Cavalry of the Clouds Part 10

I.

LOOKING FOR TROUBLE.

... You have asked me, mon amie, to tell you, from personal experience, all about aeroplanes on active service. With the best will in the world I can do no such thing, any more than a medical student could tell you, from personal experience, all about midwifery.

The Flying Corps has in France hundreds of aeroplanes, scores of squadrons, and a dozen varying duties. Earlier in the war, when army aircraft were few and their function belonged to the pioneer stage, every pilot and observer dabbled in many things--reconnaissance, artillery observation, bomb raids, photography, and fighting. But the service has since expanded so much, both in size and importance, that each squadron is made to specialise in one or two branches of work, while other specialists look after the remainder. The daily round of an artillery squadron, for example, is very different from the daily round of a reconnaissance squadron, which is quite as different from that of a scout squadron. Alors, my experience only covers the duties of my own squadron. These I will do my best to picture for you, but please don't look upon my letters as dealing with the Flying Corps as a whole.

Perhaps you will see better what I mean if you know something of our organisation and of the different kinds of machines. There are slow, stable two-seaters that observe around the lines; fighting two-seaters that operate over an area extending some thirty miles beyond the lines; faster fighting two-seaters that spy upon enemy country still farther afield; the bombing craft, single-seaters or two-seaters used as single-seaters; photography machines; and single-seater scouts, quick-climbing and quick-manoeuvring, that protect and escort the observation buses and pounce on enemy aeroplanes at sight. All these confine themselves to their specialised jobs, though their outgoings are planned to fit the general scheme of aerial tactics. The one diversion shared by every type is sc.r.a.pping the air Hun whenever possible--and the ground Hun too for that matter, if he appear in the open and one can dive at him.

Our organisation is much the same as the organisation of the older--and junior--arms of the Service (oh yes! the Gazette gives us precedence over the Guards, the Household Cavalry, and suchlike people). Three or more squadrons are directed by a wing-commander, whom one treats with deep respect as he speeds a formation from the aerodrome; a number of wings, with an aircraft depot, are directed by a brigadier, whom one treats with still deeper respect when he pays a visit of inspection; the whole is directed by the General-Officer-Commanding-the-Flying-Corps-in-the-Field, one-of-the-best, who treats us like brothers.

We, in umpty squadron, are of the G.H.Q. wing, our work being long reconnaissance and offensive patrols over that part of the Somme basin where bands of Hun aircraft rove thickest. Our home is a wide aerodrome, flanked by a village that comprises about thirty decrepit cottages and a beautiful little old church. Our tents are pitched in a pleasant orchard, which is strewn with sour apples and field kitchens. For the rest, we are a happy family, and the sole blot on our arcadian existence is the daily journey east to meet Brother Boche and his hired bully Archibald.

After which explanatory stuff I will proceed to what will interest you more,--the excitements and tediousness of flights over enemy country.

Three hours ago I returned from a patrol round Mossy-Face Wood, where one seldom fails to meet black-crossed birds of prey, so I will begin with the subject of a hunt for the Flying Deutschman.

There are two kinds of fighting air patrol, the defensive and the offensive, the pleasantly exciting and the excitingly unpleasant. The two species of patrol have of late kept the great majority of German craft away from our lines.

Airmen who look for trouble over enemy country seldom fail to find it, for nothing enrages the Boche more than the overhead drone of allied aircraft. Here, then, are some average happenings on an offensive patrol, as I have known them.

We cross the lines at our maximum height, for it is of great advantage to be above an enemy when attacking. Our high alt.i.tude is also useful in that it makes us a small target for Herr Archie, which is distinctly important, as we are going to sit over him for the next few hours.

Archie only takes a few seconds to make up his mind about our height and range. He is not far wrong either, as witness the ugly black bursts slightly ahead, creeping nearer and nearer. Now there are two bursts uncomfortably close to the leader's machine, and its pilot and observer hear that ominous _wouff!_ The pilot dips and swerves. Another _wouff!_ and he is watching a burst that might have got him, had he kept a straight course.

