The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  “Where?” Melbourne asked.

  “Reach the hill at the bottom there and circle left. I need the back view of the village.”

  Melbourne nodded and steered the airplane to the landmark. Douglas in the meantime leaned over the side of the plane for a third picture. The abandoned village seemed even more ghastly to Melbourne as he was flying straight above it. The crumbled walls, the rubble, and the broken windows of the houses spoke of a terrible ordeal. The villagers were either dead or had fled to who knows where.

  Something caught his attention. A dot, not too far off in the distance, to the left side of the Farman, floated in the sky above the horizon. He rubbed his goggles with his gloved hands and squinted. Maybe it was nothing but a bird, a mirage of some sort.

  The speck seemed to move fast. And it was getting bigger.

  “Boche!” he shouted.

  Melbourne was not even done with the word when a shower of bullets whizzed past the airplane, just above the wings. Douglas pulled back into his seat, tucked the camera between his legs, and grabbed the handles of the Lewis gun. He spun it around to face the advancing enemy. His hands shook.

  Melbourne banked the airplane to face the German fighter and made a full turn to the right.

  Another round of bullets sped by their airplane as Melbourne tried gaining altitude. Douglas responded with a round from his machinegun. Then another. And another.

  The enemy still sped towards them, unharmed.

  Melbourne cursed loudly. He could now make out the details of the fighter, a sleek, cream-colored machine – with only a single, broad wing. He had never seen anything like it. It wasn’t the sort of craft you wanted to fight on your own.

  “Keep shooting at it! Keep shooting!”

  Douglas fired at the plane once more, and the enemy responded with more bullets, a couple punching holes in the first rudder of the Farman.

  The enemy craft darted right under them close enough for Melbourne to make out the single pilot. No gunner. Who was working the guns while the pilot flew? Melbourne kept his plane rising.

  Bullets flew right under the airplane, hitting and destroying one of the landing wheels.

  Douglas spun around and fired. A few of the bullets managed to hit the wing of the enemy plane as it banked around.

  Then the plane completed its turn and came straight at them. “It’s coming straight at us!”

  Its guns opened fire – through the spinning propeller.

  The damn spinning propeller.

  He shoved the stick forward, putting the Farman into a steep dive that might, hopefully, limit the damage. Even so, a line of bullet holes stitched the upper wing. The German fighter passed above them and began gaining altitude far faster than the Farman ever could.

  “I really don’t like this,” Melbourne said.

  The Boche did a stalling turn and came diving at them at full speed. Melbourne kept his cool, watching the plane stooping at them like a hawk. At the last minute, he threw the Farman to the left.

  Bullets tore his left rudder to shreds.

  All right, all right, he still had one left. Melbourne dropped the altitude and slowed the plane down, placing the Farman right under the German fighter. Right in the pilot’s blind spot.

  It was time to end this.

  “Douglas!”

  Douglas turned around.

  “I’m going to try to get over the hill back there. You need to be ready to take the last photographs.”

  Douglas shook his head. “Are you insane? The Boche is on our tail.”

  “Don’t worry about the Boche, just get those damn images!”

  “It’s suicide Melbourne! Foolishness!”

  The enemy airplane, began gaining altitude once more, hoping to spot them from above. Melbourne waited a few seconds and he too took the Farman to a higher elevation, still keeping it slightly behind and under the enemy plane. Douglas knew Melbourne well enough to know that protesting was going to be useless.

  The fighter levelled off at about 2000 metres. As soon as it began turning left Melbourne shoved the throttle home. The Farman rose and passed right over the German craft, then dove full speed toward the hill. That should give him a good minute before the Boche could reposition.

  They passed over the hilltop. Douglas grabbed the camera and changed the plate. They were now on the backside of the village, looking at it from a different angle, one that was needed to study the terrain and could reveal more information on enemy movements.

  Douglas leaned over and took aim. He snapped the shutter and quickly got back up to change the plate. His smooth, ballet-like operation was breaking down under fire. His hands shook pulling the exposed plate out of the camera, and he dropped the first new plate, shattering it.

  “Bloody hell!”

  “Easy Douglas,” Melbourne said. “You can do this.”

  Douglas took another fresh plate and with more care he slid it into the camera. He leaned over the side of the airplane, the leather strap firmly holding him in place, and began lining up the photograph.

  “How many more do we need?” asked Melbourne.

  “Just a few more of the north and west angles,” Douglas said.

  As he was he was aiming the camera he looked to the tail end of the airplane and his eyes widened.

  “Oh, no.”

  Melbourne looked behind him. The fighter had found them and it was coming full speed towards the Farman.

  “Take the picture, now!”

  Rounds began to pass above them and between the wings. Melbourne cursed under his breath and began rocking the airplane back and forth to avoid the bullets. “Keep shooting. I’ll take care of the flying.”

  Douglas was trembling but gave a slight nod. Melbourne positioned the airplane for the photograph and tried keeping it as straight as possible as bullets from the enemy machinegun sped by them. He drew his emergency pistol from the holster and turned around. It was an impossible task but he had to take the chance. Once the enemy craft came into view next to the plane he aimed at its engine and began firing. The bullet pierced one of the propellers but missed its intended spot. He shot again, and again.

