"Above the hostile lands I fly,And know, O Lord, that Thou art nigh,And with Thy ever-loving careDost bear me safely through the air.Thou madest the twinkling Polar Star,Which guides me homewards from afar;And Thou hast made my greatest boon,The radiant visage of the moon."—A Night Hymn.Written sixty milesbeyond the German lines.
"Above the hostile lands I fly,And know, O Lord, that Thou art nigh,And with Thy ever-loving careDost bear me safely through the air.
Thou madest the twinkling Polar Star,Which guides me homewards from afar;And Thou hast made my greatest boon,The radiant visage of the moon."
—A Night Hymn.Written sixty milesbeyond the German lines.
Early in the war it became necessary to destroy a railway bridge some way behind the German lines. This structure was an important link in the enemy's lines of communication, and its destruction was of vital importance. The work was given to one of the very early squadrons to accomplish, and it was carried out in rather an unusual way.
From the moonlit aerodrome there rose into the quiet night a little two-seaterB.E. 2C. machine, with a pilot and an observer as the crew. Soon this hummingbird of the darkness was winging its steady way across the German front lines, and met as opposition only the scattered and inaccurate firing of machine-gunners and rifle-men on the ground.
The observer closely compared his lamp-lit chart, and the pale map of the moonlit country below him. With unerring certainty the airmen moved across field and forest, farm and village, till they saw some distance ahead of them the gleam of a silver streak of water. As they drew nearer they saw the shining curves of a river, across which, at one point, lay a straight black line. It was their bridge.
At once the noise of the engine ceased and the machine began to sink gently on softly singing wires towards the ground. Bigger grew the woods, wider the thin white roads, deeper the soft and velvety shadows. Over the tops of some trees they floated. The rolling expanse of a field rose up to them. The machine quivered and jerked, and soon was rolling softly along the grass. Before it had stopped the observer had jumped out, and he hurriedly lifted a bulkypackage from his cockpit. He waved to the pilot. He heard the sudden roar of the engine, and the machine slipped faster and faster across the field and rose up towards the stars, leaving him alone on the ground in the midst of his enemies, many long miles from his own lines.
Quickly he ran to the edge of a wood, and he was soon creeping silently through the dim lattice-work of moonlight and rippling shadows. In a little while he heard the soft murmur of rapid waters, and he came to the edge of the river. He followed its course for a time, threading his way through the trees near the bank. When he could see the bridge some two hundred yards away he slipped into the river, and wading waist-high in the water, with his precious packet held well above the surface, he moved slowly and silently toward the moonlit arches of stone.
Above him he could now hear the hum of his machine, and he saw it sweep overhead quite low down. It turned rapidly and dived down straight towards the bridge, and he heard thepok,pok,pokof its machine-gun. With a great rush of sound it roared upwards again and banked steeplyalmost above him. Now he could hear the noise of an approaching train, and he saw the restless machine, whose pilot was deliberately distracting the attention of the sentries by his acrobatics and the noise of his engine, dive towards it. There was a sudden flash of light and a very loud detonation. The pilot had released one of his bombs. Then once more sounded the metallic hammering of his machine-gun.
Meanwhile the observer had reached the base of one of the stone piers which supported the bridge. The excited sentries had not noticed his presence, and now he was safely hidden in the gloom of the arch. With the water swirling round his waist he worked feverishly to remove one of the stones. At last it was loosened sufficiently to be withdrawn. In its place he put his precious packet, which was a charge of high explosive. This he secured firmly in position, and then, having set the fuse, he began to return, through the water, to his starting place. Another swift flash illuminated the leaves of the riverside bushes. It was followed by a second thundering explosion, as another bomb burst near the crowded troop train which still had not crossed the bridge.
In a few minutes he clambered up the bank and hurried through the magic beauty of the moonlit wood. He reached the edge of the field where he had landed, and stood waiting. He looked at the luminous face of his watch. The pilot was going to allow him fifteen minutes. Fourteen had passed. He knew his friend would not fail him whatever happened, so though he stood, soaking wet and alone, surrounded by the now angry enemy, he did not feel at all alarmed.
Overhead he heard the drone of the engine, which suddenly stopped, to be followed by the faint, scarcely-heard hiss of the wires as the machine began to glide downwards to the ground. Soon a shadowy shape moved swiftly across the ground and stopped. The observer ran over to it and climbed quickly into his seat. He shouted to the pilot of the success of his operation, and then with a roar and rush was borne upwards, and to his relief found himself flying swiftly once more through the friendly air.
Even as they turned to start on their long homeward journey a great sullen roar rose to them from below, and they saw that no more across the silver streak of the river laya black line, for now it was obscured by a cloud of smoke, which slowly dissipated and revealed a great gap in the bridge, near which was the red glow of the locomotive that no longer could take forward its carriages loaded with troops destined for a now impossible railhead.
That happened in the early days of the war. Swiftly developed the powerful arm of the air. Great were the changes in thought. Mighty the new weapons of destruction....
"C.O. wants to see you at once in the Mapping Office."
It is four o'clock on September 29, 1917.
I hurry to the little hut by the mess and pass through the door. Over the long desk leans the grave-faced squadron commander, the great pioneer of night-bombing. With a pencil and a ruler he carefully studies a map.
"Is that you, Bewsher?" he says. "Look here, I want you to go to Namur to-night; do you think you can do it?"
"I think so, sir."
"Well! Look! It is a hundred and twenty miles the other side of the lines.There is a big railway bridge there—the Luxembourg bridge—here—see! That is the only railway bridge for a hundred miles of the river. If it is put out of action the German lines of communication are badly broken. The Army H.Q. are very keen on it. It is a great chance for the squadron—and a great chance for you. Brackley will be the pilot. You had better go to see him. How are you going to find the way?"
"Know the way up to Ghent, sir; shall go by landmarks after that!"
"Hum! Take my advice and fly by the compass, and only use landmarks as a check! Well, you will see!"
