Green Balls Part 21

We love the darkness, and we hate the light, For we are wedded to the gloomy night._

X.

WITH A KITE BALLOON AT THE DARDANELLES.

"Show a leg! Show a leg! Rise up and shine! Lash up and stow! The sun's burning your bloomin' eyes out!"

So bellows the Master at Arms down the hammock flat, and I awake to see above, outlined by the edges of the hold, a square panel of burnt blue Asiatic sky.

Across my hammock strikes a scorching beam of sunlight, and in a few moments I have pulled over my bare skin a washed-out overall suit and have put my naked feet into a heavy pair of boots, and I am dressed for the day. The hammock is lashed up, unhooked, and stowed, and at the shrill whistle of "Fall in," I hurry up the companion to the blinding heat of the aft deck of H.M. Kite Balloon Ship _Manica_, which a few months before was a small tramp steamer. Being but a second-cla.s.s air mechanic (general), and so, therefore, in the lowest category, I stand in the rear line of parti-coloured men,--some in khaki shorts and white shirts, some in khaki jackets, some in blue naval coats.

"Parade. 'Shun. Answer to your names.... All present, sir. Parade, stand at ease!"

The duty officer, in white flannel trousers and trim blue-and-gold coat, calls us again to attention, and tells the master-at-arms to send us to balloon stations at once.

"Parade--balloon stations--carry on!"

At once we break off, and hurry down the dim crooked gangway connecting the aft deck with the balloon deck forward. Soon we break once more into the sunlight, with the tall canvas wind screen on the left, and on the right the clumsy orange bulk of the kite balloon lying along the wide wooden deck, on which it is held by rows of canvas bags filled with sand, which are hooked in cl.u.s.ters, like ripe fruit, to its netting.

My position is No. 1 starboard, so I hurry at once to the forward end of the deck and stand by to remove the bags. The whistle is blown, and we lift the bags up, and remove the hooks from the netting, and hang them lower down. As bag after bag is moved the great bulk of the balloon begins to rise up, until beneath its body can be seen the men working on the opposite side of the deck. Now the network is out of reach, and therefore we hang cl.u.s.ters of bags round the splicing of the ropes. Then the balloon, its loose underside flapping slightly in the wind, is allowed to rise sufficiently to permit the basket party to carry the willow-woven basket to its position in the centre of the deck. As soon as the basket is fixed to its rigging the balloon is dragged down again by the men at the ropes, the sandbags are removed, and the balloon is let up till the basket is just resting on the deck. The two observers, with their charts and binoculars, climb aboard, and then the order is given, "Let her up gently!"

We allow the balloon to rise until at last the ropes leave our hands and hang rippling in the air above us. With a sudden hiss of steam and clatter of machinery the winch in the corner begins to work, and slowly the shining cable unwinds from the drum as the quaint orange shape rises up, up, up, into the pale Wedgwood blue of the sky. At last the whine of the winch ceases, and far above us the yellow balloon hangs like a strange fruit, faintly swinging from side to side.

We fall in once more on parade, and I am detailed to the "Spud party,"

and "carry on peeling potatoes." Outside the little galley I sit on an upturned bucket, peeling rather clumsily the great potatoes, which, Argus-like, have a thousand eyes. As at ease I carry on this domestic operation, I see in front of me, like a theatrical panorama, war in full blast. Rising from the deep indigo-blue of the sparkling aegean Sea lies a long line of brown and yellow hills, dappled with the dull green of scrub. The height of Achi Baba is a darker ma.s.s, with a flat top reminiscent of Table Mountain. To the right the country slopes down to Cape h.e.l.les, which is a biscuit-coloured point of land covered with a crowded huddle of camps and hospitals, of white rows of tents, of horses moving in long black lines, of transport waggons rolling up paths leaving clouds of dust, of batteries of guns which every now and then flash faintly in the hot sunlight, and from whose muzzles leap little clouds of yellow smoke. Over this packed scene of activity occasionally appear the white puffs of shrapnel smoke, which dissipate and vanish, while here and there a great spurt of yellow smoke and black earth shoots up as some high explosive sh.e.l.l bursts among the crowded depots and stores. The air is full of noise--the buzz of aeroplanes; the clatter of rifle fire; the staccato hammering of machine-guns; the heavy boom of guns firing; the dull crash of bursting sh.e.l.ls; the buzz of flies on deck; the plop of peeled potatoes falling in a bucket.... So, sitting at ease in the shade of the deck, we watch War casually, as though it were a side-show arranged for our benefit, and indeed we are entirely aloof. It seems incredible that there, a few miles away, on the sun-baked hills, men are dying--that the leaping upward of that smoke over on that hill records the scene of tragedy to perhaps a score of people....

Suddenly a very loud explosion roars out near us. I nearly fall off my bucket with the momentary shock, and then walk to the railings. To our right lies a lean grey cruiser, from whose foremost guns are rising a great cloud of smoke. Evidently it has begun to fire on some distant objective, guided by the observations from our balloon. Two swift lances of flame leap out from the long muzzles, two sharp detonations thunder past our ears, and we hear the long dying roar of the sh.e.l.l screaming through the air across the peninsula. Again and again the six-inch guns crash out, till at the end of half an hour the clamour ceases, and we hear a whistle sound "balloon stations."

At once we hurry down to the deck, and stand at our posts waiting for the descent of the balloon. For a time we sit in the shade, idly talking, when suddenly some one says, "h.e.l.lo! Look! It's a German!"