  To his surprise, the enemy plane stopped firing and veered to the left, doing a full one-eighty degree turn away from the Farman. Melbourne turned back to Douglas who had just finished his photograph. He too was dumbfounded by the German plane’s behaviour. He broke a smile to Melbourne and quickly began changing plates.

  “It worked!” Melbourne said. “We chased it aw — ”

  A loud explosion went off just beneath them. Out of nowhere, something zoomed past them, barely missing the reconnaissance craft. It exploded above them, rocking the airplane. The new photographic plate in Douglas’ hand slipped from his fingers and fell into the emptiness below.

  The German airplane wasn’t chased away. It just knew better than to fly into an area protected by artillery.

  “Archies!” Melbourne shouted.

  The enemy had not fully left the village. Amidst its destruction and desolation, they had hidden an 88mm anti-aircraft cannon. “They’re still down there.” Melbourne pulled the stick towards him and began gaining altitude.

  A second detonation from below, and a few moments later another shell exploded nearby and rocked the airplane. This time, he heard shrapnel ripping through the fabric. A little closer, and their lives were over.

  Melbourne pushed the little reconnaissance plane higher and higher. 1,800 metres.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “Come on boy.”

  Douglas closed his eyes and began praying. The missing rudder made it tricky to control, and it was climbing more slowly now. The airplane was not fast enough to escape the enemy bombardments.

  A third explosion below.

  Melbourne had no idea where the piece of artillery would hit. The others had passed them on the right side of the plane, but that meant little. The enemy could be finding their range.

  He tried his luck and quickly banked to the left just as t
he artillery fire swooshed past them. He held his breath feeling his heart pounding in his chest.

  1,890 metres.

  “Come on…”

  A mere minute seemed an eternity, an extra metre never seemed enough. He kept pushing the airplane to its limits.

  1,910 metres.

  A fourth explosion resounded. He looked down and saw smoke rise from where the cannon was most likely camouflaged amidst the ruins of a building. It took a few seconds before the piece of artillery once again passed by them, so close that an extra few centimetres and it would have been over.

  The airplane rocked harder this time as the shot exploded. Melbourne’s hands slipped from the stick, but he quickly took back the control of the Farman and kept pushing.

  “Melbourne!” Douglas said. “The nacelle! It damaged the nacelle!”

  “How bad?”

  “It’s leaking. And we’ve lost a couple of struts, and a wire. There’s not a lot holding us together at the moment.”

  One more shake and it was going to be an emergency landing somewhere in the fields nearby. If they didn’t simply hit the ground in pieces. With the enemy cunningly hidden within the ruins of the village, he imagined they would also be in the surroundings. He avoided thinking of German prisons.

  1,990 metres.

  The airplane began trembling as the wind currents got stronger. Melbourne tried his best to hold the airplane as steady as possible. “No, come on…” If it would just hold together until they got to friendly territory…

  “Mel,” Douglas said, “if we die, I just wanted to let you know — ”

  “Not now Douglas.”

  “If not now, when?”

  A fifth explosion resounded.

  “Tell me tomorrow. We’ll still be around.”

  “So certain.”

  Melbourne held his breath, waiting. The shell exploded.

  Behind and below them. Melbourne broke a smile.

  “Yes,” he said. “We’re above their range.”

  They had 2,010 metres, which put them out of the 88mm gun’s reach. Douglas sat back in his seat and let out a loud sigh. Melbourne tried to breathe more and levelled the airplane with the horizon. He looked down below him and saw smoke rise from where the cannon was situated. Everything seemed so minute and tiny.

  Melbourne grinned. “You know Douglas, this would make a wonderful photograph.”

  Douglas gave him a wink and took the camera in his hands. After having changed the plate, he leaned over and took the picture.

  “How’s the nacelle?” Melbourne asked.

  “Still leaking. But we’re still attached.”

  “All right, I think we have what we wanted. Let’s see if we can make it to the squadron.”

  Melbourne veered the airplane to the left, ready to head back to base as fast as possible. He knew, however, that there was still danger lurking in the skies.

  “Do you see the fighter?” he asked.

  Douglas scanned the horizon for any sign of the enemy craft that had pursued them. “Oh, bloody hell.” He grabbed hold of the handles of the Lewis gun.

  Melbourne looked around him but saw little. Without warning, a round of bullets whizzed past the Farman, ventilating the wings once again. He cursed under his breath and saw the German fighter coming towards them from underneath.

  “The airplane can’t take any more damage,” Melbourne said. “We’ve got to fight it out.”

  Douglas waited until the enemy fighter crossed in front of them, then opened fire.

  “Douglas,” Melbourne said. “This might make you a little sick, but fire away when I tell you to.”

  Douglas nodded.

  Melbourne waited for the German fighter to close in on them again. When the enemy plane was just metres away, he pushed the throttle to maximum and cut sideways, to the left of the incoming fighter. The little reconnaissance craft passed right above the German airplane and positioned itself broadside and behind it just as the enemy craft was gaining altitude.

  “Now!”