Now ensues three frantic hours of activity. I hurry off to see Brackley, who has just returned from leave, and at twelve o'clock was in Dover. The time of preparation is one series of kaleidoscopic pictures—of crawling inside a machine unfamiliar to either of us: of being taught the operation of a new petrol pressure system: of watching the loading of the four huge 250-lb. bombs, fat and yellow, which I have never before had the opportunity of dropping: of drawing a line from Dunkerque to Ghent, from Ghent to Namur, across the longgreen-and-brown map: of pondering the patches of the forests, the blue veins of the river, and thinking how in a few hours they will appear for me in reality, lying below in the moonlight, etched in dim shades of black and dull silver: of a strange dinner in the mess when semi-seriously, semi-facetiously I write out my will, leaving to one friend my books, to another friend my pictures: of having the document properly witnessed, and rushing out amidst cries of good luck: of the lonely dressing in leather and fur in my little hut: of the roar of the engines as we rise up at latest twilight towards the glittering companies of the stars.
It is a quarter to eight. Eight thousand feet above the coast near Dunkerque we move. My pilot is a senior officer, and I have never flown with him before, so I sit quietly and do not talk, as I watch carefully the dials of my petrol instruments, and also keep a careful eye on the country below. The pilot looks at the engines with a satisfied glance, and the machine swings round and points east.
Soon the dim pattern of the Dixmude floods lie below, reflecting the gleam of a quivering star-shell. In the sky aboveThorout appears a dazzling Very's light which drifts and dies—German machines are abroad in the darkness also. Far below now lies Thorout, and for a minute or two its pale beam waves vainly and impotent in the moonlit sky, its strength so dissipated that it is useless. Soon south of Ghent we move, and see to our right the landing lights of the huge Gotha aerodrome of Gontrode.
I stand up and look across the pilot, and count the lights.
"Eight on each side—two red at the west!" I say.
"I make it more," he comments. "Count again!"
I make sure of my accuracy, and draw in my note-book a detailed sketch of the landing arrangements.
"Look!" cries suddenly the pilot. "We've been heard!"
I peer down once more and see only the two red lights glowing on the ground. The two lines of white electric lamps have been switched off, for the drone of our engines has been heard high above the aerodrome.
Suddenly I realise that we will be heardthrough the whole of our long journey. The absence of searchlights and shell fire in these undefended regions makes one forget that from town to town, from village to village, the report of our progress is sent to a thousand military centres in a vast radius. Already our passage into virgin territory (for not for years has country east of Ghent been bombed at night) must be causing a sensation. Brussels must be apprehensive: Aix-la-Chapelle is feeling anxiety: Cologne is uneasy.
Now ahead of us I can see what never before have I seen—the lights of villages shining clearly in scintillating groups here and there across the pale moonlit country. With my map on my knees I pick up and check every railway and crossroad and forest below me in turn, and manage to keep the machine exactly over the line marked on the map.
"We're all right, sir!" I say to the pilot. "See this straight road on the map. There it is—there—see! See that forest crossing it—well—there it is! I am quite sure of our position. We come to a river soon ... look! look! do you see it—that silver streak over there?"
The pilot nods, looks at my map, and turns on the bright engine lights in order to examine the dials. To my slight discomfort he leaves them on as he flies ahead, evidently feeling confident of our safety.
Far ahead I can see a light flashing and flashing in a regular code. I presume it to be near Brussels, and point it out to the pilot. In a few minutes through the slight haze of the distance appears a great number of twinkling lights, and soon to our left I see a vast sea of glittering, shimmering gems, with lines of lights radiating outwards from it like the tentacles of an octopus. I suddenly realise that it is Brussels, and with a cry of utter delight stand up to look down more clearly at it. It is a wonderful spectacle. There, in one wide sweep before my eyes, lies the whole city, triumphantly blazing out into the night. I can see the long lines of the boulevards stretching through the mass of lights, on the outskirts of which glitter little villages, from which also radiate the lines of street lamps, as though illuminated starfish lay here and there across the country.Brussels—Brussels, beats through my brain as I see the Belgian capital,feeling safe in its remoteness from the lines flaming bravely in the darkness. I live through one of those rare moments of divinity which come to men when they see before them for the first time some sublime spectacle which perhaps has never been seen before.
In the middle of the town there flashes an aerial lighthouse. This is rather puzzling, as the German night-bombing aerodromes are many miles to the west, near the coast at Ghent and Bruges. I wonder for whom this light flashes and blinks. Then I suddenly realise that perhaps one of the infrequent Zeppelin raids is being carried out against England on this wonderfully clear night.
Brussels passes. Road and forest and village flow beneath us in a regular and expected stream. Slowly the minutes go by. Ten minutes to ten says the watch. For over two hours we have been in the air, and our engines show no signs of wavering. On them alone now depend our chances of return. Soon I see far ahead of me the silver ribbon of the Meuse shining in the haze of the horizon, and then the lights of Namur, cold andsparkling, appear by the side of the river. I examine every tiny landmark on the ground below, and check it with my map. There is no doubt. There lie the lights of the town—there lies the forest on its outskirts—there lie the two bridges, from one of which the thin black line of the railway trails off into the distance.
"Namur!" I say to the pilot.
He looks down and flies round in a wide circle in order to examine every point, and to ensure for himself that no doubt whatever exists as to the identity of the place. He is quite satisfied, and turns the machine towards the south-east. We cross the river south of the town as I explain to him my intentions. I want him to turn north-west, against wind, and to throttle the engines. We will glide down parallel to the railway line, which will help me to get a good line. We will reach the bridge at a low altitude, and I will drop my bombs. We will turn quickly down wind to escape.
