Winged Warfare by William Avery Bishop

telling just where our barrage shells were bursting. The ground all about the trenches and the battle area was dark brown where it had been churned up by the never ceasing fire of the opposing artillery. On either side of the battle zone could be seen the fields, the setting sun shining on them with the softest of tinted lights. Still farther back—on both sides—was the cultivated land. The little farms stood out in varying geometric designs, with different colours of soil and shades of green, according to what had been sown in them and the state of the coming crops. There was no mist at all, and one could see for miles and miles.
    From Arras I could see the British Channel, and it resembled more a river of liquid gold than a sea. Across the Channel it was possible to make out England and the Isle of Wight. The chalk cliffs of Dover formed a white frame for one side of the splendid picture. Toward Germany one could see a tremendous wooded country, a stretch of watered lowlands beyond the trees, and the rest indistinct. To the South I could make out a bit of the River Seine, while to the North lay the Belgian Coast. The marvellous beauty of it all made the war seem impossible. We flew peacefully along for miles in the full enjoyment of it all, and I shall be glad always we did not have a fight that evening. It would have brought me back to stern reality with too sudden a jerk.
    A few days later I was away from the beauties in life and after the grossly hideous balloons again. Success rewarded one of my earnest efforts. It happened one morning when we had been patrolling the air just above the trenches. It was a very dull morning, the clouds being under 3,000 feet. Well across the lines I could make out the portly form of a German balloon sitting just under them. The sight of the “sausage” filled me with one of those hot bursts of rage I had so often in these days against everything German in the world. After the finish of the patrol, I had my machine filled up with petrol, and with a good supply of special ammunition started out on a voluntary expedition to bring down that fat and self-satisfied balloon. Upon nearing the lines I flew up into the clouds, having taken a careful compass bearing in the exact direction of my intended victim. Flying slowly at a rate of sixty miles an hour, I crept steadily forward, taking reckonings now and then from the compass and my other flying instruments. I figured the balloon was six miles over the lines and as I had climbed into the clouds about one mile behind our own lines, I figured that seven minutes should let me down just where I wanted to be. I popped out of the clouds with every nerve tense, expecting to find the sausage just beneath me. Instead, I found nothing, not even a familiar landmark. I felt pretty sick at heart when I realised I had lost myself. My compass must have been slightly out of bearing, or I had flown very badly. At that moment I had no idea where I was. I flew in a small circle, and then spied another balloon quite near me. The balloon had seen me first, the “S. O. S.” had gone out, and it was being hauled down with miraculous swiftness. I dived for the descending German as hard as I could go and managed to get within fifty yards while it was still 800 feet up. Opening fire I skimmed just over the top of the balloon, then turned to attack again when to my great joy I saw the bag was smoking. I had seen no one leap from the observer’s basket hanging underneath, so I fired a short burst into it just to liven up anybody who happened to be sitting there. The sausage was then smoking heavily, so I flew south in the hope of finding some landmark that would tell me the way home.
    Suddenly another balloon loomed before me, and at the same time I recognised by the ground that it was the “sausage” I had first set out to attack. I fired the remainder of my ammunition at it at long range, but had no effect so far as I could see. I