Jagdstaffel 356: The Story of a German Fighter Squadron (Vintage Aviation Series) by M.E. Kӓhnert

Author:M.E. Kӓhnert [Kӓhnert, M.E.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: World War I, aviation
Publisher: Casemate / Greenhill
Published: 2013-12-19T05:00:00+00:00

Above: CAPTAIN STRATS’ MACHINE.

Below: CAPTAIN STRATS WITH THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER.

Above: AN ENGLISH MACHINE SHOT DOWN IN FLAMES

Below: THE WRECKAGE OF A GERMAN MACHINE SHOT DOWN IN THE AIR BATTLE OF BRUGES. THE CART SEEN IN THE BACKGROUND WAS PROPELLED A DISTANCE OF 15 METRES BY THE AIR-PRESSURE WHILE THE MACHINE BURIED ITSELF 3 METRES DEEP IN THE GROUND

CHAPTER X

A TELEPHONE message : enemy bombing squadron sighted, flying in the direction of Bruges.

Two cars, which were always at hand, convey ten pilots across the aerodrome to the machines which lie ready to take off. They fly westwards, in the direction of Bruges.

Height : 1,200 metres. They fly in echelon, as usual. Nine pairs of eyes are fixed, as if spellbound, on the chief, who leads and flies lowest.

The chief waves his right arm. They all go into a right-hand turn automatically. They have been flying for half an hour now. They can see nothing ; they can only hear. They hear the whirr of the propellers and the song of their engines. Each pilot hears the song of his own machine; he also hears the song of all, the song of the whole unit, the song of the Staffel.

Height : 1,500 metres. A red light suddenly flashes up in the bright afternoon sun. Nine pairs of eyes see it for an instant. Then it is gone.

Nine men know that the “hare” who is their protector has fired the red signal light as a warning to them.

Somewhere in the sky an enemy is lurking. Nine spell-bound, fascinated pairs of eyes watch the hand of the leader pointing downwards. It points to north, east, south and west.

What is below them? What is above them?

Below them there is a huge, enormous, square, black something. A mass. It hovers almost motionless—a dark patch over the ground.

To left, to right, in front, behind—wherever they look, there are swarms of enemy scouts. No chaos, but a well-organised destiny. A destiny organised by men.

The black mass lying underneath the brown Fokkers is a closed, close-knit square of three hundred and twenty bombing machines, which have almost reached Bruges.

The mass lying above the Staffel is divided into many swarms. Enemy scouts are flying in every quarter of the heavens. There must be three hundred of them. All ready to dive.

The leader transmuted his thoughts into action while the nine pairs of eyes were still staring at him.

The nine men only saw his machine shoot downwards as straight as a plummet. Down at a fantastic speed, right into the midst of the black mass, into the enemy’s square.

Nine men have no thoughts, for yesterday, to-day or to-morrow. Nine pilots push their sticks down and follow their chief.

The barrels of twice three hundred and twenty machine-guns are turned on to them from the cockpits of the enemy bombers.

Down go the nine at an incalculable speed, down into this hell.

Twice three hundred and twenty machine-guns are silent—petrified with amazement at this mad effort to scatter a formation of three hundred and twenty bombers.

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