Before I crawl into the back I point out to him some very bright lights in the direction of the Namur Zeppelin sheds, which seem to confirm my supposition of the activity ofGerman airships to-night. Then, with a final word of explanation, I stoop through the door behind my seat and lie on the floor of the machine. I slide open the little trap-door beneath the pilot's seat, and see a small square picture of moonlit country. Ahead there is just visible the curve of the river, and the black line of the bridge across it. Beneath me runs the railway track which is to be my guide. To my joy I can see, at one place upon this thin dark line, the intermittent red glowing of an engine's fire-box. In a swift moment I realise the actuality of the country below. For a second it ceases to be a map and becomes peopled with busy human beings. Oh, Namur (think I), ablaze with lights, you enjoy this moonlight night of late September, far, far from the turmoil of war, little conscious that overhead this very moment lies a fur-clad airman peering down at you, preparing to drop his terrific missiles, packed with fierce explosive! Laugh on in your cafés, you exquisitely-clad German ambusqués! For me this moment is rich and ecstatic. Then the difficulty of the task absorbs my mind. The noise of the engines has ceased. Through the machine sounds the faint rush of wind hissing andsighing round the tight-strung wires and planes as we sink lower and lower. My bomb-sight draws nearer and nearer to the bridge. Pressing the buttons of the direction indicator I steer the machine to right and left, as green or red glow the lights before the eyes of the pilot. The direction bar touches the bridge and drifts off to the left. I swing the machine round quickly, again the bar crosses the bridge, again it drifts off. We are flying slightly side to wind, and I can scarce keep the head of the machine on a straight course. The pale-glowing range-bars draw nearer and nearer, with a slow progression, to the black edge of the silver river. Again I press the right button; again a green light glows; again the machine swings towards the bridge. The range-bars cross the base of it. I press over the bomb handle quickly, ... and again. Clatter—click—clatter—click—click—clatter sound the opening and closing bomb doors behind me as bomb after bomb slides out into the moonlight depths below. For a moment I see the fat yellow shapes, clear-lit in the pale light beneath me, go tumbling down and down towards the dim face of the country.
I hurry back to my seat beside the pilot.
"Half dropped, sir. 'Fraid they will not get it. Oh! I am sorry, sir! I am sorry! We drifted!"
One, two, three red flashes leap up in the water of the river some hundred yards to the south of the bridge. One, two more flashes, more rapid and brilliant, leap up on the moonlight embankment, leaving large white clouds of smoke.
"Jolly good! You didn't miss by much!" he says encouragingly.
Boom—boom—BOOM—boom—BOOM! sound the five explosions as we turn. It is strange to look at Namur—still sparkling beautifully with a wealth of light under the stars—still unchanged, though we know that the thundering clamour of these five unexpected explosions must have stirred up the placid life of the little tranquil town till it is seething like an ant-hill upset by the wayside. In the squares and streets must run the alarmed population, rushing to and fro aimlessly, utterly terrified. In the military headquarters the telephones and telegraphs must have burst into a sudden activity. The vibrant roar of the explosions must have been heard for a greatdistance. Even in remote Aix-la-Chapelle the strolling Germans must have wondered at the far-away sound drifting to them under the stars.
Again we fly to the south: again we turn and start on our second "run" over the target: again I crawl into the back, steeled this time by a great anxiety and a great determination, for I realise the enormous responsibility which is mine. With the five remaining bombs behind me I have, if possible, to destroy the great railway bridge, which to me will appear only a small black match laid across the silver ribbon of the river. If the bridge is destroyed or damaged the German communications will be vitally interfered with, the moving of their troops will be interrupted, the pressure on the British lines will be relieved. If I fail, that much-desired relief will not take place, and therefore many more British soldiers may be killed. That is not all, however—for failure means that this expensive raid is wasted; the reputation of the squadron is tarnished; the official approval of Handley-Pages as long-distance night-bombers is reversely affected; and, least of all, though of great importanceto myself, my splendid opportunity for a great achievement is lost. With this sense of responsibility weighing heavily on me I lie down, peering through the little square hole. My face is wet with the perspiration of anxiety in spite of the intense cold of the biting wind: my hands shake with excitement. I decide to take the machine to the river along the railway line, and slightly to the east of it, and then to judge the wind drift so that the machine is turned by it to the left, when I will press the starboard signal button and swing the machine at an angle across the bridge, and then drop my bombs. It is a great risk, and unless I judge exactly I will not succeed.
In a fever of apprehension, and with my whole being concentrated on the relation of the fine wires and bars of my bomb-sight with the black thread of the railway far below me, I lie on the varnished strips of wood on the floor of the machine, my legs flung wide apart behind me, my bare hands and face frozen with the icy blast of wind, my uncovered eyes running with water. Nearer and nearer to the bridge draw the two range-bars. Gently and rarely do Itouch the starboard signal button, to swing the machine again and again to the right as the wind drifts it to the left. We are near the bridge—we are almost over it. I press the starboard button determinedly, and I see the glow of green light illuminate the dashboard. To the right swings the machine. White glows a light as I press the central button. I look below quivering with anxiety. The machine ceases its leftward drift and swings to the right, and the two luminous range-bars are in line with the bridge. I grasp the bomb-handle and once, twice, press it over. I look behind—the bombs are all gone. It is all over! The irrevocable deed has been done! The failure or success of the long raid is sealed. I climb clumsily to my feet and look through the door beside the pilot.
"All gone, sir, I ... Oh! look,look!"
Upon the thin black line of the bridge leap out two great flashes, leaving a cloud of moonlit smoke which entirely obscures one end of it.
"Oh—damn good—damn good!" yells out the pilot excitedly. "Hit it!Hit it!You've hit it! Oh—priceless—priceless!"
"Good—oh, sir! I am glad. It is hit, isn't it, sir? Two of them. Iambucked!"
Almost crying with joy we shake hands, and he thumps me cheerfully on the back.
"Something for you for this when we get back!" he says. "Oh! damn good—damn good, Paul. Priceless—priceless!"
