When war was declared between Germany and France, the German navy acquired many of the Zeppelins, converted them so that they could carry three 100-pound bombs and began bombing raids over London. The bombs were held in place by ropes, which were cut as the airship drifted over its target. It was impossible to be accurate and direct hits tended to be accidental.
These raids over London caused little material damage, but they incensed Londoners. Every night there was a blackout in the city. The sight of the monstrous airships caught in the high-powered searchlights, cascading their bombs on to the capital, brought the people out on to the streets shouting in protest. During 1915, airships took part in more than thirty raids over London. The belief that the Germans could never reach London had been shaken.
It was feared that the Zeppelins would be able to target Kensington Palace using reflections from the gilding of the Albert Memorial, so the gold leaf was stripped using a solvent and the glittering slurry dumped in a hole behind the Tate Gallery. The statue was then painted black. But from the beginning of the war, the Kaiser was careful to protect royalty among his enemies. He gave strict instructions that any raids over England should only bomb targets of real military importance and stipulated that places such as Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral should not be bombed under any circumstances. The Allies, however, did not share his sentiments and later bombed Charleville and Stenay, where the Kaiser and Crown Prince often stayed.
Cold nights were preferable for airship raids over London. A drop in temperature of three degrees meant that an airship could gain three hundred feet in altitude. The airships were launched from their bases deep in Germany at noon and, by night, were approaching the English coast. Navigation was complicated because of the blackout of all landmarks on the coastline, but the beams of the lighthouses at Oostende and Steenbrugge formed a line that pointed directly at the mouth of the Thames.
There was no protection from the bitter cold. The gondola cars were open to the elements and the crew had only furlined greatcoats and heavy boots for warmth. They were issued with oxygen bottles for high-altitude flying, but kept below 25,000 feet because, above that altitude, blood ran freely from the nose, mouth and ears.
Storms were very hazardous for the Zeppelins. In one raid over England, an airship encountered such a colossal storm that it stopped moving forwards altogether. Winds pitched the airship up and down hundreds of metres. It was then struck by a bolt of lightning, illuminating the whole of its inside. Wires and cables glowed with bluish light. The lookout on the upper platform reported that his machine gun was spitting sparks and that, when he spread his hands, small flames spurted from his fingertips.
This phenomenon, known as St Elmo’s Fire, was incredibly dangerous for the crew members, but as long as the electricity was distributed along the metal framework and provided that none of the hydrogen gas escaped, lightning in itself was no danger to the airship. Any puncturing of the shell by bullets or shrapnel, however, was fatal if combined with a lightning storm.
The lighter-than-air Zeppelins flew too high to be harmed by anti-aircraft batteries and could stay aloft for much longer than heavier-than-air biplanes. In response to the public panic over these airships, a reward of £4,250 and the prospect of a military decoration were offered to the first aviator to shoot down a Zeppelin over Britain, but none succeeded. The best they could do was pepper the gas-bags with holes. This made the airship heavier, but only resulted in complicating the return journey. As long as there was no fire or spark to ignite the hydrogen, the airship was damaged, but not destroyed.
In 1917, however, the British finally developed a new kind of ammunition against the Zeppelins – the ZPT ‘tracer bullet’, each of which was coated in burning phosphorous. It took only one hit from these green-sparking bullets to turn the airships into flying fireballs. The tiny BE 2 biplane fighters were now more than a match for the Zeppelins and the bombing raids were rendered useless.
During that same year, the seventy-nine-year-old Count died suddenly of pneumonia, contracted after a simple operation on his intestines. The burial took place at Pragfriedhof in Stuttgart in March, and was attended by the King and Queen of Württemberg along with thousands of other mourners. As his casket was lowered into the ground, two Zeppelins hovered overhead and dropped wreaths and hundreds of thousands of petals on to the grave.