High over us, in the pale blue of the zenith, moves a little white bird-like shape, whose turned-back wing-tips reveal it to be an enemy.

At once we look to the men standing by the two anti-aircraft maxim guns on the bridge. They have not realised the danger.

"Hi!" we shout. "Look! Up there! He's right above us!"

_Zoop--zoop--zoop_ suddenly wails the ship's syren, sounding the hostile aircraft signal.

"Take cover!" shouts the master-at-arms, and as the men start running down the sides of the deck to the gangways, the little twelve-pounder on the p.o.o.p crashes out with its first sh.e.l.l; and one of the machine-guns begins a furious clatter as, with muzzle pointed vertically upward, it opens a useless fire against the small shape of the aeroplane almost exactly above us.

Now it is my rather unenviable duty to stand on the deck holding a little flag with which to signal to the men on the winch, which is in furious action as it strives to bring the balloon down as quickly as possible. Owing to the noise of the steam-engine, the men will be able to hear no shout of command, so it is my task to transmit orders to them with my flag. The deck is deserted now, save for the few officers and petty officers. Again and again the anti-aircraft gun on the p.o.o.p roars out, the rising sh.e.l.l hurries upwards with an ever fainter scream, until at last a little white puff of smoke appears in the thin blue sky far to the right or left of the evil shape which moves forward so relentlessly, and is now almost over us.

I realise the bombs may even now be dropping. I know that in a few moments I may be dead. I feel terribly frightened, but glad that I have something to do. The hand holding the flag shakes a little. I begin to sing one of the Indian love lyrics:--

"When I am dying Lean over me, tenderly, softly...."

Crash--_pok_--_pok_--_pok_--_pok_ ... sound the guns. Then with a loud boom a great column of water, smoke, and steam, nearly ten feet across, rises up to the right of us near the ship. _Pok_--_pok_--_pok_ sounds the maxim. I wonder if there is another bomb coming.

"Stoop, as the yellow roses droop, In the wind from the ..."

_Boom_--the second bomb bursts some eighty feet away to the left. Both have missed; the menace is pa.s.sed.

With a feeling of relief I say a short prayer, and watch with an easier interest the little white puffs of smoke which trail across the sky behind the rapidly-fading aeroplane, like flowers scattered in the path of a pa.s.sing deity. The machine-guns above me at last cease their clamour. The grey barrel of the gun on the forecastle spits out its flame and smoke for the last time. The winch ceases its clatter and is reversed in order to allow the balloon to rise again; for, the danger being past, it is required to work with the _Queen Elizabeth_.

Now the whistle sounds for breakfast, and soon we sit at our narrow wooden tables in the afterhold, eating moist bread and terribly yellow salmon, and drinking washy tea. We talk of food, food, food incessantly, picturing the glories of past meals in London, the exquisite repasts which will be ours when we return; we dream of white tablecloths, of flower vases, of toast-racks, and white china, and bacon, hot, sizzling, curling.... We are a strange crowd--artists, stokers, solicitors, clerks, blue-jackets, soldiers, architects, chauffeurs,--all are mixed together. The better educated men are A.B.'s; the P.O.'s are telephone operators or old service men. It is as strange a company as any in the war.

The meal is over, and I climb up on deck, and see that between us and the long mottled hills of Gallipoli lies the huge but graceful shape of the _Queen Elizabeth_. Her fifteen-inch guns are tilted at a high angle, and are turned towards the coast. It seems evident that she is about to bombard some position, and that our balloon is going to "spot" for her.

I walk down the gangway to the balloon deck and stand near the little telephone cabin, where the operator sits at a table with the receivers strapped over his ears, in direct communication with the bridge and the balloon observer high above. I look through a little gla.s.s window, and become a witness of a stupendous feat which ill.u.s.trates vividly the amazing power of destruction of modern artillery.

The pencil in the operator's hand writes--

"9.10. Balloon to _Q.E._ Transport 16,000 tons in narrows M17 x2 steaming slowly N.W. Can you open fire?

"9.12. _Q.E._ to Balloon. Am about to open fire.

"9.13. Balloon to _Q.E._ Transport now M17 x3. _Q.E._ fired ..."

There is a sudden deafening noise and I hear the roar of a sh.e.l.l screaming at a terrible speed through the air. The roar slowly lessens, and suddenly its tone drops about six notes as it pa.s.ses over the coast and moves above land instead of water. For nearly a minute I can hear the ever low whine of the sh.e.l.l, which dies away in a faint thud.

"9.14. Balloon to _Q.E._ O 500. R 200," writes the pencil.

The sh.e.l.l has fallen five hundred yards over its target, and two hundred feet to the right.

"9.15. _Q.E._ fired ..." writes the pencil.

Again the tumult breaks out, again the sh.e.l.l roars, and changes its note, and dies away in a little remote explosion.

"9.16. Balloon to _Q.E._ O 200 ..." writes the pencil.

The watchers in the balloon have seen a white column of water leap up just beyond the little black shape in the ribbon of the narrows twelve miles on the other side of the hills.

"9.18. _Q.E._ fired ..." continues the record.

This time the slow dying wail of the sh.e.l.l ends in a long tremulous explosion.

"9.19. O.K...." writes the pencil.

The vessel has been struck. Then with an uncanny precision the writing continues:--

"9.21. Vessel sinking. Forepart under water.

"9.23. Vessel submerged to forward funnel.

"9.25. Stern only visible above water.

"9.26. Vessel entirely submerged."