Cavalry of the Clouds Part 8

Doubtless, when sunset has brought the roving birds back to their nest, there will be a few "missing"; but this, part of the day's work, is a small enough sacrifice for the general achievement--the staff supplied with quick and accurate information, a hundred or two Boche batteries silenced, important works destroyed, enemy communications impeded, a dozen or so black-crossed aeroplanes brought down, valuable photographs and reports obtained, and the ground-Hun of every species harried.

The German Flying Corps cannot claim to perform anything like the same amount of aerial observation as its British counterpart. It is mainly occupied in fighting air battles and hampering the foreign machines that spy on their army. To say that the German machines are barred altogether from reconnaissance and artillery direction would be exaggeration, but not wild exaggeration. Seldom can an enemy plane call and correct artillery fire for longer than half an hour. From time to time a fast machine makes a reconnaissance tour at a great height, and from time to time others dart across the lines for photography, or to search for gun positions. An appreciable proportion of these do not return. Four-fifths of the Hun bomb raids behind our front take place at night-time, when comparative freedom from attack is balanced by impossibility of accurate aim. Apart from these spasmodic activities, the German pilots concern themselves entirely with attempts to prevent allied observation. They have never yet succeeded, even during the periods of their nearest approach to the so-called "mastery of the air," and probably they never will succeed. The advantages attendant upon a maintenance of thorough observation, while whittling down the enemy's to a minimum, cannot be overestimated.

To determine how much credit for the brilliant achievement I have tried to outline belongs to the skill and adaptability of British airmen, and how much to successful organisation, would be difficult and rather unnecessary. But it is obvious that those who guided the R.F.C. from neglected beginnings to the status of a great air service had a tremendous task. Only the technical mind can realise all that it has involved in the production of trained personnel, aeroplanes, engines, aircraft depots, aerodromes, wireless equipment, photographic workshops and accessories, bombs, and a thousand and one other necessaries.

Many thousand pilots have been trained in all the branches of war flying. The number of squadrons now in France would surprise the layman if one were allowed to make it public; while other squadrons have done excellent work in Macedonia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, East Africa, and elsewhere. Mention must also be made of the Home Defence groups, but for which wholesale Zeppelin raids on the country would be of common occurrence.

How to make best use of the vast personnel in France is the business of the staff, who link the fighting members of the corps with the Intelligence Department and the rest of the Army in the field. To them has fallen the introduction and development of the various functions of war aircraft, besides the planning of bomb raids and concerted aerial offensives. On the equipment side there is an enormous wastage to be dealt with, and consequently a constant cross-Channel interchange of machines. The amount of necessary replacement is made specially heavy by the short life of effective craft. A type of machine is good for a few months of active service, just holds its own for a few more, and then becomes obsolete except as a training bus. To surpa.s.s or even keep pace with the Boche Flying Corps on the mechanical side, it has been necessary for the supply department to do a brisk trade in new ideas and designs, experiment, improvement, and sc.r.a.pping.

Although free-lance attacks by airmen on whatever takes their fancy down below are now common enough, they were unknown little over a year ago.

Their early history is bound up with the introduction of contact patrols, or co-operation with advancing infantry. Previous to the Somme Push of 1916, communication during an attack between infantry on the one hand and the guns and various headquarters on the other was a difficult problem. A battalion would go over the top and disappear into the enemy lines. It might have urgent need of reinforcements or of a concentrated fire on some dangerous spot. Yet to make known its wants quickly was by no means easy, for the telephone wires were usually cut, carrier-pigeons went astray, and runners were liable to be shot. When the British introduced the "creeping barrage" of artillery pounding, which moved a little ahead of the infantry and curtained them from machine-gun and rifle fire, the need for rapid communication was greater than ever.

Exultant attackers would rush forward in advance of the programmed speed and be mown by their own barrage.