I look round, and in the back of the machine I see a sight which left the clearest image of this raid in my mind. There stands the moonlit figure of the tall good-humoured gunlayer, and with a characteristic gesture I see him put out his arms with the thumbs pointing upwards—the most sincere expression of congratulation he can deliver. My heart goes out in gratitude to this solitary man who already, for nearly three hours, has stood alone on a thin platform in the back of the machine, watching and eager, knowing that he has no control over his destiny, that his life lies in the hands of the little figure whose black head he can see so far away from him in the nose of the machine.
Now we turn at once and start on our long homeward trail. Exhilarated with a glorious feeling of success, so contented and glowing with joy that I am not affected bythe fact of being over a hundred miles from friendly territory, I sit on my seat with legs gaily swinging, and read Dickens, write letters and verses, drink tea and eat sandwiches, and chatter incessantly to the pilot, who, in his satisfaction, does not mind.
"You'll get something for this—if we cross the lines all right!" he says with his usual restrained optimism.
Charleroi sparkles on our left. Near it at La Louvière flashes an aerial lighthouse, whose presence I record on my note-book. Having found our way to Namur by map, we seem to return by a curious kind of homing instinct. We know where we are as if by second nature. Indeed so little do I trouble that I mistake Courtrai for Roulers, but it makes but little difference. Such confidence have I in our safety, so lovely is the moon-drenched night, so friendly are the undefended skies, that we fly on and on as in a stupor of utter bliss. We know that if we return we are famous, and we know we will return. Song and laughter, and rich thoughts of far-distant London and its proffered glories when next comes leave, fill my drowsy brain. I hug the pilot's arm affectionately. At twelve o'clock he was atDover, now scarcely eleven hours after he is coming back from Namur. How wonderful it is—how wonderful he is!
Ypres flickers to the left with its ever uneasy artillery fire. In our ease we do not even trouble to cross the lines as soon as possible, but fly on parallel to them, some five miles on the German side. At last we turn and cross slowly over the white blossoms of the ever-rising, ever-drooping star-shells.
Back towards Dunkerque we fly, and the pilot says over again to me—
"You did jolly well, old man. You'll get something for this—if we land safely!"
I wonder what his conditional clause will be when we are on the ground—"if you live to get it"—probably!
Soon the welcome landing T glows far below us. We fire our white light: at once the white light rises from below. "Charlie," the raid officer, is faithfully on the watch, as he must have been now for long hours, awaiting our return.
We glide downwards, and in a moment of exultation the pilot, to my everlasting regard for him, sweeps a few feet over the aerodrome, yelling with me in utter excitement—
"Horray! Horray! Horray! Horray!"
I lean far over the side screaming out my joy in this mad whirling rush over the grass. On roar the engines: we sweep swiftly upwards again, and turn, and land.
As soon as the machine has stopped crowds press round us. A Ford car is waiting to take us over to the headquarters.
"Oh! Damn good," says the pilot. "We hit it—but I take no credit for it. It was this child's show—he did it!"
"Bilge! You were great, sir. I never saw such steering!"
In the jolting little car we whirl across a bridge, alongside the canal, and across a second bridge to my beloved camp, and our beloved C.O.
His words of congratulation at the news would be reward for a hundred such trips.
"Well!" he says at last, "I suppose you did it by compass!"
"No, sir! By landmarks!"
When at last I walk back alone, under the starlit sky, to my cabin, it seems utterly impossible to believe that Ihavebeen actually to Namur—that I have actually travelled over three hundred miles since I last walked along that path a few hours ago. It seemsincredible that my soft right hand has actually this night caused damage and brought death to that far, far remote place, which even now is in a state of confusion. Vividly I realise the amazing wonder of flying; vividly I feel the strange fascination of night-bombing, with its long journeys and sense of domination—its sense of being almost divine.
Five weeks later, to the mapping office comes the intelligence report—
"A Rapatrié reports:—On the night of September 29th Allied aircraft successfully attacked the Luxembourg bridge at Namur, which was badly damaged. 17 German civilians were killed."
TRAGEDY.
"No gold of poetry will deck this tale,This gloomy record of an awful night;With pleasant words my fear I will not veil,Or hide the horrors of the fatal flight.So all seemed peace to us as we flew on,When suddenly the hand of heartless fatePassed lightly over us, and then was gone,But it had left a legacy of hate."—The Ordeal.
"No gold of poetry will deck this tale,This gloomy record of an awful night;With pleasant words my fear I will not veil,Or hide the horrors of the fatal flight.
So all seemed peace to us as we flew on,When suddenly the hand of heartless fatePassed lightly over us, and then was gone,But it had left a legacy of hate."
—The Ordeal.
"To-night an attempt is going to be made to sink blocking vessels, filled with cement, in the harbour mouths at Ostend and Zeebrugge. It is intended, as a distraction, to land specially trained men on the Mole, where they are going to burn down and destroy everything they can.
"The whole plan has been under consideration for weeks, and has been carefully worked out. We have been given the task of lending assistance by two methods—by desultory bombing, and by droppingflares. I have here a number of cards—one for each machine. On these cards are given the exact details of the duty given to that machine. If you follow them exactly the aerial operations will work without a hitch. Roughly, the idea is like this: From 10 o'clock till 1A.M.machines will be bombing Zeebrugge Mole and Batteries incessantly—as one machine finishes, another will carry on. Then, beginning from one o'clock—when the bombing parties will be attacking the Mole—you will begin to drop parachute flares to help the people on the ground to see what they are doing. A great flare will be lit on a vessel twenty miles north-west of Ostend to show that up to then operations are proceeding satisfactorily, and also as a final check for time.
"This is a great opportunity for the Squadron. The work given to us, if carried out satisfactorily, will be of enormous value to the Naval units. I know I can rely on you to do what is required. Now this is the list of the machines: First machine—Pilot J. R. Allan, Observer P. Bewsher—bombs Zeebrugge Mole from 10.30 to 11.30—drops flares at 1 o'clock...."
The Wing Commander reads on hisorders in the crowded mapping office. When the long and detailed list is completed, we pour out into the twilight, wildly excited. Long had the secret been kept: no one knew much of the plans.