  Douglas spun around and began firing away at the enemy fighter. Bullets tore into every part of the airplane, from the propellers down to the rudder. Smoke began pouring from its engine and it stopped gaining altitude.

  Melbourne and Douglas held their breath.

  The German fighter began limping away from the Farman, descending to the ground below them ready to make an emergency landing. Both of them cheered.

  Melbourne veered the airplane west, heading toward their squadron’s base.

  “Mel,” Douglas said, “The nacelle. It’s fully leaking.”

  Melbourne tilted his head sideways and spotted streaks of liquid flying off behind them.

  The engine began to sputter.

  They did not have sufficient fuel to reach the base.

  II

  The dog calmly walked up to the stranger and began sniffing his boots. He noticed it was a Polish Hunting Dog, big yet old. It sniffed a little more until he lost interest, moving away and disappearing among the motley crew of airplanes neatly parked on the grass. One next to the other were Maurice Farman MF 11’s, a couple of ragged down Bleriot Experimental 2A’s and 2F’s, and a series of F.E. 2’s and French Caudron G.4’s bomber airplanes, all painted in different, bright colours. Some included works of art on their bodies, other insignias that could be interpreted only by the artist.

  He walked among them, looking at them, studying their shapes and sizes. He could not understand how on earth a person could crawl into one of those things and fly off, yet alone risk their lives in them. He had survived many a mission, dangerous ones that had cost him great pain, but he could never get into one of those flying coffins.

  Around him were different groups of ground crew men working on a few of the airplanes, substituting broken pieces, patching up bullet holes, and examining the interiors of the engines. The pilots were all around the camp. A few were playing a game of cards on the ground not fat from the airplanes. Others sat by themselves, reading books or newspapers carrying the latest news from the Front. He noticed one sitting in a chair, reading Kidnapped as another pilot cut his hair. That must have been the camp’s barber, he imagined.

  A game of cricket was taking place further off in a grass field. They were a few men short but the game kept going. He stopped to notice a small dog house made of wood had been placed nearby, a little too small for the big Polish Hunting Dog. A sign had been placed outside it, “Warning, ferocious dog!” A small, white Jack Russell jumped out and began chasing the ball, much to the annoyance of the pilots trying to play.

  He stopped and pulled out his pipe from one of the pockets of his coat. From another he produced a small leather bag filled with tobacco. He carefully took a pinch and put into his pipe. Putting away the bag, he grabbed a match from another pocket and lit his pipe.

  As he took a large puff and let out a ring of smoke, he could see the white tents beyond the landing strip which housed the fifty or so men that made up the Royal Flying Corps No. 2 Squadron. They were currently stationed in a farm borrowed by a kind-hearted farmer. He was still trying to decide if the men in the trenches were better off or doing worse. Mortality was ridiculously high in the camp.

  He took a few more puffs of his pipe and continued his tour. The sun had already begun setting and the air was turning chilly. Many of the pilots and mechanics had already begun to walk back to their tents and to the mess hall. He noticed not too far off, at the border of the landing strip, a small group waiting and looking up at the sky above. A couple of them began shaking their heads. One sat down on the ground and began ripping off pieces of grass with his hands, clearly frustrated.

  Two reconnaissance missions had been planned for that day.

  Neither of them had come back yet.

  He had been told that one had left earlier in the morning but no traces of it had been found yet. The other had left later in the afternoon but had not returned yet.

  That’s the one he was looking for.

/>   The disappearance of Lieutenant Summers was going to leave an empty space in the puzzle. He would need to find other means for his search.

  He took a couple of more puffs from his pipe as he watched the sun setting. He felt tired, having travelled the better part of the afternoon to get to the aerodrome midway between Merville and La Gorgue. He wasn’t as young anymore. With the sky darkening he needed to head back. Saint Quentin was a good distance away.

  He began walking across the grass and the flat soil of the landing strip to reach the tent where he had been shown to earlier. One salute and a thank you to the Squadron’s commanding officer and he would leave.

  He found the tent rather quickly in the midst of the labyrinth of other tents and quietly peered in. A small group of officers were huddled together studying a map that lay on a wooden table. He did not know what they were discussing about but he seemed to overhear something to do with Belgium.

  “Major Webb-Bowen?” he politely asked.

  A tall, slender man with dark brown hair and a moustache looked up.

  “Ah, Captain!” he said. He excused himself from the other officers and walked up to him.

  “I came to thank you and say goodbye. I must return to my headquarters, it’s getting dark.”

  “Why, yes, of course. I am sorry you were not able to find what you wanted.” He sighed loudly. “Those darned Boche are taking away the lives of too many fine men. I am utterly sorry I was not able to be of more assistance but you see, we are preparing an aerial raid on Kortrijk.”

  “No apologies needed Major, I fully understand.”

  “Very well Captain, it was a pleasure to have you here with us,” said the commanding officer as he raised his hand to his head to give his guest the military salute. “Please give my regards to — ”

  His sentence was cut off by the sound of a bell ringing coming from the landing strip.

  The two men exchanged enquiring glances as the other officers in the tent came out with surprised expressions on their faces.

  “What in the world?” asked Major Webb-Bowen. He began hurrying along the tents to reach the source of the noise.