DOWN IN HUNLAND

It was cold—bitterly, bitingly, fiercely cold. It was also at intervals wet, and misty, and snowy, as the ’plane ran by turns through various clouds; but it was the cold that was uppermost in the minds of pilot and observer as they flew through the darkness. They were on a machine of the night-bombing squadron, and the “Night-Fliers” in winter weather take it more or less as part of the night’s work that they are going to be out in cold and otherwise unpleasant weather conditions; but the cold this night was, as the pilot put it in his thoughts, “over the odds.”

It was the Night-Fliers’ second trip over Hunland. The first trip had been a short one to a near objective, because at the beginning of the night the weather looked too doubtful to risk a long trip. But before they had come back the weather had cleared, and the Squadron Commander, after full deliberation, had decided to chance the long trip and bomb a certain place which he knew it was urgent should be damaged as much and as soon as possible.

All this meant that the Fliers had the shortest possible space of time on the ground between the two trips. Their machines were loaded up with fresh supplies of bombs just as quickly as it could be done, the petrol and oil tanks refilled, expended rounds of ammunition for the machine-guns replaced. Then, one after another, the machines steered out into the darkness across the ’drome ground towards a twinkle of light placed to guide them, wheeled round, gave the engine a preliminary whirl, steadied it down, opened her out again, and one by one at intervals lumbered off at gathering speed, and soared off up into the darkness.

The weather held until the objective was reached, although glances astern showed ominous clouds banking up and darkening the sky behind them. The bombs were loosed and seen to strike in leaping gusts of flame on the ground below, while searchlights stabbed up into the sky and groped round to find the raiders, and the Hun “Archies” spat sharp tongues of flame up at them. Several times the shells burst near enough to be heard above the roar of the engine; but one after another the Night Fliers “dropped the eggs” and wheeled and drove off for home, the observers leaning over and picking up any visible speck of light or the flickering spurts of a machine-gun’s fire and loosing off quick bursts of fire at these targets. But every pilot knew too well the meaning of those banking clouds to the west, and was in too great haste to get back to spend time hunting targets for their machine-guns; and each opened his engine out and drove hard to reach the safety of our own lines before thick weather could catch and bewilder them.

The leaders had escaped fairly lightly—“Atcha” and “Beta” having only a few wides to dodge; but their followers kept catching it hotter and hotter.

The “Osca” was the last machine to arrive at the objective and deliver her bombs and swing for home, and because she was the last she came in for the fully awakened defence’s warmest welcome, and wheeled with searchlights hunting for her, with Archie shells coughing round, with machine-guns spitting fire and their bullets zizz-izz-ipping up past her, with “flaming onions” curving up in streaks of angry red fire and falling blazing to earth again. A few of the bullets ripped and rapped viciously through the fabric of her wings, but she suffered no further damage, although the fire was hot enough and close enough to make her pilot and observer breathe sighs of relief as they droned out into the darkness and left all the devilment of fire and lights astern.

The word of the Night-Fliers’ raid had evidently gone abroad through the Hun lines however, and as they flew west they could see searchlight after light switching and scything through the dark in search of them. Redmond, or “Reddie,” the pilot, was a good deal more concerned over the darkening sky, and the cold that by now was piercing to his bones, than he was over the searchlights or the chance of running into further Archie fire. He lifted the “Osca” another 500 feet as he flew, and drove on with his eyes on the compass and on the cloud banks ahead in turn.

Flying conditions do not lend themselves to conversation between pilot and observer, but once or twice the two exchanged remarks, very brief and boiled-down remarks, on their position and the chances of reaching the lines before they ran into “the thick.” That a thick was coming was painfully clear to both. The sky by now was completely darkened, and the earth below was totally and utterly lost to sight. The pilot had his compass, and his compass only, left to guide him, and he kept a very close and attentive eye on that and his instrument denoting height. Their bombing objective had been a long way behind the German lines, but Reddie and “Walk” Jones, the observer, were already beginning to congratulate themselves on their nearness to the lines and the probability of escaping the storm, when the storm suddenly whirled down upon them.