The first thought which came to my mind was that of the marines and sailors, somewhere out there in the chilly North Sea, who were in a few hours to steam into an absolute inferno of death. I felt how terrible would be my feelings if I had been one of them—and they were volunteers. Then comes as a light relief the thought of the solitary German sentry at the tip of the Mole, and the rude shock he was going to have. Then the pilot to whom I was allotted claimed my attention.
He was a freckled, red-headed youth, brave, fearless, capable—easily the most popular man in the squadron—a pilot with a wonderful reputation as a night-bomber; he had behind him the record of innumerable successful raids, when, in spite of all difficulty, he had successfully driven home the attack. He was a Canadian from Montreal, and the finest man I had met in the services. I was proud to have been given the opportunity to act as his observer.
He joined me with my own pilot "Jimmy," now acting as Squadron Commander, and so, to his chagrin, unable to take part in this raid.
"Here's Paul! Well, what do you think of it?"
"Hum! I've never been to Zeebrugge. An hour over the Mole sounds pretty beastly. What I don't like though is that wait—eleven-thirty to one,—that sounds pretty foul to me!"
"Jimmy!" he says, turning to my pilot, "I have got the wind up! I don't know why! I don't like the idea somehow. I tell you frankly I'm windy about it!"
"That's funny!" I remark. "I nearly always have the wind up—you ask Jimmy—but I haven't to-night. I am rather looking forward to it. Of course I have the usual cold feet, like I do before every raid, but nothing bad. I reckon I'll be all right withyou!"
Only a week ago I was in a convalescent home at Peebles in remote Scotland, amidst the fir-clad hills, and now in the wide shadowy plains of Northern France I prepare to start for a fierce night of midnight attack and hostile defence over Zeebrugge.
To-night we are to fire no "carry-on"light, for whatever the weather may be the raid must be carried out to assist the naval attack from the sea.
A mist lies over the sea and land, and scarcely in the darkness can we see the black line of the shore. A red and a green light glows in the mist at Nieuport and fades. It is the first "hostile aircraft" signal of the night, which little the Germans know is going to be such a frenzied one and so devoid of rest. Again at Ostend glow the lurid signals in the mist, and again near Blankenberghe. It is only ten. Not yet can we fly on to Zeebrugge. We decide to fly right out to sea past the Dutch frontier, to turn in over the border, and come back to Zeebrugge a few miles inland from the coast.
At Zeebrugge glow red and green flares. We have been heard far out to sea. Two searchlights shoot up into the sky, and stand slim sentinels of blue-white light, undecided in the mist. The pilot throttles slightly, and turns the machine out to sea. It is not intended that too early in the evening should Zeebrugge be excited. Looking behind, I see that the two searchlights have been extinguished. The suspicionswhich we aroused have been allayed. Ten minutes past ten now. We turn to the right and begin to fly in towards the Belgo-Dutch frontier. At twenty minutes past ten we are nearly over the land, and I can just see the little creek which marks the boundary line. We make a few wide circles in order to pass away the time, and then, at twenty-three minutes past ten we turn west and begin to fly towards Zeebrugge over the land.
Upwards stabs a searchlight, and then another and another. Eight or more of them move across the sky before us. I cannot see the coast. The sea and the land is welded into one dim whole by the dark mist. This makes my task difficult, for one searchlight seems to be stationed much too far to the right to be on the coast, and I wonder whether it is on the tip of the Mole or on some patrol-boat.
The pilot throttles the engines, and we begin to glide downwards. I am not anxious about the poor visibility, because I know well that to-night the importance of our bomb-dropping lies not so much in its destructive value as in its moral effect. Keeping my eye on two powerful searchlightsclose together, which I feel sure are at the base of the Mole, I peer through the door in the bottom of the machine and steer the pilot with the signal-buttons. Never have I been to Zeebrugge before, and the prospect has ever seemed so alarming that now in actuality I am not as afraid as I expected. Nearer and nearer to the wide moving beams of white light we move. I hear the scarcely-revolving engines clanking slightly to either side of me, and I can feel the gentle rise and fall of the machine in a long slow glide. A string of vivid green balls suddenly rises up from the ground and lights up an expanse of sea and the shadowy line of the sand-dunes. In front of us they rise, for which I am grateful, as they give me a guide to my position.
Now the bases of the two swinging pillars of light which I have taken as my mark lie beneath my bomb-sight. I press the bomb-handle forward slightly, and climb up leisurely beside the pilot.
We glide sedate and silent between these tall blades of light which only move slightly. We can scarcely be heard, and so they do not know quite what to do. Far belowflashes our first bomb. Each searchlight jerks into sudden movement. A long string of green balls climbs dutifully up to our left, and falls gracefully over and expires. I lean lazily and singularly unafraid, in my seat, watching the vast scene of midnight activity with a languid interest.
We cross the coast-line again near the Dutch frontier, and turn over the sea towards Zeebrugge. Then begins a wild hour. Somehow to-night we feel that nothing can touch us. We feel that we can in safety take any risks. Again and again we fly into Zeebrugge. Through the mist the great white beams stagger and wheel and swoop and wait. For once they do not terrify me. In the haze I see the quick flashes of the guns, and shell after shell bursts in a barrage over the Mole. In the ghostly light of the incessant green balls I see the round puffs of the shell-bursts, actually touching each other in a long line, so closely together are they placed as a barrier.
We drop two bombs over the Mole at a low height, and, pursued by the malignant searchlights and the rapid ineffectual flashes of the shells, swing out to sea, turn in once more, and drop another bomb. Again andagain we do this, and so madly excited and conscious of safety do I feel that I fire a bright light after each attack to show my contempt of the defences. As the red or green light drifts down I see the searchlights leap over towards it, and far below, above the shining waters, appears a great white star-shell which the nervous and uneasy Germans have fired over the sea, evidently feeling that to-night there may be some unexpected trouble from below as well as from above.
