"Fires in the British trenches. Men cooking their morning rations. Can't you smell the bacon?"
Dastral laughed and sniffed the keen morning air, as though in reality he could make out the fragrant aroma of the morning dish, about which those cold, wet, and shivering heroes of the trenches were standing, ankle-deep in mud and clay.
"The poor devils!" added the pilot, altering his controls slightly, and wheeling round to the south to pick up the enemy's lines more clearly at a point where they made a sharp curve.
They could now clearly see both the British and the German trenches. Three long, scarred and ragged lines of brown earth showed clearly where the enemy's front-line, reserve and support trenches stood. Long, twisting lines of similar demarcation showed where the communication trenches ran.
Now they were over No Man's land, sailing along serenely, and the artillery down below had already opened the morning concert on both fronts, when–
"Biff, puff–!" came a time-fuse shrapnel and burst scarcely a hundred feet in front of the machine. Then another and another as the "Archies" below spotted the hornet, and tried to give her a packet.
Suddenly they were in a cloud of yellow smoke and half-poisonous fumes, which made them gasp and sputter. Then, owing to the bursting of the shells and the heavy concussions they found themselves in a succession of air-pockets.
"Look out, Jock!" cried Dastral, as the machine rocked and swayed, banking over once or twice as though she had been hit.
For several minutes they ran the gauntlet of this heavy fire from the German A.A. guns, but the terrific speed at which they were travelling–now nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour–soon carried them beyond the range of the enemy's guns.
Then it was that the day's work really began. Their orders were to reconnoitre behind the enemy's lines and to report by wireless code any occurrence, such as the threat of a massed attack by infantry, the moving of transport columns, or the locating of heavy artillery. It was also necessary, above all, to watch the skies for the appearance of hostile aircraft.
The other 'planes which started with the hornet that morning are seen low down on the horizon, to the north and the south. They also are searching all the terrain for any signs of activity on the part of the Boche.
Spurts of flame, like jets of fire, are seen in many places. These are the German fieldguns firing upon the British trenches. The observer does not make any particular note of these; he is out for bigger game.
Suddenly, the observer steadies his glasses, resting his arm for a moment on the side of the fuselage. The loop line of the Combles-Ginchy railway is just ahead of them and slightly on their right. Though it is very early yet, Jock notices that the line about Ginchy is crowded with traffic.
"Ahoy there, Dastral!" he calls down the speaking tube.
"Yes," comes back the laconic answer.
"Railway line blocked with traffic. Troops detraining, I think. Put her over a bit."
"Right-o!"
Dastral jams over the rudder bar with his foot and, responding to her huge tail rudder the hornet comes round in a swift circle, banking a little as the joy-stick is also put over. Then Jock takes another view, exclaiming, as he does so,
"Yes, by Jove, there must be a whole division of them. Here goes!"
And dropping the glasses into the pocket prepared for them, he rapidly uncoils the long pendant wire, and begins to tap the keys of his instrument.
"Caught them on the nap, Jock, eh? Stroke of luck. Case of the early bird. Tell the heavies to give 'em hell, old man," shouted Dastral, but the conversation was carried away into the morning breeze, for jock was already sending the message which would shortly bring the thunder.
"Zip-zip-zip, zur-r-r-r, zip!" went the brief coded message, back over Longueval and Ginchy; over Contalmaison and the trenches to where the British heavy batteries were waiting.
Behind the Ancre, in a little dug-out, an expert operator catches up the message. He has been waiting for it impatiently since dawn. The brief tapping which his receiver picks up, tells him exactly the spot on the terrain behind the enemy's lines where the thunder is needed. The whole map is scaled out into tiny sections and sub-sections, each with a number or letter to indicate the point where the concentrated fire is needed.
"Quick!" cries the operator to the little exchange. "Give me H.Q. Heavy Batteries." Then as the reply comes through he gives:
"A-2-3. Concentrated fire!"
Within four minutes, while the hornet still circles over the luckless Germans, now alive to their danger and rushing over each other in their haste to finish the detrainment of the column, flashes of fire are seen away to the west, and through the air comes a heavy explosive shell. It is followed by another and yet another. As they explode, the observer sees the earth blotted out from view for a few seconds. He notes how near the first shots fall to the target. Then he taps his keys once more.
"Zur, zip-zip!" cries the machine, and the next shell falls into the midst of the column, destroying nearly a whole train. And so for another ten minutes the airmen remain, altering the range until at least a dozen direct hits are scored, and the damage done to the railway, the trains, and the division or so of men is tremendous.
Very quickly, however, the men are scattered and placed out of danger, hiding in the woods, and under hedges and trees where they cannot be seen.
The Germans, aware of that dangerous pest overhead, have rushed up anti-aircraft guns to deal with it, and have also telephoned to the nearest aerodromes for their beloved Fokkers. So shortly after, having done as much damage as possible in a short space of time, the hornet moves off to reconnoitre further afield.
"Watch for their verdomt Fokkers, Jock," cries the pilot. "They may appear at any minute. Himmelman himself may be in the neighbourhood."
"Himmelman?" queries Jock, more to himself than to his comrade, as he looks round uneasily, for on the previous day he had heard some tall tales of the doings of this crack German flyer.
Then as they move off and open out the engine to gain speed, Jock sweeps the horizon for a sight of enemy 'planes, for a strange curiosity grips him at the thought of Himmelman, and he wonders half aloud whether it will ever be his fate to meet this renowned airman, who was said to have brought down more machines than any other man living.
But there is little time for soliloquy in the life of an airman in war time. He must ever be on the qui vive. And so for another half an hour, seeing no enemy 'planes to engage and remembering that he is out first of all for a reconnaissance, he watches the ground more and more closely.
They have moved south some distance by this time, and have crossed the railway near Cléry. Below them they see the narrow waters of the Somme, glistening in the sunshine, for by now the sun is up, and there is the promise of a brilliant day. Jock is keenly watching the white road that leads from Peronne to Albert.
"Ah! Ah!" He gasps. "What is that dark object that breaks the white, sunlit road, as though some dark shadow has fallen across it?"
He points it out to the pilot, with a few gestures, and Dastral spirals round, and makes off towards the place at a rapid rate.
As they approach the spot Jock scrutinises it yet more closely, for it looks suspicious. Then suddenly putting aside his glasses once more, he calls out,
"Enemy column on the march!"
"The deuce it is?" queries the pilot.
"Yes, ammunition column, I think, but we'll soon find out."
Then the tapping begins again, and the message is flung across the battle-ground and is picked up. With a swift mental calculation the observer has reckoned up when the head of the column will reach a certain point in the road, where a bridge carries the road over a tributary of the Somme.
"Swis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m-m!" comes the first heavy fifteen-inch shell.
It is a little short and another message on the keys is necessary.
This