the parts of a “grandmother” (naval 15-inch gun) being hurried up to take part in that murderous duel along the lines.
We are now getting nearer the dreaded area, and for the sake of comfort and safety have to climb higher. The surface of the earth, however, still remains distinct. The long gray winding lines of trenches stretch away to the north and south as far as the eye can reach. In some places as much as half a mile divides them, in others they are so close together, that from above they appear to “kiss.” But our happy soliloquizing is broken by the burst of a shrapnel shell in the near vicinity. No more time for thought now.
Diving, climbing, banking, anywhere to get away from those awful shells, and who can give description to the dreadful sensations one undergoes the first time under shrapnel fire in mid-air? Heaven and earth seem to be rent in twain by those murderous little balls of smoke and flame and lead.
One’s past life rises before one’s eyes, sometimes most unpleasantly. Shells burst all round, above, below, to the left, to the right. At one moment over the nose of the machine, the next beneath the tail. Once hit, and the aeroplane and its occupants will plunge down to an agonizing death on the ground, many thousands of feet below.
“And this,” once remarked a cynic of one of theflying Services, “is what the men in the trenches call a soft job.”
By the time we have the opportunity of looking over the side again, we are well into the enemy’s country. In appearance this is an almost absolute replica of the area behind our own lines. There are the reserve trenches; there the big-gun emplacement and the advance hospitals, battalion, brigade and divisional headquarters, and far, very far, in the background, the German G. H. Q.
We keep a wary eye open for movements of troops or supplies, but there is nothing doing. The enemy, like ourselves, is browsing on this beautiful September morning. Again we are troubled with the bursting “Archies,” and again we climb higher, this time above the clouds, that stretch all round and beneath us in a billowy snow-white sea. Slowly we creep round a big white fellow towards the sun, when out from a distant corner, like a spider from his web, there darts an enemy machine. Has he seen us? For a moment he keeps on his way, then suddenly round goes his nose, and he comes towards us “down-wind” at a great pace. As he draws near we discover that he is double-engined and mounts two machine-guns. He has the advantage both in the matterof guns and speed, which counts for a great deal in an aerial combat. With a faster turn of speed and the wind at his back, a good pilot should be able to overcome an enemy machine, however large and however heavily armed.
While still about five hundred yards away, he opens fire, but without effect, his bullets fly wide on either side of us. We reserve our fire. Now he is almost on top of us, and in the upper berth, thus having a great advantage. He is over us; the great shadow of his machine comes between the sun and ourselves. All the time his observer is firing wildly, some of his shots have punctured the wings, but thank God, none came near the body. The danger is over. It has been a narrow escape.
We climb as fast as possible, then turn to find him coming to meet us, almost on end. Another machine-gun duel between the observers. We have got him this time; he is hit, he drops suddenly. A few more shots from our gun and it will be all over with him. But our gun has jammed, hastily the observer tries to remedy it. It is too late. We have missed our opportunity. Nothing else for it but to put a new tray of ammunition in the gun and have another go at him. How difficultthis is in mid-air! In the safety ofterra firmait is the easiest thing in the world to take the gun to pieces, or to change the ammunition tray, but here, in the confined space of an aeroplane up in mid-air it is an entirely different matter. We are only just ready when he turns to meet us. Another duel—he has passed by.
Again we both wheel to the combat. This time he is on top of us. We give up hope, and prepare for the worst. On the top of us again; his shooting is bad, but he has got the observer in the arm. Turn round to escape—no combat possible with the man at the gunhors de combat; but the observer, plucky fellow! does not know the meaning of defeat. He signals to his pilot to carry on. We turn again. The enemy is confident that he has winged us. Too confident! We wait till he is almost level with us before we fire. Then zipp, zipp, zipp, he is hit. He plunges downward. We get on top of him. Another round of lead into his back. It is all over, he plunges headlong to earth; and with a feeling of regret for our gallant foe, who fought so well, we turn homewards to earth, peace, and safety.