In one of these quick tip-and-run attacks I lie gazing happily through the square trap-door, and see a string of green balls rise towards me from the centre of the Mole. As they rise they light up the whole of its dim curve, and I see that, instead of the usual boom of four anchored barges at its tip, to-night there are eight.
In a second I am beside the pilot.
"Roy! You know those four barges—off the tip of the Mole? Well, there are eight to-night! Don't you think we should go back at once and have it 'wirelessed' to the fleet so that the block ships know? We could be back in time for our flare stunt!"
He shakes his head.
"No! We better carry on now. It would probably be too late; and anyway, maybe they know!"
So I return to my scene of operations on the floor, and drop my last two bombs near the Mole. Our work over for the time being, we turn out to sea. As we move away, we see the shape of another great Handley-Page pass exactly over us as it flies on to attack Zeebrugge Mole for another hour. Our place is taken at once. The attack is being carried out, as arranged, in exact detail.
Now, some ten miles from the unseen land we fly up and down on a two-mile beat or so, waiting for the laggard minutes to pass. A few wan stars shine sparely through the mirk, which ever grows thicker and thicker around us. Now and again I see a misty chain of green balls rise up in the distance, gleaming palely in the haze. Here and there, too, move the weak beams of the searchlights. At last it is one o'clock, and towards the north our steadfast gaze is turned as we await the great flare which should record in a moment of dazzling light the imminence of the terrific conflict that so soon is to take place. Far, far below in thatdim waste of sea, unseen yet somehow felt, the great fleet of vessels must be drawing nearer and nearer, and these brave men must be standing on the decks ready to die. A few minutes pass, and then suddenly the pilot utters a cry.
"Look! The starboard engine's boiling!"
At once the clamour of the engine ceases, and I look quickly to the radiator on the right, from the top of which is blown backwards a thin streak of white water and steam. As the engine cools through inaction, the ill-boding wisp of spray lessens and dies. Carefully, slowly, and with an evident anxiety, the pilot pushes forward the throttle, and the engines open out with a growing roar. On the little cap of the starboard radiator our eyes are fixed. Slowly the slender white scarf appears again, and grows wider and more evident in the darkness. It is the pale finger of doom....
"We better go back at once!" he says, and turns the machine towards the west.
With engines partly throttled we begin to glide slowly downwards. I stand up and peer below into the murk in an effort to distinguish the distant coast-line. The night is too thick, however, and I can see nothing.
The long slow glide continues. For a little while no anxiety ruffles the calm of my brain. I look vaguely at the compass, an instrument whose red and blue face has long been unfamiliar to me. I look at the height indicator, at the watch, and then gaze unperturbed below me to the black emptiness of mist. Suddenly I realise we are only four thousand feet above the sea, and are ignorant of our position. At that moment we sink into an enveloping haze, half cloud, half mist. Below, above, to right and left, we can see nothing—no stars, no light, no dim dark line of land. We steer towards the west, and anxiously I watch the height indicator. For ten uneasy minutes we move through this vapoury blackness, and then break through it. Two thousand five hundred feet, says the height indicator.
"I say, Roy, what shall we do? I can't see anything below. I don't know where we are at all!"
"Drop a flare, Paul," he replies very calmly.
I crawl into the back, and, pushing forward a small metal lever fixed to the side of the machine, I hurry forwards to my seat and look below. Suddenly a light bursts intobrilliancy beneath us, and I can see a ball of white fire hanging below a frail white parachute. By this quivering illumination is lit up a circle of cold oily water. We are still over the sea.
"Sea, Roy! What shall we do? I can see no lights. I don't know where we are!"
Two thousand feet records the height indicator.
"Drop another flare ... we will be all right, old man!" says the splendid pilot.
Again I crawl into the back and push forward a lever. Again bursts out a light beneath a little parachute. Again I see below a dim circle of cruel, cold, waiting sea. All round us lies the damp empty mist. Far, far away I can see the white beam of a searchlight, but whether it be on land or on a boat I cannot tell. All I know is that it is too far distant to allow us to reach it.
Again, at fifteen hundred feet, I drop a parachute flare. An icy fear is creeping over my body now. Below, in the light of the third flare, still lies the sea. We must glide down helplessly into the water, in the darkness, and die....
"Oh, Roy!... Look! A boat!"
"Yes! I see it! I am going to land near it."
"But supposing it is a block-ship going into Ostend?"
"Fire white lights as quick as you can!" is his order.
For a moment we have seen in the pallid light of one of the hanging flares the wide shape of a boat moving slowly through the sea, leaving a broad white wake behind it. Near it, from one or more points, long, thin, smaller wreaths of white vapour lie across the water, and are evidently a smoke-screen.
Feverishly I begin to load my Very's light pistol, and fire it—load and fire—and white ball of light after white ball drops and dies, drops and dies. Just over the top of the masts of the huge ship we sweep, and below I can see its decks, with all the orderly complication of a boat's fittings, clear in the light of one of the flares.
"Help! Help! Help! Help!..." I scream with every ounce of my strength in a long unending succession of pleading cries, leaning far over the side.
"We will be all right! Cheer up, old man!" says the pilot, smiling at me. "We will be all right! Drop all the flares...."
I rush into the back, and push over quickly all the little levers by the side of the machine. I climb forwards into my seat, and see that we are only twenty feet or so from the water, which lies swelling and heaving with an oily heartless calm all round us, lit up by the wavering light of the parachute flares. For a moment I see the sides of a ship on the right sweep past us and vanish. Then I realise we are just above the sea, which now streaks below us: I see the two whirling discs of the propeller on either side; I put one foot on my seat ... ready....
CRASH! Crack—splinter—hiss—there is a sudden, swift, tremendous noise and splash of water, and I feel myself whirling over and over, spread-eagle-wise, through the air. I hit the water with a terrible impact ... there is a white jagged flash of fire in my brain, I feel the sudden agony of a fearful blow ... and sensation ends.