Credit for the trial use of the aeroplane to link artillery with infantry belongs to the British, though the French at Verdun first brought the method to practical success. We then developed the idea on the Somme with notable results. Stable machines, equipped with wireless transmitters and Klaxon horns, flew at a low height over detailed sectors, observed all developments, signalled back guidance for the barrage, and by means of message bags supplied headquarters with valuable information. Besides its main purpose of mothering the infantry, the new system of contact patrols was found to be useful in dealing with enemy movements directly behind the front line. If the bud of a counter-attack appeared, aeroplanes would call upon the guns to nip it before it had time to blossom.

Last September we of the fighting and reconnaissance squadrons began to hear interesting yarns from the corps squadrons that specialised in contact patrols. An observer saved two battalions from extinction by calling up reinforcements in the nick of time. When two tanks slithered around the ruins of Courcelette two hours before the razed village was stormed, the men in the trenches would have known nothing of this unexpected advance-guard but for a contact machine. The pilot and observer of another bus saw two tanks converging eastward at either end of a troublesome Boche trench. A German officer, peering round a corner, drew back quickly when he found one of the new steel beasts advancing.

He hurried to an observation post round a bend in the lines. Arrived there, he got the shock of his life when he found a second metal monster waddling towards him. Alarmed and unnerved, he probably ordered a retirement, for the trench was evacuated immediately. The observer in a watching aeroplane then delivered a much-condensed synopsis of the comedy to battalion headquarters, and the trench was peacefully occupied.

Inevitably the nearness of the enemy to machines hovering over a given area bred in the airmen concerned a desire to swoop down and panic the Boche. Movement in a hostile trench was irresistible, and many a pilot shot off his engine, glided across the lines, and let his observer spray with bullets the home of the Hun. The introduction of such tactics was not planned beforehand and carried out to order. It was the outcome of a new set of circ.u.mstances and almost unconscious enterprise. More than any other aspect of war flying, it is, I believe, this imminence of the unusual that makes the average war pilot swear greatly by his job, while other soldiers temper their good work with grousing. His actions are influenced by the knowledge that somewhere, behind a ridge of clouds, in the nothingness of s.p.a.ce, on the patchwork ground, the True Romance has hidden a new experience, which can only be found by the venturer with alert vision, a quick brain, and a fine instinct for opportunity.

The free-lance ground stunt, then, had its origin in the initiative of a few pilots who recognised a chance, took it, and thus opened yet another branch in the huge departmental store of aerial tactics. The exploits of these pioneers were sealed with the stamp of official approval, and airmen on contact patrol have since been encouraged to relieve boredom by joyous pounces on Brother Boche.

The star turn last year was performed by a British machine that captured a trench. The pilot guided it above the said trench for some hundred yards, while the observer emptied drum after drum of ammunition at the crouching Germans. A headlong scramble was followed by the appearance of an irregular line of white billowings. The enemy were waving handkerchiefs and strips of material in token of surrender! Whereupon our infantry were signalled to take possession, which they did. Don't shrug your shoulders, friend the reader, and say: "Quite a good story, but tall, very tall." The facts were related in the R.F.C. section of 'Comic Cuts,' otherwise G.H.Q. summary of work.

Fighting squadrons soon caught the craze for ground stunts and carried it well beyond the lines. One machine chased a train for miles a few hundred feet above, derailed it, and spat bullets at the lame coaches until driven off by enemy craft. Another made what was evidently an inspection of troops by some Boche Olympian look like the riotous disorder of a Futurist painting. A pilot with some bombs to spare spiralled down over a train, dropped the first bomb on the engine, and the second, third, fourth, and fifth on the soldiers who scurried from the carriages. When a detachment of cavalry really did break through for once in a while, it was startled to find an aerial vanguard. A frolicsome biplane darted ahead, pointed out positions worthy of attack, and created a diversion with Lewis gun fire.

At the end of a three-hour offensive patrol my pilot would often descend our bus to less than a thousand feet, cross No Man's Land again, and zigzag over the enemy trenches, where we disposed of surplus ammunition to good purpose. On cloudy days, with the pretext of testing a new machine or a gun, he would fly just above the clouds, until we were east of the lines, then turn round and dive suddenly through the cloud-screen in the direction of the Boche positions, firing his front gun as we dropped. The turn of my rear gun came afterwards when the pilot flattened out and steered northward along the wrong border of No Man's Land. Once, when flying very low, we looked into a wide trench and saw a group of tiny figures make confused attempts to take cover, tumbling over each other the while in ludicrous confusion.

