Post by Dave Homewood on Apr 28, 2012 22:38:04 GMT 12
This is a great first hand account of a WWI night bombing raid, from the Daily mail newspaper at the time, via Papers Past:
Poverty Bay Herald, Volume XLV, Issue 14596, 4 May 1918, Page 6
BOMBING.
AN ACTUAL EXPERIENCE.
(By "Night-Hawk," in Daily Mail.)
We left our aerodrome about half-past eleven. The moon was in the first quarter and visibility was rather poor. A dark, heavy mist hung over the ground. We followed a winding course for nearly thirty miles.
We could see few lights — which are an airman's best guides when flying by night.
After about fifty minutes' flying we reached a famous landmark just about a mile behind the line. This has often been a beacon of hope to many a wandering aviator at night returning from some raid into Hunland.
Here we switched off our headlights and a minute or so later crossed the lines in darkness at a height of about 3000 ft. Below us we could see the spurts of rifle and machine-gun fire, the firing of batteries, the bursts of shells and grenades, long lines of colored Verey lights stretching away north and south as far as the eye could reach.
It was amazing to think that down there, 3000 ft and more beneath us, tens of thousands of human beings in trenches and saps and dug-outs were busily engaged in the greatest game of war. An artillery "strafe" was on at the time, and it was obvious that the steady drone of our engine was not noticed in the greater noise of the guns. We flew over the German lines without having a shot fired at us.
I was flying with one of the best pilots in the squadron — a keen boy from a bank in Toronto, half-Irish, half-Canadian. Our target, that night was a railway station and some important goods sidings about forty miles behind the German lines - a strategic centre and a vital point on their lines of communication.
Our compasses were due east. The wind at 3000 ft was just over fifty miles an hour, and it was dead against us. We had been flying over Hunland for nearly three-quarters of an hour when we saw our target. Two terrific bursts of flames told us that one of our machines had already reached it and had, as we say in night bombing squadrons, "laid its eggs."
Immediately the gun barrage opened— a barrage comprised of "Archie" and machine-guns and what we call "flaming-onions." We worked into the barrage, dropped our bombs, and then did a vertical bank, sideslipping down the beam of a searchlight which had managed to pick us up. Once in the friendly darkness again we headed for home as fast as we could go. The wind was behind us coming back. We made good progress until just before we regained the British lines our, engine began to "knock" badly.
"We've been hit!" shouted my pilot through the telephone which connects our seats. "I think it's a machine-gun bullet through our radiator. All the water has run out. The engine is redhot. I'll try and make the lines on half throttle. You get the parachute flare ready and also your Verey pistol."
I carried out his instructions and cleared my 'office' for action - that is, got the gun to one side so that if I were thrown out it would not hit me. All this time we were losing height and the engine was spitting and spluttering like a Manx cat.
We crossed the lines at about 300 ft. up. Than suddenly the engine cut out altogether and the propeller stopped. Down we came almost in a nose-dive. The pilot turned her into the wind, zoomed over the remains of a sugar refinery, and dropped the "'bus" into a confusion of shell-holes, ditches, and trenches. The undercarriage was swept off altogether, and we found ourselves unhurt once more on the ground in the British support lines.
Poverty Bay Herald, Volume XLV, Issue 14596, 4 May 1918, Page 6
BOMBING.
AN ACTUAL EXPERIENCE.
(By "Night-Hawk," in Daily Mail.)
We left our aerodrome about half-past eleven. The moon was in the first quarter and visibility was rather poor. A dark, heavy mist hung over the ground. We followed a winding course for nearly thirty miles.
We could see few lights — which are an airman's best guides when flying by night.
After about fifty minutes' flying we reached a famous landmark just about a mile behind the line. This has often been a beacon of hope to many a wandering aviator at night returning from some raid into Hunland.
Here we switched off our headlights and a minute or so later crossed the lines in darkness at a height of about 3000 ft. Below us we could see the spurts of rifle and machine-gun fire, the firing of batteries, the bursts of shells and grenades, long lines of colored Verey lights stretching away north and south as far as the eye could reach.
It was amazing to think that down there, 3000 ft and more beneath us, tens of thousands of human beings in trenches and saps and dug-outs were busily engaged in the greatest game of war. An artillery "strafe" was on at the time, and it was obvious that the steady drone of our engine was not noticed in the greater noise of the guns. We flew over the German lines without having a shot fired at us.
I was flying with one of the best pilots in the squadron — a keen boy from a bank in Toronto, half-Irish, half-Canadian. Our target, that night was a railway station and some important goods sidings about forty miles behind the German lines - a strategic centre and a vital point on their lines of communication.
Our compasses were due east. The wind at 3000 ft was just over fifty miles an hour, and it was dead against us. We had been flying over Hunland for nearly three-quarters of an hour when we saw our target. Two terrific bursts of flames told us that one of our machines had already reached it and had, as we say in night bombing squadrons, "laid its eggs."
Immediately the gun barrage opened— a barrage comprised of "Archie" and machine-guns and what we call "flaming-onions." We worked into the barrage, dropped our bombs, and then did a vertical bank, sideslipping down the beam of a searchlight which had managed to pick us up. Once in the friendly darkness again we headed for home as fast as we could go. The wind was behind us coming back. We made good progress until just before we regained the British lines our, engine began to "knock" badly.
"We've been hit!" shouted my pilot through the telephone which connects our seats. "I think it's a machine-gun bullet through our radiator. All the water has run out. The engine is redhot. I'll try and make the lines on half throttle. You get the parachute flare ready and also your Verey pistol."
I carried out his instructions and cleared my 'office' for action - that is, got the gun to one side so that if I were thrown out it would not hit me. All this time we were losing height and the engine was spitting and spluttering like a Manx cat.
We crossed the lines at about 300 ft. up. Than suddenly the engine cut out altogether and the propeller stopped. Down we came almost in a nose-dive. The pilot turned her into the wind, zoomed over the remains of a sugar refinery, and dropped the "'bus" into a confusion of shell-holes, ditches, and trenches. The undercarriage was swept off altogether, and we found ourselves unhurt once more on the ground in the British support lines.