I become conscious of an utter fear. In sodden flying clothes, now terribly heavy, I find myself being dragged under the water as though some sea-monster were gripping my ankles and pulling me under the water. My head sinks beneath the surface, and, inspired by an absolute terror, I franticallybeat out my hands. I realise in a swift vivid second that I am going to die—that this is the end. As my head rises again I become conscious of the oil-glittering surface of the sea, shining strangely in the light of the three flickering parachute flares which hang above me like three altar-lamps of death. Here, in the irresistible weight of these soaked clothes, only semi-conscious and quite hysterical, I begin a ceaseless, piteous wail. "Help! Help!..."
In my weakness I sink again below the water, and thrust out my arms wildly to keep myself up, panting furiously, and crying for help.
Some twenty feet or so away the top wing of the machine lies out of the water at an angle, a dark high wall a hundred feet along. Inspired into frantic energy by my sheer dread of dying, I begin to fling myself along the surface of the water with the insane strength of despair. I kick out my heavy legs, so cumbered with the great leather flying boots and huge fur-lined overalls. Frenziedly I beat my arms. Again and again I sink. Nearer and nearer grows the shining surface of the tight fabric.
"Oh! Help! Help!"
Under the water goes my agony-twisted mouth. Again I rise and resume the unending cry to the empty night.
At last I reach the wing and begin to beat vainly upon its smooth steep surface with my sodden leather gloves. There is nothing on which I can grip, and with an ever-growing weakness I drag my hands down, down, down its wet slope like a drowning dog at the edge of a quay. It seems awful to die so near some kind of help. Kicking my legs out, I manage to move along the wing and at last come to the hinge, where the wing is folded back when not in use, and there I find a small square opening into which I can thrust my hand.
With a feeling of immense relief I let my body sink down into the water. One hand and my head are above the surface. So weak am I, and so heavy my water-soaked flying clothes, that I can scarce hold up my weight. Across my battered face is plastered the fur of my flying-cap. My strength is so rapidly ebbing away that I know that in but a few minutes I will have to leave go and drown unless I am helped. So once again I send my sad wail across the cruel shining waters. Now and again I hear adeep dull boom sound across the sea, and I presume that somewhere a monitor is shelling the German coast.
Now I suddenly see sitting astride the top of the plane, some nine or ten feet above me, a muffled figure. I think at once that my pilot is saved and begin to shout out—
"Hello! Roy! I can't hang on! Oh! I can't hang on! What shall I do? Is any one coming? Is there any chance?... I'm drowning, I'm drowning!"
"Hang on if you can!" comes the encouraging answer. "There is a boat coming!"
My strength, however, has almost gone, and it is an effort even to hold up my head above the water.
Now does reason whisper to me to leave go. You have got to die one day, it says, and if you sink down now and drown you will suffer scarcely at all. Since you have suffered such agony already, why not drift away easily to dim sleep and the awakening dreams of the new life. Leave go, it whispers, leave go. Tempted, I listen to the voice, and agree with it. Shall I leave go, I ask myself; and then instinct, the never absent impulse of life, cries out, "No!Hang on!" and I hang on with renewed strength inspired by the dread of approaching death.
"Hang on, hang on! The boat is coming up!" shouts the man above me.
"Oh! what are they doing? I can't hang on any longer!"
"They're lowering a boat—hang on—they'll be here soon!" encourages the watcher on the wing.
Changing hands I turn round quickly, and vaguely see in the darkness a motor-launch or some such boat, twenty feet or so away.
"Hurry, hurry,hurry!" I yell, dreading that my strength may give out in these last moments of waiting. It seems utterly wonderful that I may be saved. I realise how fortunate it is that the machine is floating. If it were to sink but a foot or two, and the little hole through which my hand is thrust were to go under the water with it, then I should not be able to hold myself up, and would soon die. Still sounds the roar of near-by explosions: still shines the smooth cruel sea around me: still float the quivering flares above; then I hear the glorious sound of a voice crying—
"Where are you? Give us a hail so that we can find you!"
"Here—here! Hanging on the wing! Do come quickly—docome—I can't hang on any longer."
I hear the splash of oars, and then two strong arms slip under my armpits, and I am dragged up to the edge of the boat. I am utterly weak and can use no muscle at all, so for a moment or two they struggle with me, and then I fall over the side on to the floor, where I lie, a sodden, streaming, half-dead thing.
"Save my pal! Save my pal!" I cry.
Down the wing slides the other man, and suddenly I see it is not the pilot at all, but the back gunlayer.
"Where's Roy?Where's Roy?" I shout in a sudden dread.
"He never came up!" is the terrible answer.
"Oh! Save my pilot! Save my pilot!" I call out, bursting into sobs, partly with hysteria at the ending of the strain, partly with utter grief. "He was a wonderful chap ... one of the best ... one of the best. Save him! Oh! Do save him! He can'tbe dead!Roy!Roy! He was the best chap there—ever—was."
It is too late. We are lucky to be picked up at all, for it is against regulations. The row-boat goes back to the little grey motor-launch which is protecting the monitor with a smoke-screen, and must go on at once. We are pulled on board. An anxious-eyed and evidently very busy naval officer comes to me.
"Are you wounded or anything?" he asks. "No? Good! I am so sorry we cannot wait to look for the other man. Go down to our cabin and get into blankets. I will send some whisky down! That noise? No! It's not the monitor. It is fifteen-inch shrapnel shell being fired at us from Ostend!"
"Where are you going—anywhere near Dunkerque?" I ask.
"Yes! Going back now with the monitor! The stunt's washed out—bad weather!"
"Washed out!All wasted, all wasted. Oh! Roy! Roy!"
I crawl down a ladder and slowly, painfully, take off my heavy flying clothes. In a pool of water they lie on the floor, a sodden heap of leather and fur. Looking in the glass, I see an unfamiliar distortedface with a great enormous cheek, and wet hair plastered about the forehead.
