Chapter XXVII: Ships of the Air

After I had been to visit several of the bases, I returned to London, and called at the Navy headquarters. A young officer of the admiral's staff who was always ready and willing to help the writers assigned to the Navy in every possible way, came down to talk with me. "Had I been to Base X? To Base Y? Had I been to see the American submarines? The Naval Aviation?" I grasped at the last phrase.

"Tell me about it," I said. "I had no idea that the sea flyers were over here. Last fall the streets of Boston were so thick with boys of that service that you could hardly move round. And now they are on this side. Where can I find them?"

The officer drew me to a large scale map of the British Isles and the French coast which hung on the wall, plentifully jabbed with little flags. His finger fairly flew from one dot to another.

"Well," said he, "we have a station here, another station here, another station there, ... there's a station on this point of land; right about here we're putting up buildings for a depot but there is nobody at hand yet, here's a big station...." I believe that he could have continued for five minutes.

"You seem to have a big affair well in hand," I suggested, rather surprised.

"No," he corrected, "just beginning. The department scheme for the naval aviation service is one of the big things of the war. It's so big, so comprehensive that people over there haven't woken up to it yet. Aren't you going to Base L next week? Why don't you go down the coast a few miles and see the outfit at Z? Only don't forget that we've 'just begun to fight.' Come upstairs and let me give you a letter." A few days later I ran down to see the aviators in their eyrie.

The naval station lay in a sheltered cove hidden away in a green and ragged coast. Landing at a somewhat tumble-down old pier, I saw ahead of me a gentle slope descending to a broad beach of shingle. Mid-way along this beach, ending under the water, was to be seen a wide concrete runway which I judged to be but newly finished, for empty barrels of cement and gravel separators stood nearby. At the top of the slope, in a great field behind mossy trees, lay the corrugated iron dormitories of a vast, deserted camp once the repose quarters of a famous fighting regiment. There was something of the atmosphere of an abandoned picnic ground to the place. Sailor sentries stood at the entrance of the quiet roads leading to the empty barracks, and directed me to those in authority.

The naval aviation is a new service. For a long time the uniform of the cadets was so unfamiliar that even in their own America the boys used to be taken for foreign officers. It was a case of "I say he's an Italian. No, dear, I'm _sure_ he's a Belgian." A not unnatural mistake, for the uniform has a certain foreign jauntiness. In colour, it is almost an olive green, and consists of a short, high-collared tunic cut snugly to the figure, shaped breeches of the riding pattern, and putties to match. Add the ensign's solitary stripe and star on shoulder and sleeve and you have it.

I found a group of the flyers in one of the tin barracks that did duty as a kind of recreation centre. The spokesman of the party was a serious lad from Boston.

"Fire away," they yelled good-naturedly to my announcement that I was going to bomb with questions.

"First of all, about how many of you are there helping to make it home-like for Fritz in this amiable spot?"

"About fifty of us."

"Been here long?"

"No, just came. You see the station is not really finished yet, but they are hurrying it along to beat the cars. Did you spot that concrete runway as you came up? A daisy, isn't it? Slope just right, and no skimping on the width. Well, that's only one of the runways we're going to have. Over on the other side, the plans call for three or four more."

"And what do these sailors do?" I had noticed a large number of sailors about.

"They look after our machines and the balloons. You see this is a regular aviation section just the same as the army has, and the sailors are trained mechanics, repair men, clerks and so forth. They're rather taking it easy now because the planes have been somewhat slow in reaching us. You know as well as I do the rumpus that's been made in the States over the air program. Things are breezing up mighty fast now, however, and every supply ship that puts into the harbour brings some of our equipment. The Navy's ready, the camps are being organized, the men are trained; it's up to the manufacturers to hustle along our machines. Please try to make them realize that when you write."

"But, say," put in another, "don't, for the love of Pete, run away with the idea that we haven't any equipment. We've got some planes and some balloons. But we want more, more, more. Anything to keep the Germans on the go."

"What do you use?" I asked. "Mostly balloons," put in a third speaker, a quiet young Westerner who had thus far not joined in the conversation. "Most of us are balloon observers, though Jos here," he indicated the Bostonian, "is a sea-plane artist. He runs one of the planes."

"Come," said I, "tell the thrilling story."

"There isn't any story," groaned Jos, "that's just the trouble. I've been fooling round these coasts and out by the harbour mouth in the hope of spotting a sub till I feel as if I'd used up all the gasoline in the British Isles. Those destroyers have spilled the beans. Fritz doesn't dare to come round. Ever try fishing in a place from which the fish have been thoroughly scared away? It's like that. Mine laying submarines used to be round the mouth of the harbour all the time, now Fritz is never seen or heard from.... The destroyers have spilled the beans. The balloon hounds are the whole show here. Tell him about it, Mac. You've taken more trips than any of the others." The disgruntled sea planer knocked a bull-dog pipe on his shoe, and was still.

"I can't tell much," drawled Mac, a wiry, black little Southerner with a wonderful accent. "They fill the balloon up here, take it out to a destroyer or some patrol boat and tie it on, jes like a can to purp's tail. Then you go out in the Irish Sea and watch for subs. If you observe anything that looks like a Hun, you simply telephone it down to the destroyer's deck, and she rushes ahead and investigates. Sometimes the observer in the balloon sees something which can't be seen from the level of the destroyer's bridge, and in that case the balloonist practically steers the vessel, ... so many points to port, so many to starboard, and so on till you land them in the suspected area."

"What's it like up above there in a balloon? From the deck of a battleship or a destroyer, it seems to be a calm matter."

"Don't be too sure of that. I know it looks calm, calm as a regular up-in-the-air old feather baid. And it isn't bad if you have a decent wind with which the course and speed of the ship are in some sort of an agreement. But if the ship's course lies in one direction and the wind is blowing from another, the balloon blows all over the place. When the wind blows from behind, you float on ahead and try to pull the ship after you; if the wind is from ahead, you are dragged along at the end of a chain like a mean dawg. There is always sure to be a party if the ship zigzags. Now you are pulling towards the bow, now you are floating serenely to port, now you are tugging behind, now you are nowhere in particular and apparently standing on yo' haid."

We went to walk in the grounds. I was shown where the balloon shed was to be, the generators, and a dozen other houses. Evidently the station was going to be "some outfit." Already a big gang of civilian labourers, electrified by American energy, were hard at work laying the foundations of a large structure.

"Yes," said one of the boys, "this is going to be a great place. When it's completed we shall have regular sea-plane patrols of this entire coast, and a balloon squadron ready to coöperate with either the British or the American destroyer fleets. Our boys along the French coast have already made it hot for some Huns, and believe me, if there are any subs left, you just bet we want a chance at 'em?"

Such is the spirit that has driven the Germans from the seas.