24
Picardie, France, 1915
Captain Keith Hogg leant against the earthbags and looked through the periscope while he waited for his major to arrive. It was 06:10. The Major was late. No man’s land was quiet; there had been no exchange of gunfire for two days now. Large craters pitted the one hundred and twenty yards between him and the first line of German trenches. All he could see were stakes rising up from the ground, chevaux de frise and shattered tree trunks. A flare was still smoking. The sky was blank.
A squad of Moroccans filed past, dressed in goatskin overcoats. Hogg watched as they staggered along the duckboards without talking. He told them to watch out for the wire, but they hardly noticed him. He wondered how they’d cope when winter really set in. Behind them came Major Windley and Corporal Dick Chandler, followed by the early morning patrol. Hogg noticed that the Major’s uniform was dry and his puttees clean. He saluted the Major perfunctorily and told Chandler to fetch the night patrol’s report.
The Major looked through the periscope for a few minutes and grunted, as though he had found the answer to a question. Hogg waited. The Major turned to him and asked about the previous night’s activities. Hogg gave his report that there had been none and then listened as the Major recounted the orders he had received. There was going to be a night raid on enemy lines. He made it sound as if the whole war effort depended on it.
Hogg asked about training, and the Major explained that an area behind the mess halls had been sectioned off. The ramparts of the old trenchline would be reversed and the trench used for training, which was to be done in daylight. To simulate combat by night, the whole company was to be issued with dark glasses.
‘Dark glasses?’ Hogg said.
The Major nodded. ‘Your orders are to go with one of your men to Paris and requisition one hundred pairs of dark glasses – I don’t care where or who from. The raid is scheduled to take place on the twenty-ninth, six days from now. You’re to return no later than 18:00 hours tomorrow. There’s a munitions truck leaving for Amiens in an hour. Understood?’
Hogg nodded. ‘I’ll take Corporal Chandler,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ the Major said and left.
Chandler returned holding the night patrol’s report. ‘What’s up?’ he said.
‘You won’t believe this.’
‘What?’
Hogg lit a cigarette. ‘Fancy a trip to Paris, Chandler?’
Amiens was twenty-five miles to the south-west. Hogg and Chandler were sitting in the rear of the truck as it passed the field hospital and left the village. Hogg filled Chandler in on what the Major had told him. Chandler kept smiling and said it was the most ludicrous thing he’d ever heard. ‘But I’m not complaining, mind,’ he said.
They watched as the bustle of the forward zones gave way to quieter clusters of stores, dumps and temporary barracks. This far from the front line the land was intact. The Somme, which they would follow all the way to Amiens, flowed quietly. Ditches and thickets sped by; one or two low farmhouses among pasture fields. Ten minutes later, Chandler said he could hear a bird singing and to Hogg the war seemed unreal.
Nearly two hours later, the driver dropped them off at Amiens railway station. He told them to have a drink in Paris for him and drove off. Hogg worked out from the timetable on the wall that there was a train to Paris in ten minutes. They sat on a bench on the platform and looked around the station. Chandler couldn’t sit still; he said he felt strange being there. Hogg lit a cigarette. A thin white dog with yellow eyes approached and started howling at them. It wouldn’t stop. Chandler said that a howling dog was bad lu
ck and, when the train arrived, he almost ran to get on board.
The train travelled slowly through the northern suburb of St Denis and arrived at Gare du Nord at 3:40 p.m. As he wandered down the platform, Hogg tried to think of the best thing to do. Chandler was repeating ‘Loonet noowah’ to himself, like a mantra. The driver had told him it was French for ‘dark glasses’. Chandler explained to Hogg that he had to keep saying it to himself, or else he’d forget it.
As they crossed the concourse, they passed a tabac. Chandler said he wanted to buy some cigarettes. While waiting, Hogg saw a rack of magazines outside. He picked up copies of Le Miroir and L’Illustration and flicked through them. There were portraits of dead French soldiers and of whole companies standing in rows in training grounds. There were also pictures of another raid over London by the ‘New German Military Weapon’ – the Zeppelin. Hogg studied the balloon. He’d heard about these machines from soldiers recently arrived from London. All of them said how terrifying they were. The middle spread was a ‘photo record’ of a battle, but not a real battle, just some men in clean uniforms running around. Hogg stuffed the magazines back in the rack and shouted at Chandler to hurry up.