Again the Archies try for the leader. This time their sh.e.l.ls are well away, in fact so far back that they are near our bus. The German battery notices this, and we are forthwith bracketed in front and behind. We swoop away in a second, and escape with nothing worse than a violent stagger, and we are thrown upward as a sh.e.l.l bursts close underneath.

But we soon shake off the Archie group immediately behind the lines.

Freed from the immediate necessity of sh.e.l.l-dodging, the flight-commander leads his covey around the particular hostile preserve marked out for his attention. Each pilot and each observer twists his neck as if it were made of rubber, looking above, below, and all around.

Only thus can one guard against surprise and yet surprise strangers, and avoid being surprised oneself. An airman new to active service often finds difficulty in acquiring the necessary intuitive vision which attracts his eyes instinctively to hostile craft. If his machine straggles, and he has not this sixth sense, he will sometimes hear the rattle of a mysterious machine-gun, or even the phut of a bullet, before he sees the swift scout that has swooped down from nowhere.

There is a moment of excitement when the flight-commander spots three machines two thousand feet below. Are they Huns? His observer uses field-gla.s.ses, and sees black crosses on the wings. The signal to attack is fired, and we follow the leader into a steep dive.

With nerves taut and every faculty concentrated on getting near enough to shoot, and then shooting quickly but calmly, we have no time to a.n.a.lyse the sensations of that dive. We may feel the tremendous pressure hemming us in when we try to lean over the side, but otherwise all we realise is that the wind is whistling past the strained wires, that our guns must be ready for instant use, and that down below are some enemies.

The flight-commander, his machine aimed dead at the leading German, follows the enemy trio down, down, as they apparently seek to escape by going ever lower. He is almost near enough for some shooting, when the Huns dive steeply, with the evident intention of landing on a near-by aerodrome. One of them fires a light as he goes, and--enter the villain Archibald to loud music. A ter-rap!

Our old friend Archie has been lying in wait with guns set for a certain height, to which his three decoy birds have led us. There crashes a discord of sh.e.l.l-bursts as we pull our machines out of the dive and swerve away. The last machine to leave the unhealthy patch of air is pursued for some seconds by flaming rockets.

The patrol re-forms, and we climb to our original height. One machine has left for home, with part of a control wire dangling helplessly beneath it, and a chunk of tail-plane left as a tribute to Archie.

We complete the course and go over it again, with nothing more exciting than further anti-aircraft fire, a few Huns too low for another dive, and a sick observer.

Even intrepid birdmen (war correspondentese for flying officers) tire of trying to be offensive on a patrol, and by now we are varying our rubber-neck searchings with furtive glances at the time, in the hopes that the watch-hands may be in the home-to-roost position. At length the leader heads for the lines, and the lords of the air (more war correspondentese) forget their high estate and think of tea.

Not yet. Coming south towards Bapaume is a beautiful flock of black-crossed birds. As often happens, the German biplanes are ranged one above the other, like the tiers of a dress-circle.

Again the signal to attack, and the flight-commander sweeps at what seems to be the highest enemy. We are ranging ourselves round him, when two enemy scouts sweep down from heaven-knows-where, firing as they come. Several of their bullets enter the engine of our rearmost rearguard. Finding that the engine is on strike, the pilot detaches his machine from the confusion and glides across the lines, which are quite close.

For five minutes there is a medley of swift darts, dives, and cart-wheel turns, amid the continuous _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ of machine-guns. Then a German machine sways, staggers, noses downward vertically, and rushes earthward, spinning rhythmically. The other Boches put their noses down and turn east. We follow until we find it impossible to catch them up, whereupon we make for home.

The trenches are now pa.s.sed, and our aerodrome is quite near. The strained nerve-tension snaps, the air seems intoxicatingly light. Pilots and observers munch chocolate contentedly or lift up their voices in songs of Blighty. I tackle "The Right Side of Bond Street," and think of pleasant places and beings, such as Henley during regatta week, the Babylon Theatre, and your delightful self.

We land, piece together our report, and count the bullet-holes on the machine. In ten minutes' time you will find us around the mess-table, reconstructing the fight over late afternoon tea. In the intervals of eating cake I shall write you, and the gramophone will be shrilling "Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green."