It came without warning, although warning would have been of little use, since they could do nothing but continue to push for home. One minute they were flying, in darkness it is true, but still in a clear air; the next they were simply barging blindly through a storm of rain which probably poured straight down to earth, but which to them, flying at some scores of miles per hour, was driving level and with the force of whip cuts full in their faces. Both pilot and observer were blinded. The water cataracting on their goggles cut off all possibility of sight, and Reddie could not even see the compass in front of him or the gleam of light that illuminated it. He held the machine as steady and straight on her course as instinct and a sense of direction would allow him, and after some minutes they passed clear of the rain-storm. Everything was streaming wet—their faces, their goggles, their clothes, and everything they touched in the machine. Reddie mopped the wet off his compass and peered at it a moment, and then with an angry exclamation pushed rudder and joy-stick over and swung round to a direction fairly opposite to the one they had been travelling. Apparently he had turned completely round in the minutes through the rain—once round at least, and Heaven only knew how many more times.

They flew for a few minutes in comparatively clear weather, and then, quite suddenly, they whirled into a thick mist cloud. At first both Reddie and “Walk” thought it was snow, so cold was the touch of the wet on their faces; but even when they found it was no more than a wet mist cloud they were little better off, because again both were completely blinded so far as seeing how or where they were flying went. Reddie developed a sudden fear that he was holding the machine’s nose down, and in a quick revulsion pulled the joy-stick back until he could feel her rear and swoop upwards. He was left with a sense of feeling only to guide him. He could see no faintest feature of the instrument-board in front of him, had to depend entirely on his sense of touch and feel and instinct to know whether the “Osca” was on a level keel, flying forward, or up or down, or lying right over on either wing tip.

The mist cleared, or they flew clear of it, as suddenly as they had entered it, and Reddie found again that he had lost direction, was flying north instead of west. He brought the ’bus round again and let her drop until the altimeter showed a bare two hundred feet above the ground and peered carefully down for any indication of his whereabouts. He could see nothing—blank nothing, below, or above, or around him. He lifted again to the thousand-foot mark and drove on towards the west. He figured that they ought to be coming somewhere near the lines now, but better be safe than sorry, and he’d get well clear of Hunland before he chanced coming down.

Then the snow shut down on them. If they had been blinded before, they were doubly blind now. It was not only that the whirling flakes of snow shut out any sight in front of or around them; it drove clinging against their faces, their glasses, their bodies, and froze and was packed hard by the wind of their own speed as they flew. And it was cold, bone- and marrow-piercing cold. Reddie lost all sense of direction again, all sense of whether he was flying forward, or up or down, right side or wrong side up. He even lost any sense of time; and when the scud cleared enough for him to make out the outline of his instruments he could not see the face of his clock, his height or speed recorders, or anything else, until he had scraped the packed snow off them.

But this time, according to the compass, he was flying west and in the right direction. So much he just had time to see when they plunged again into another whirling smother of fine snow. They flew through that for minutes which might have been seconds or hours for all the pilot knew. He could see nothing through his clogged goggles, that blurred up faster than he could wipe them clear; he could hear nothing except, dully, the roar of his engine; he could feel nothing except the grip of the joy-stick, numbly, through his thick gloves. He kept the “Osca” flying level by sheer sense of feel, and at times had all he could do to fight back a wave of panic which rushed on him with a belief that the machine was side-slipping or falling into a spin that would bring him crashing to earth.

When the snow cleared again and he was able to see his lighted instruments he made haste to brush them clear of snow and peer anxiously at them. He found he was a good thousand feet up and started at once to lift a bit higher for safety’s sake. By the compass he was still flying homeward, and by the time—the time—he stared hard at his clock ... and found it was stopped. But the petrol in his main tank was almost run out, and according to that he ought to be well over the British lines—if he had kept anything like a straight course. He held a brief and shouted conversation with his observer. “Don’t know where I am. Lost. Think we’re over our lines.”

“Shoot a light, eh?” answered the observer, “and try’n’ land. I’m frozen stiff.”

They both peered anxiously out round as their Verey light shot out and floated down; but they could see no sign of a flare or an answering light. They fired another signal, and still had no reply; and then, “I’m going down,” yelled the pilot, shutting off his engine and letting the machine glide down in a slow sweeping circle. He could see nothing of the ground when the altimeter showed 500 feet, nor at 300, nor at 200, so opened the throttle and picked up speed again. “Shove her down,” yelled the observer. “More snow coming.”

Another Verey light, shot straight down overboard, showed a glimpse of a grass field, and Reddie swung gently round, and slid downward again. At the same time he fired a landing light fixed out under his lower wing-tip in readiness for just such an occasion as this, and by its glowing vivid white light made a fairly good landing on rough grass land. He shut the engine off at once, because he had no idea how near he was to the edge of the field or what obstacles they might bump if they taxied far, and the machine came quickly to rest. The two men sat still for a minute breathing a sigh of thankfulness that they were safe to ground, then turned and looked at each other in the dying light of the flare. Stiffly they stood up, climbed clumsily out of their places, and down on to the wet ground. Another flurry of snow was falling, but now that they were at rest the snow was floating and drifting gently down instead of beating in their faces with hurricane force as it did when they were flying.