Luckily the other man is not touched or damaged, and has been scarcely even wet, so he lies more or less at ease in his bunk. This is his first raid. He seems to assume that this terrible calamity is more or less a normal occurrence. Soon I am lying in blankets with a glass of whisky inside me. The mad panorama of the night goes rushing through my brain in ever-changing vivid scenes.
"Purvis! Are you awake?" I call to the bunk on the opposite side.
"Yes!"
"I say, you know—we are very very lucky. We have escaped every kind of death in a few seconds. If I were you I would say a prayer or two!"
"I have, old man!"
"Say one for Roy too, won't you. Poor Roy—he was great! He never said a word of fear to the last. He never lost his head or anything!"
So in pain of body and mind I toss and turn in the little cabin with its swinging light, and hear the throb of the motor start and stop, increase and lessen, through longhours, till, for a while, I drift into an uneasy sleep....
Zoop! Zoop!Suddenly sounds the old familiar sound of Mournful Mary bellowing with fear.Boom!sounds a loud explosion.
I sit up in my blankets and shout across to the other bunk. "Mournful Mary! We must be back."
"I say, old man! Hear that? It's Leugenboom firing! I can't stand 15-inch shells on the docks this morning—let's get up and dress!"
After a while we borrow an assorted collection of naval garments, and at last climb on to the deck. It is a glorious sunny morning, and we lie in the middle of a little flotilla of neat grey-painted motor-launches lying side by side up to the tall stone wall of one of the docks. I can find no naval officer to thank, so walk from boat to boat till we reach the little iron ladder set in the quay-side, which we crawl up with difficulty till we are on the hot stone above. We start walking into Dunkerque, the back gunlayer in socked feet; myself with bare head, hair over my eyes, and back stooped in pain.
It is a strange walk. We are amidstcivilisation, as it were, and people look curiously at us. I stop a naval car. The driver pulls up with evident reluctance.
"We are two naval flying officers—have just come down out to sea off Ostend—we are not well—can you give us a lift?"
"No, sir! Ration car!" In goes the clutch, away moves the car and its smart, rather contemptuous driver.
I stop another car. Again in an unfamiliar voice I begin my recitation—
"We are two naval flying officers—have just ..."
"Sorry, sir—got to fetch the mails!"
No one will help us. No car will give us assistance, though we are obviously in trouble. Too far away from these people is war for them to realise that from war's greatest menace we have just escaped.
We go into the French police office at the docks. There by the kindly uniformed officials we are courteously treated. They, at least, make an attempt to telephone through to our squadron.
Tired at the delay, feeling I must move and move through this unreal city of sunshine and order, which lies so strangely about the dim shadows of my soul, I goon, and, stopping a car, order the driver to take me to the Wing Headquarters. The car is full of chairs, which are being taken to some concert hall, and perhaps the driver realises vaguely that the service does eventually touch reality, that there is some remote possibility of accident, some remote chance of calamity, up there, "towards the lines."
Through the dirty but splendidly familiar streets of Dunkerque we drive, out through the fortification to the pink-and-white villas of Malo. I am driving to the Wing Headquarters first, because I feel that a report should be made at once to the Wing Commander.
We turn at last through a great stone gate, and circling round a drive, stop at the bottom of a flight of steps, up which I slowly climb. By the door stands an orderly.
"Where's the—Wing Commander—Mr—Fowler—I—want—anybody?"
"In the breakfast-room, sir—just down on the left," he says.
I walk down the passage with a strange feeling of fear. Now I have returned to some definite place, to an organisation whichcan comprehend me, the ending of the strain is bringing a strange dizziness.
I open the tall door and enter.
Two officers at their breakfast table look at me, and then slowly stand up in utter amazement with opening mouths and wide eyes. In a second of time I see the broken egg-shell on the plate, the carelessly folded napkins, a half-empty toast-rack.
"Bewsher! Paul! Why—why—where have you been?"
"Haven't you heard? Hasn't—didn't the Monitor tell you?" I asked dully.
"No. This is the first we have seen of you. Oh! I am glad you are all right. Where's Roy?"
"Roy! Roy! Oh! He's dead, dead—dead—in the sea—drowned in the wreck...." And throwing myself on a seat, I drop my face on to my arms on the table and burst into sobs, which shake my weary frame to the bones as the scalding tears well from my tired bruised eyes.
Follows in my memory picture after picture—of lying for a few hours in my little bed in the familiar cabin at the aerodrome, and of Jimmy bending over me with hisface drawn with anxiety, telling me of the tragedy of the night, of Bob and Jack missing, of machines crashing: of the Friends Hospital at Dunkerque in a little wood where we awoke at dawn to hear the thunder of the 15-inch shells bursting on the docks: of the Red Cross city at Étaples: of yet another hospital in the green silence of Eton Square: of convalescence in the dream-garden of a great house in Buckinghamshire.
One night I rode into Paddington and found Jack Hudson awaiting me. Three months was it since I had dined with him on the tragic night of April 10. He told me how, an hour after my accident, he had landed with a shell-shattered engine in Holland; he had struck a canal at 75 miles an hour, and had been upside down under water with his feet fixed on the wreckage, and his machine had caught fire on top of him, and how by burrowing down into the mud he had managed to free himself and to escape. Unchanged by our experiences which we related as interesting stories, we wandered happily along the twilight streets.
Infinitely remote, like a scarce-remembered dream, is the war to me to-day. Iseem ever to have been a civilian, ever to have strolled at ease down sunlit terraces of London through the drowsy hours of an English spring—but every night with the slow approach of azure twilight I feel a strange stirring in my heart. As the first primrose star blooms in the east, I seem to hear the roar of starting engines, and when, in cold and sublime beauty, a silver moon rides high in the vast immensity of the night, I yearn with an almost unbearable pain to be once more sitting far above a magic moonlit world, to be moving ever onwards through the dim sky, where here and there the white waiting arms of the searchlights swoop and linger amidst the stars; where, beautiful and enchanted, there rises in the distance a long curving chain of green twinkling balls.