I remember a notable first trip across the lines made by a pilot who had just arrived from England. He had been sent up to have a look at the battle line, with an old-hand observer and instructions not to cross the trenches. However, he went too far east, and found himself ringed by Archie bursts. These did not have their customary effect on a novice of inspiring mortal funk, for the new pilot became furiously angry and flew Berserk. He dived towards Bapaume, dropped unscathed through the barrage of anti-aircraft sh.e.l.ling for which this stronghold was at the time notorious, fired a hundred rounds into the town square from a height of 800 feet, and raced back over the Bapaume-Pozieres road pursued by flaming "onion" rockets. The observer recovered from his surprise in time to loose off a drum of ammunition at Bapaume, and three more along the straight road to the front line, paying special attention to the village of Le Sars.

It was above this village that I once was guilty of communicating with the enemy. During a three-hours' offensive patrol around the triangle--Bapaume-Mossy-Face Wood-Epehy--we had not seen a single Hun machine. Low clouds held Archie in check, and there was therefore small necessity to swerve from a straight course. Becoming bored, I looked at the pleasant-seeming countryside below, and reflected how ill its appearance harmonised with its merits as a dwelling-place, judged on the best possible evidence--the half-hysterical diaries found on enemy prisoners, the bitter outpourings anent the misery of intense bombardment and slaughter, the ominous t.i.tle "The Grave" given to the region by Germans who had fought there. An echo of light-hearted incursions into German literature when I was a student at a Boche college suggested that the opening lines of Schiller's "Sehnsucht" were peculiarly apposite to the state of mind of the Huns who dwelt by the Somme. Wis.h.i.+ng to share my discovery, I wrote the verse in large block capitals, ready to be dropped at a convenient spot. I took the liberty of transposing three p.r.o.nouns from the first person to the second, so as to apostrophise our Boche brethren. The patrol finished, my pilot spiralled down to within a 300-yard range of the ground and flew along the road past Martinpuich, while I pumped lead at anything that might be a communication trench. We sprinkled Le Sars with bullets, and there I threw overboard the quotation from a great German poet, folded inside an empty Very's cartridge to which I had attached canvas streamers. If it was picked up, I trust the following lines were not regarded merely as wordy frightfulness:

"Ach! aus dieses Thales Grunden Die der kalte Nebel druckt, Konnt' ihr doch den Ausgang finden, Ach! wie fuhlt' ihr euch begluekt!"

Of all the tabloid tales published last year in R.P.C. 'Comic Cuts,' the most comic was that of a mist, a British bus, and a Boche General. The mist was troublesome; the bus, homeward bound after a reconnaissance, was flying low to keep a clear vision of the earth; the general was seated in his dignified car, after the manner of generals. The British pilot dived on the car, the British observer fired on the car, the Boche chauffeur stopped the car, the Boche general jumped from the car.

Chauffeur and general rushed through a field into a wood; pilot and observer went home and laughed.

Thus far the facts are taken from the official report. An appropriate supplement was the rumour, which deserved to be true but possibly wasn't, that the observer turned in the direction of the vanished general and plagiarised George Robey with a shout into the unhearing air: "Cheeriho old thing, here's a go, my hat, priceless!"

So much for past accomplishment. The future of war flying, like all futures, is problematical; but having regard to our present unquestionable superiority in the air, and to the blend of sane imagination and practical ability now noticeable as an a.s.set of the flying services directorate, one can hazard the statement that in the extended aerial war which is coming the R.F.C. and R.N.A.S. will nearly satisfy the most exacting of critics.