They walked out on to rue La Fayette. Both men were quiet as they looked at the huge buildings on either side and the motor cars and street trolleys moving between them. Everything seemed so normal, as if the war was a thousand miles away. Hogg realised how hungry he was.
‘Lunch?’ he asked Chandler.
‘Are you joking?’ Chandler replied.
They went to the nearest café terrace they could see and sat down outside, facing the street. It was just about warm enough to sit there. A waiter in a long white apron came outside and smiled warmly to them.
‘Bonjour,’ he said.
After some confusion, they ordered some hot soup and sandwiches. Hogg lit another cigarette.
‘How the bleedin’ hell are we going to get those glasses?’ Chandler asked.
‘We’ll ask the waiter.’
‘What about a bit of vino to go with the soup?’
Hogg looked at Chandler, whose expression was saying ‘why not?’, and sighed. ‘All right, but let’s keep a lid on this, agreed?’
‘Absolutely, Captain.’ Chandler rubbed his hands.
The waiter came out with their food and served it to them.
‘Excusez-moi,’ Hogg said, trying to remember his French from school, but Chandler cut him off.
‘Loonet noowah,’ he said, making glasses around his eyes with his fingers.
‘Comment?’ the waiter frowned.
‘Loonet noowah,’ Chandler said.
The waiter blinked and listened as Chandler repeated the phrase several times. Then it dawned on him. ‘Ah, lunettes noires,’ he said.
‘Oui,’ Chandler smiled.
‘Pour ça, vous devez aller à la place de Clichy, il y a un magasin là-bas.’
‘What?’ Chandler said.
The waiter repeated himself. Chandler turned to Hogg. ‘Did he just talk about magazines?’ he asked.
‘I think he said Clichy Place.’
The waiter took out his pen and pad and drew a little map for them. He talked quickly, nodding at them to check they understood. Hogg looked at the map. He thought they could find it. He nodded back.
‘Merci beaucoup.’
‘I didn’t understand a word he was saying,’ Chandler said.
‘Neither did I, but we’ll find it.’
‘I’m starving.’
After checking the map and asking several passers-by for ‘Clichy Place’, they finally arrived there. It was getting dark. The square was little more than a huge roundabout (Chandler counted seven exits) with shops in between. They walked once around the square, but couldn’t find a shop that they thought would sell dark glasses.
To warm themselves up, they went into a bar that they had already passed several times. The counter was made of metal. They ordered two coffees and, after persuasion from Chandler, two cognacs. While the bartender was getting their order, Hogg noticed that the bar was busy.
‘We’re going to have to ask again,’ he said.
‘All right.’
When the bartender placed their drinks on the counter, Hogg showed him the little map and, first in his limited French and then in English, asked him where the shop was. The bartender waved at him to wait and then walked away. Hogg watched him make a telephone call. When he had finished, he returned and gestured for them to wait five minutes. Hogg nodded.
‘What’s up?’
‘Dunno,’ Hogg said. ‘But I suppose we’ll find out.’
Chandler drank his coffee and reeled off what the others in their company were probably doing at that very moment. He shook his head. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said. Hogg watched Chandler for a moment and realised Chandler was actually getting used to being away from the front line.
‘Whatever they’re doing right now is exactly what we’ll be doing tomorrow at the same time. Don’t forget that,’ Hogg said to him.
Chandler shrugged and drank his cognac.
The bartender addressed them and pointed to a woman, who had just entered the bar. She was wearing a long red dress and Hogg sensed that she didn’t often enter bars such as this. She came over to them.
‘Hello, I’m Lady MacLeod.’
Hogg introduced himself. Chandler almost bowed when he shook her hand.