FRANCE, _July_, 1916

II.

"ONE OF OUR MACHINES IS MISSING."

--_Official Report._

... Much may be read into the ambiguous word "missing." Applied to a wife or an actress's jewellery it can mean anything. Applied to a man on active service it can mean one of three things. He may be dead, he may be a prisoner, he may be wounded and a prisoner. If he be dead he enters Valhalla. If he be a prisoner and a wise man he enters a small cheque for the German Red Cross, as being the quickest way of letting his bankers and relations know he is alive.

A missing aeroplane no longer exists, in nine cases out of ten. Either it is lying in pieces on enemy ground, smashed by an uncontrolled fall, or it was burned by its former tenants when they landed, after finding it impossible to reach safety. Quite recently my pilot and I nearly had to do this, but were just able to glide across a small salient. I am thus qualified to describe a typical series of incidents preceding the announcement, "one of our machines is missing," and I do so in the hope that this may interest you, madam, as you flit from town to country, country to town, and so to bed.

A group of British machines are carrying out a long reconnaissance. So far nothing has happened to divert the observers from their notes and sketches, and a pilot congratulates himself that he is on a joy-ride.

Next instant his sixth sense tells him there is something in the air quite foreign to a joy-ride. And there is. A thousand yards ahead some eight to twelve machines have appeared. The reconnaissance birds keep to their course, but all eyes are strained towards the newcomers. Within ten seconds it is established that they are foes. The observers put aside note-books and pencils, and finger their machine-guns expectantly.

On come the Germans to dispute the right of way. On go the British, not seeking a fight, but fully prepared to force a way through. Their job is to complete the reconnaissance, and not to indulge in superfluous air duels, but it will take a very great deal to turn them from their path.

Now the aggressors are within 300 yards, and firing opens. When the fight gets to uncomfortably close quarters the Boches move aside and follow the reconnaissance party, waiting for an opportunity to surround stragglers. Finally, some lucky shots by a British observer cause one of them to land in a damaged condition, whereupon the rest retire. The British machines finish their job and return with useful information.

But the party is no longer complete. The pilot who thought of joy-rides was in the rear machine, and the rear machine has disappeared. Two Huns cut him off when the rest began to follow the British formation.

His observer takes careful aim at the nearest enemy, and rattles through a whole drum as the German sweeps down and past, until he is out of range. The pilot vertical-turns the machine, and makes for the second Boche. But this gentleman, refusing to continue the fight alone, dives to join his companion. The pair of them hover about for a few minutes, and then disappear eastward.

The lonely pilot and observer look round and take their bearings.

"Where are the others?" shouts the pilot down the speaking-tube.

"Right away to the north; we are alone in the wicked world." Thus the observer's reply, handed across on a slip of paper.

Hoping to catch sight of the reconnaissance party, my friend the pilot opens his engine full out and begins to follow the course that remained to be covered. For ten minutes he continues the attempt to catch up, but as the only aeroplanes to be seen are coming up from an enemy aerodrome he decides to get back alone as quickly as possible. He turns due west.

The homing bird must fly in the teeth of a strong west wind. It struggles along gamely, and the pilot calculates that he may reach the lines within twenty-five minutes. But he has a queer feeling that trouble is ahead, and, like his observer, he turns his head around the horizon, so as not to be caught unprepared.

All goes well for five minutes, except for some nasty Archie sh.e.l.ls.

Then the two men see a flock of aircraft at a great height, coming from the north. Although black crosses cannot be spotted at this range, the shape and peculiar whiteness of the wings make it probable that the strangers are hostile. Possibly they are the very people who attacked and followed the reconnaissance formation.

Our pilot puts down the nose of his machine, and races westward. The strangers, making good use of their extra height, turn south-west and try to head him off. They gain quickly, and pilot and observer brace themselves for a fight against odds.

The Germans are now about 700 feet higher than my friends, and directly above them. Four enemies dive, at an average speed of 150 miles an hour, and from all directions the Britishers hear the rattle of machine-guns.