The tendency is toward a rapid development of aircraft even more startling than that of the past. Some of the modern scout machines have a level speed of 130-150 miles an hour, and can climb more than 1000 feet a minute until an abnormal height is reached. It is certain that within a year later machines will travel 160, 180, and 200 miles an hour level. Quant.i.ty as well as quality is on the up-grade, so that the power to strike hard and far will increase enormously, helped by heavier armament, highly destructive bombs, and more accurate bomb-sights.

And, above all, we shall see a great extension of ground attacks by air cavalry. The production of a machine specially adapted for this purpose, armoured underneath, perhaps, and carrying guns that fire downward through the fuselage, is worth the careful attention of aeroplane designers. It is probable that with the reappearance of extended military movement on the western front, as must happen sooner or later, continuous guerilla tactics by hundreds of low-flying aeroplanes may well turn an orderly retirement into a disorderly rout.

When and if a push of pushes really breaks the German line, I fully expect that we of the air service will lead the armies of pursuit and make ourselves a pluperfect nuisance to the armies of retreat. Temporary second lieutenants may yet be given the chance to drive a Boche general or two into the woods, or even--who can limit the freaks of Providence?--plug down shots at the Limelight Kaiser himself, as he tours behind the front in his favourite _role_ of Bombastes Furioso.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE DAILY ROUND.

During a bout of active service one happens upon experiences that, though they make no immediate impression, become more prominent than the most dramatic events, when the period is past and can be viewed in retrospect. Sub-consciousness, wiser than the surface brain, penetrates to the inner sanctuary of true values, photographs something typical of war's many aspects, places the negative in the dark room of memory, and fades into inertia until again called upon to act as arbiter of significance for everyday instinct. Not till long later, when released from the tension of danger and abnormal endeavour, is one's mind free to develop the negative and produce a clear photograph. The sensitive freshness of the print then obtained is likely to last a lifetime. I leave a detailed explanation of this process to the comic people who claim acquaintance with the psychology of the immortal soul; for my part, I am content to remain a collector of such mental photographs.

A few examples of the sub-conscious impressions gathered during my last year's term at the Front are the curious smile of a dead observer as we lifted his body from a bullet-plugged machine; the shrieking of the wires whenever we dived on Hun aircraft; a tree trunk falling on a howitzer; a line of narrow-nosed buses, with heavy bombs fitted under the lower planes, ready to leave for their objective; the ghostliness of Ypres as we hovered seven thousand feet above its ruins; a certain riotous evening when eight of the party of fourteen ate their last dinner on earth; a severe reprimand delivered to me by a meticulous colonel, after I returned from a long reconnaissance that included four air flights, for the crime of not having fastened my collar before arrival on the aerodrome at 5 A.M.; a broken Boche aeroplane falling in two segments at a height of ten thousand feet; the breathless moments at a Base hospital when the surgeon-in-charge examined new casualties to decide which of them were to be sent across the Channel; and clearest of all, the brown-faced infantry marching back to the trenches from our village.

A muddy, unkempt battalion would arrive in search of rest and recuperation. It distributed itself among houses, cottages, and barns, while the Frenchwomen looked sweet or sour according to their diverse tempers, and whether they kept estaminets, sold farm produce, had husbands _labas_, or merely feared for their poultry and the cleanliness of their homes. Next day the exhausted men would reappear as beaux sabreurs with bright b.u.t.tons, clean if discoloured tunics, and a jaunty, untired walk. The drum and fife band practised in the tiny square before an enthusiastic audience of gamins. Late every afternoon the aerodrome was certain to be crowded by inquisitive Tommies, whose peculiar joy it was to watch a homing party land and examine the machines for bullet marks. The officers made overtures on the subject of joy-rides, or discussed transfers to the Flying Corps. Interchange of mess courtesies took place, attended by a brisk business in yarns and a mutual appreciation of the work done by R.F.C. and infantry.