Reddie flapped his arms across his chest and stamped his numbed feet. Walk Jones pulled his gloves off and breathed on his stiff fingers. “I’m fair froze,” he mumbled. “Wonder where we are, and how far from the ‘drome?”

“Lord knows,” returned Reddie. “I don’t know even where the line is—ahead or astern, right hand or left.”

“Snow’s clearing again,” said Jones. “Perhaps we’ll get a bearing then, and I’ll go ’n’ hunt for a camp or a cottage, or anyone that’ll give us a hot drink.”

“Wait a bit,” said Reddie. “Stand where you are and let’s give a yell. Some sentry or someone’s bound to hear us. Snow’s stopping all right; but, Great Scott! isn’t it dark.”

Presently they lifted their voices and yelled an “Ahoy” together at the pitch of their lungs. There was no answer, and after a pause they yelled again, still without audible result.

“Oh, curse!” said Jones, shivering. “I’m not going to hang about here yelping like a lost dog. And we might hunt an hour for a cottage. I’m going to get aboard again and loose off a few rounds from my machine-gun into the ground. That will stir somebody up and bring ’em along.”

“There’s the line,” said Reddie suddenly. “Look!” and he pointed to where a faint glow rose and fell, lit and faded, along the horizon. “And the guns,” he added, as they saw a sheet of light jump somewhere in the distance and heard the bump of the report. Other gun-flashes flickered and beat across the dark sky. “Funny,” said Reddie; “I’d have sworn I turned round as we came down, and I thought the lines were dead the other way.”

The observer was fumbling about to get his foot in the step. “I thought they were way out to the right,” he said. “But I don’t care a curse where they are. I want a camp or a French cottage with coffee on the stove. I’ll see if I can’t shoot somebody awake.”

“Try one more shout first,” said Reddie, and they shouted together again.

“Got ’im,” said Reddie joyfully, as a faint hail came in response, and Jones took his foot off the step and began to fumble under his coat for a torch. “Here!” yelled Reddie. “This way! Here!”

They heard the answering shouts draw nearer, and then, just as Jones found his torch and was pulling it out from under his coat, Reddie clutched at his arm. “What—what was it——” he gasped. “Did you hear what they called?”

“No, couldn’t understand,” said Jones in some surprise at the other’s agitation. “They’re French, I suppose; farm people, most like.”

“It was German,” said Reddie hurriedly. “There again, hear that? We’ve dropped in Hunland.”

“Hu-Hunland!” stammered Jones; then desperately, “It can’t be. You sure it isn’t French—Flemish, perhaps?”

“Flemish—here,” said Reddie, dismissing the idea, as Jones admitted he might well do, so far south in the line. “I know little enough German, but I know French well enough; and that’s not French. We’re done in, Walk.”

“Couldn’t we bolt for it,” said Walk, looking hurriedly round. “It’s dark, and we know where the lines are.”

“What hope of getting through them?” said Reddie, speaking in quick whispers. “But we’ve got a better way. We’ll make a try. Here, quickly, and quiet as you can—get to the prop and swing it when I’m ready. We’ll chance a dash for it.”

Both knew the chances against them, knew that in front of the machine might lie a ditch, a tree, a hedge, a score of things that would trip them as they taxied to get speed to rise; they knew too that the Germans were coming closer every moment, that they might be on them before they could get the engine started, that they would probably start shooting at the first sound of her start. All these things and a dozen others raced through their minds in an instant; but neither hesitated, both moved promptly and swiftly. Reddie clambered up and into his seat; Walk Jones jumped to the propeller, and began to wind it backwards to “suck in” the petrol to the cylinders. “When she starts, jump to the wing-tip and try ’n’ swing her round,” called Reddie in quick low tones. “It’ll check her way. Then you must jump for it, and hang on and climb in as we go. Yell when you’re aboard. All ready now.”

A shout came out of the darkness—a shout and an obvious question in German. “Contact,” said Walk Jones, and swung the propeller his hardest. He heard the whirr of the starter as Reddie twirled it rapidly. “Off,” called Jones as he saw the engine was not giving sign of life, and “Off” answered Reddie, cutting off the starting current.