She smiled at them. ‘I’m sure I can help you find some glasses. I suggest we look around Clichy; there must be a shop not far away.’
Both men agreed. The woman talked to the bartender for a few moments and then gave him some change.
‘According to Jean-Louis, there’s an optician’s on boulevard des Batignolles, just over there.’ She pointed. ‘Shall we go?’ she said.
‘We still have to pay,’ Hogg said.
‘Don’t worry about that. It’s the least I can do,’ she smiled.
‘Well, thank you, madame,’ Hogg said.
‘Thank you,’ Chandler said.
They left the bar and walked down boulevard des Batignolles. On the way, Hogg felt the cognac warm his stomach. The woman asked them for details of the glasses – what type? how big? how many? Hogg answered as best he could and explained to her that they needed one hundred pairs.
‘One hundred!’ she said. ‘My God, what are you going to do with one hundred pairs of dark glasses in October?’
‘I don’t know,’ Hogg replied.
When they arrived at the optician’s, the woman asked them to wait outside while she talked to the proprietor. She remained inside the shop for several minutes, talking to a small man in a dark suit. There were several bustling restaurants and cafés all along the boulevard. Chandler was watching the women in the street. He nudged Hogg and pointed to a young woman in a silky black dress. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen, Hogg thought. She smiled at Chandler as she walked by.
The woman came out of the shop and told them that the proprietor had several pairs of dark glasses, but not one hundred. It was out of season, he explained. However, he would be able to contact his supplier the next day and order them.
‘What would you like to do, messieurs?’ she asked.
Chandler looked at Hogg. ‘When would he be able to get the glasses?’ Hogg asked.
‘Not until the day after tomorrow,’ she said.
‘That’s too bad; we have to leave tomorrow.’
‘Oh, no problem,’ she said. ‘Just give me the address of your company and he can dispatch them to you.’
Hogg wasn’t sure if he should. He thought about the Major’s reaction if they returned without securing the glasses. He looked at Chandler, who was waiting for him to say something, and realised this was the closest they would come before they would have to leave. He looked at the woman.
‘All right,’ he said.
She motioned him into the shop, where he wrote the address down for the proprietor. When he had finished, the proprietor read the address, smiled
and shook Hogg’s hand. He said something, which the woman translated as: ‘I am happy to be of help to the Allied forces.’ Hogg thanked him.
To celebrate, the woman took them to a nearby bar, where, she said, she knew some friends. Once there, she bought them both another cognac. Hogg drank it and felt relieved. A small band, made up of an accordion and fiddle, played ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ when they saw the English soldiers. Chandler was singing along at the top of his voice.
Several women were introduced to them. They sat down, asking about the front and listening as Hogg told them about it. They said, ‘Mon pauvre,’ and embraced him. One of them said that the woman in red was a famous dancer. She repeated her stage name to him, but he’d never heard of her. He looked for Chandler and saw him talking with her. Perhaps Chandler knew who she was. The walls of the bar were red and the woman’s dress blended in with the colour. The interior was warm. Hogg drank the cognacs bought for him.
The first thing Hogg saw when he woke up was a window with bright sunlight pouring in. He looked at his pocket watch: 10:25 a.m. He cursed under his breath and sat up. The world slipped up and over him. He stayed still and had to swallow whatever had risen from his stomach.
He was in a small, well-furnished bedroom. Chandler was out cold next to him. He had no idea where he was. He felt vaguely under threat, but everything was quiet, except for the sound of cars outside the window. He got up carefully, his head pounding, and looked out of the window. He was two floors up on a busy street. He knew they should make their way back straight away and started to shake Chandler to rouse him.
On the night of the twenty-ninth, Hogg and Chandler, along with the rest of their company, stood leaning against the earthbags in the dugout, waiting for the signal to go over the top. Everyone was silent. Hogg stood ankle-deep in mud, breathing slowly to keep calm. It was so dark that he could hardly see the man next to him. He wished he could smoke a cigarette.
The Red Dancer Page 16