Then, one fine day, the drum and fife rhythm of "A Long, Long Trail"

would draw us to the roadside, while our friends marched away to Mouquet Farm, or Beaumont Hamel, or Hohenzollern Redoubt, or some other point of the changing front that the Hun was about to lose. And as they left, the men were mostly silent; though they looked debonair enough with their swinging quickstep and easy carriage, and their frying-pan hats set at all sorts of rakish angles. Their officers would nod, glance enviously at the apple-trees and tents in our pleasant little orchard, and pa.s.s on to the front of the Front, and all that this implied in the way of mud, vermin, sudden death, suspense, and d.a.m.nable discomfort. And returning to the orchard we offered selfish thanks to Providence in that we were not as the millions who hold and take trenches.

The flying officer in France has, indeed, matter for self-congratulation when compared with the infantry officer, as any one who has served in both capacities will bear witness. Flying over enemy country is admittedly a strain, but each separate job only lasts from two to four hours. The infantryman in the front line is trailed by risk for the greater part of twenty-four hours daily. His work done, the airman returns to fixed quarters, good messing, a bath, plenty of leisure, and a real bed. The infantry officer lives mostly on army rations, and as often as not he sleeps in his muddy clothes, amid the noise of war, after a long s.h.i.+ft crammed with uncongenial duties. As regards actual fighting the airman again has the advantage. For those with a suitable temperament there is tense joy in an air sc.r.a.p; there is none in trudging along a mile of narrow communication trench, and then, arrived at one's unlovely destination, being perpetually ennuied by crumps and other devilries. And in the game of poker played with life, death, and the will to destroy, the airman has but to reckon with two marked cards--the Ace of Clubs, representing Boche aircraft, and the Knave Archibald; whereas, when the infantryman stakes his existence, he must remember that each sleeve of the old cheat Death contains half a dozen cards.

All this by way of prelude to a protest against the exaggerative ecstasies indulged in by many civilians when discussing the air services. The British pilots are competent and daring, but they would be the last to claim an undue share of war's glory. Many of them deserve the highest praise; but then so do many in all other fighting branches of Army and Navy. An example of what I mean is the reference to R.F.C.

officers, during a Parliamentary debate, as "the super-heroes of the war,"--a term which, for ungainly absurdity, would be hard to beat. To those who perpetrate such far-fetched phrases I would humbly say: "Good gentlemen, we are proud to have won your approval, but for the Lord's sake don't make us ridiculous in the eyes of other soldiers."

Yet another a.s.set of the airman is that his work provides plenty of scope for the individual, who in most sections of the Army is held on the leash of system and co-operation. The war pilot, though subject to the exigencies of formation flying, can attack and manoeuvre as he pleases. Most of the star performers are individualists who concentrate on whatever methods of destroying an enemy best suit them.

Albert Ball, probably the most brilliant air fighter of the war, was the individualist _in excelsis_. His deeds were the outcome partly of pluck--certainly not of luck--but mostly of thought, insight, experiment, and constant practice. His knowledge of how to use sun, wind, and clouds, coupled with an instinct for the "blind side" of whatever Hun machine he had in view, made him a master in the art of approaching un.o.bserved. Arrived at close quarters, he usually took up his favourite position under the German's tail before opening fire. His experience then taught him to antic.i.p.ate any move that an unprepared enemy might make, and his quick wits how to take advantage of it. Last autumn, whenever the weather kept scout machines from their patrols but was not too bad for joy-flying, he would fly near the aerodrome and practise his pet manoeuvres for hours at a time. In the early days of Ball's dazzling exploits his patrol leader once complained, after an uneventful trip, that he left the formation immediately it crossed the lines, and stayed away until the return journey. Ball's explanation was that throughout the show he remained less than two hundred feet below the leader's machine, "practising concealment."

The outstanding pilots of my old squadron were all individualists in attack, and it was one of my hobbies to contrast their tactics. C., with his blind fatalism and utter disregard of risk, would dive a machine among any number of Huns, so that he usually opened a fight with an advantage of startling audacity. S., another very successful leader, worked more in co-operation with the machines behind him, and took care to give his observer every chance for effective fire. His close watch on the remainder of the formation saved many a machine in difficulties from disaster. V., my pilot and flight-commander, was given to a quick dive at the enemy, a swerve aside, a recul pour mieux sauter, a vertical turn or two, and another dash to close grips from an unexpected direction, while I guarded the tail-end.