Another shout came, and with it this time what sounded like an imperative command. Reddie cursed his lack of knowledge of German. He could have held them in play a minute if—— “Contact,” came Walk’s voice again. “Contact,” he answered, and whirled the starter madly again. There was still no movement, no spark of life from the engine. Reddie groaned, and Walk Jones, sweating despite the cold over his exertions on the propeller, wound it back again and swung it forward with all his weight. His thick leather coat hampered him. He tore it off and flung it to the ground, and tried again.

So they tried and failed, tried and failed, time and again, while all the time the shouts were coming louder and from different points, as if a party had split up and was searching the field. A couple of electric torches threw dancing patches of light on the ground, lifted occasionally and flashed round. One was coming straight towards them, and Reddie with set teeth waited the shout of discovery he knew must come presently, and cursed Walk’s slowness at the “prop.”

Again on the word he whirled the starter, and this time “Whur-r-r-rum,” answered the engine, suddenly leaping to life; “Whur-r-r-ROO-OO-OO-OOM-ur-r-r-umph,” as Reddie eased and opened the throttle. He heard a babel of shouts and yells, and saw the light-patches come dancing on the run towards them. A sudden recollection of the only two German words he knew came to him. “Ja wohl,” he yelled at the pitch of his voice, “Ja wohl”; then in lower hurried tones, “Swing her, Walk; quick, swing her,” and opened the engine out again. The running lights stopped for a minute at his yell, and Walk Jones jumped to the wing-tip, shouted “Right!” and hung on while Reddie started to taxi the machine forward. His weight and leverage brought her lumbering round, the roar of engine and propeller rising and sinking as Reddie manipulated the throttle, and Reddie yelling his “Ja wohl,” every time the noise died down.

“Get in, Walk; get aboard,” he shouted, when the nose was round and pointing back over the short stretch they had taxied on landing, and which he therefore knew was clear running for at least a start. He heard another order screamed in German, and next instant the bang of a rifle, not more apparently than a score of yards away. He kept the machine lumbering forward, restraining himself from opening his engine out, waiting in an agony of apprehension for Walk’s shout. He felt the machine lurch and sway, and the kicking scramble his observer made to board her, heard next instant his yelling “Right-oh!” and opened the throttle full as another couple of rifles bang-banged.

The rifles had little terror either for him or the observer, because both knew there were bigger and deadlier risks to run in the next few seconds. There were still desperately long odds against their attempt succeeding. In the routine method of starting a machine, chocks are placed in front of the wheels and the engine is given a short full-power run and a longer easier one to warm the engine and be sure all is well; then the chocks are pulled away and she rolls off, gathering speed as she goes, until she has enough for her pilot to lift her into the air. Here, their engine was stone cold, they knew nothing of what lay in front of them, might crash into something before they left the ground, might rise, and even then catch some house or tree-top, and travelling at the speed they would by then have attained—well, the Lord help them!

Reddie had to chance everything, and yet throw away no shadow of a chance. He opened the throttle wide, felt the machine gather speed, bumping and jolting horribly over the rough field, tried to peer down at the ground to see how fast they moved, could see nothing, utterly black nothing, almost panicked for one heart-stilling instant as he looked ahead again and thought he saw the blacker shadow of something solid in front of him, clenched his teeth and held straight on until he felt by the rush of wind on his face he had way enough, and pulled the joy-stick in to him. With a sigh of relief he felt the jolting change to a smooth swift rush, held his breath, and with a pull on the stick zoomed her up, levelled her out again (should clear anything but a tall tree now), zoomed her up again. He felt a hand thumping on his shoulder, heard Walk’s wild exultant yell—“‘Ra-a-ay!” and, still lifting her steadily, swung his machine’s nose for the jumping lights that marked the trenches.

They landed safe on their own ’drome ground half an hour after. The officer whose duty it was for the night to look after the landing-ground and light the flares in answer to the returning pilots’ signals, walked over to them as they came to rest.

“Hullo, you two,” he said. “Where th’ blazes you been till this time! We’d just about put you down as missing.”

Reddie and Walk had stood up in their cock-pits and, without a spoken word, were solemnly shaking hands.

Reddie looked overboard at the officer on the ground. “You may believe it, Johnny, or you may not,” he said, “but we’ve been down into Hunland.”

“Down into hell!” said Johnny. “Quit jokin’. What kept you so late?”

“You’ve said it, Johnny,” said Reddie soberly. “Down into hell—and out again.”

They shook hands again, solemnly.