But writing reminiscences of Umpty Squadron's early days is a melancholy business. When it was first formed all the pilots were picked men, for the machines were the best British two-seaters then in existence, and their work throughout the autumn push was to be more dangerous than that of any squadron along the British front. The price we paid was that nine weeks from our arrival on the Somme only nine of the original thirty-six pilots and observers remained. Twelve officers flew to France with the flight to which I belonged. Six weeks after their first job over the lines I was one of the only two survivors. Three of the twenty-five who dropped out returned to England with wounds or other disabilities; the rest, closely followed by twenty of those who replaced them, went to Valhalla, which is half-way to heaven; or to Karlsruhe, which is between h.e.l.l and Freiburg-im-Brisgau.

And the reward? One day, in a letter written by a captured Boche airman, was found the sentence: "The most-to-be-feared of British machines is the S----." The umptieth squadron then had the only machines of this type in France.

During the short period of their stay with us, the crowd of boys thus rudely s.n.a.t.c.hed away were the gayest company imaginable; and, indeed, they were boys in everything but achievement. As a patriarch of twenty-four I had two more years to my discredit than the next oldest among the twelve members of our flight-mess. The youngest was seventeen and a half. Our Squadron Commander, one of the finest men I have met in or out of the army, became a lieutenant-colonel at twenty-five. Even he was not spared, being killed in a flying accident some months later.

Though we were all such good friends, the high percentage of machines "missing" from our hangars made us take the abnormal casualties almost as a matter of course at the time. One said a few words in praise of the latest to go, and pa.s.sed on to the next job. Not till the survivors returned home did they have time, away from the stress of war, to feel keen sorrow for the brave and jolly company. For some strange reason, my own hurt at the loss was toned down by a mental farewell to each of the fallen, in words borrowed from the song sung by an old-time maker of ballads when youth left him: "Adieu, la tres gente compagne."

The crowded months of the umptieth squadron from June to November were worth while for the pilots who survived. The only two of our then flight-commanders still on the active list are now commanding squadrons, while all the subaltern pilots have become flight-commanders. The observers, members of a tribe akin to Kipling's Sergeant Whatsisname, are as they were in the matter of rank, needless to say.

For my part, on reaching Blighty by the grace of G.o.d and an injured knee, I decided that if my unworthy neck were doomed to be broken, I would rather break it myself than let some one else have the responsibility. It is as a pilot, therefore, that I am about to serve another sentence overseas. A renewal of Archie's acquaintance is hardly an inviting prospect, but with a vivid recollection of great days with the old umptieth squadron, I shall not be altogether sorry to leave the hierarchy of home instructordom for the good-fellows.h.i.+p of active service. In a few months' time, after a further period of aerial outings, I hope to fill some more pages of Blackwood,[2] subject always to the sanction of their editor, the bon Dieu, and the mauvais diable who will act as censor. Meanwhile, I will try to sketch the daily round of the squadron in which I am proud to have been an observer.

"Quarter to five, sir, and a fine morning. You're wanted on the aerodrome at a quarter past."

I sit up. A s.h.i.+ver, and a return beneath the blankets for five minutes'

rumination. Dressing will be dashed unpleasant in the cold of dawn. The canvas is wet with the night's rain. The reconnaissance is a long one, and will take fully three hours. The air at 10,000 feet will bite hard.

Must send a field post-card before we start. Not too much time, so out and on with your clothes. Life is wrotten.

While dressing we a.n.a.lyse the weather, that pivot of our day-to-day existence. On the weather depends our work and leisure, our comparative risks and comparative safety. Last thing at night, first thing in the morning, and throughout the day we search the sky for a sign. And I cannot deny that on occasions a sea of low clouds, making impossible the next job, is a pleasant sight.

The pale rose of sunrise is smudging over the last flickerings of the grey night. Only a few wisps of cloud are about, and they are too high to bother us. The wind is slight and from the east, for which many thanks, as it will make easier the return half of the circuit.