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RAIDING ENGLAND FROM THE SKY

inflicting enormous damage if he attack in sufficient numerical force and is prepared to act with determination in spite of any losses he may sustain; no reasonable superiority in the defending aircraft, either individually or numerically, can be entirely effective. Neither can we pin our faith to counter-aircraft artillery; under the conditions in question it may prove to be almost useless.

The lieutenant ended our conversation at the Flandre that afternoon with the prediction that we would probably see the aeroplanes of the Allies over Namur soon, now that the local sheds boasted one of the very newest super-Zeppelins.

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But if they do come, they will not all go back, I fear," he concluded.

It was towards the end of September, a little over a month later, that I said good-by to Namur. Motoring out by Fort Emines, I passed the air-ship camp for the last time.

It stood in a large field which was moderately well protected by mitrailleuses, antiaircraft guns, barbed wire entanglements, and a high wire fence, not to mention a seriouslooking band of tall sailor sentinels; and it consisted of three huge hangars. These were parallel to each other and about one hundred yards apart. They were all steel frameworks; the outer two covered with wood, the middle one with yellow canvas. The roofs of the wooden ones were painted a brownish green, like the surrounding fields; the canvas one from its natural color was supposed to resemble a plowed plot; and the doors of all three had landscape effects sketched in a free and futuristic spirit to blend them with the surrounding country. But, in spite of these efforts to gloss over the mere fact of their existence, these Zeppelin hangars remained about the most prominent landmarks for miles around.

My last impression of Namur was of the faithful old "Landstormers" as they were seated on their wooden observation towers sweeping the heavens for hostile aircraft, their tobacco pipes rivaling in length their long telescopes.

It was not until the middle of August, 1916, just a year after our conversation at the Flandre, that the Allies did raid Namur. So

the lieutenant's prediction was late in coming true. However, he was right in part: the communiqués have reported that one of the Allies' aeros never returned. Evidently the aged watchers of the hills were not caught napping.

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Not long after leaving Namur I crossed the electric and barbed-wire barricade which holds the Holland frontier, flung my Kaiserlich passport at the last of the sentinels, and set sail for England again.

I arrived in London in the wake of the Zepp raids which ruined the roof of the Belgian Relief Office at 3 London Wall, wrecked the houses out Finsbury way, and opened up the great holes in the pavements in Russell Square and along Kingsway.

After a short visit in the city I journeyed out to spend a week in the little town of Hertford. As it had been my custom to go there during the Oxford vacations and to put up at the Salisbury Arms for study, I had a most homelike desire to renew my acquaintance with the ancient place and its friendly inhabitants.

Hertford is the typical old, unspoiled English country town, with its High Street, its quiet churchyard, and its bustling inns. Located just twenty-six miles north of London on a twist of the little river Lea, it lies in the midst of a countryside which seems the very symbolization of unthrobbing peacefulness, with its slow-footed cattle and its far-away sheep in their pleasant pastures and deep hedgeways.

In this same atmosphere and just over the hills from Hertford is Cuffley, where that Zeppelin came crashing down like a Lolt from the blue a short time ago.

The boast of the Salisbury Arms is that its doors have never been closed since Cromwell's time; and certainly the old walls, the pewters, the furniture, the raftered ceilings, and the huge fireplaces seem to bear it out.

In the evenings an assemblage which seemed to my imagination quite in keeping with the character of the ancient place was accustomed to gather before the sea-coal fire of the tap-room. Regular habitués always appeared. Mr. Bones, tailor and local practical joker, would burst in, slamming the door behind him, and threaten the orderly ranks of glasses and bottles with his stick-to the perennial consternation of the barmaid. Mr. Ames, saddler and misanthrope in general, would follow and take the chair closest to the fire. Mr. Burrows, bookseller and controversialist, would arrive last, as a rule, and throw a little fuel on the evening's attack on the Government, which would usually be at the "curtain fire" stage about that time. Every one who has ever visited an English tap-room knows that the grilling of the Gov

[graphic]

PHOTOGRAPH FROM BROWN BROTHERS
AN ENGLISH CONSTABLE HOLDING A ZEPPELIN'S BOMBS

[graphic]

COPYRIGHT BY UNDERWOOD & UNDERWOOD
THE DESTRUCTION CAUSED BY A ZEPPELIN RAID

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ernment forms an inevitable part of the evening's entertainment. And the Salisbury Arms, in addition to being no exception to this rule, was a Tory inn. One soon grew fond of it all.

The evening of my arrival I was given a royal welcome and put in my old place with a speech by Mr. Bones. He insisted that the bench had been kept sacred to my memory all the time I was "in the 'ands of the 'Uns in poor little Belgium." Then the regu lar attack on the Government began, this time upon its air policy in particular. In the recent German raids Zeppelins had passed very close to Hertford in their attempts at Enfield and the London district. Indeed, the people at Bayfordbury, just outside the town, had seen the air-ships themselves in the distance. So Hertford was beginning to consider its position in a Zeppelin-haunted region.

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But why aren't you more strict with your lights, then?" I asked. "In Oxford, which thinks itself well away from the danger zone, the authorities would never allow anything like the windows of this room with nothing but yellow shades to dim them."

"Oh, putting out the street lights is enough, and bad enough, too; the Zepps won't bother us," grumbled Burrows. “What they are after-the beastly brutes-is Ware and Enfield, where the munition stores and mills are."

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No, they don't want us," added Ames; we haven't even a searchlight, to say nothing of a gun; nothing but a few slackers like Burrows here." And he gave the individual in question a playful prod with his stick.

That was the sentiment of the Salisbury Arms, and was quite typical of Hertford and many other English country towns at that time

Three evenings later-to be exact, the evening of October 13, 1915--the same assemblage was gathered, each member in his accustomed place. Bones was just back from a day's trip to London, where he had met a friend belonging to the "A. A.," who had converted him to the adequacy of London's aerial defense. So the talk was running unusually high.

I arrived just in time to hear the end of his description of his friend's pet " Archie," or anti-aircraft gun-“. . . in a field just at the bottom of his garden, you know; expect it will bust all the windows when it is fired,

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"Top hole chap that, one of Hertford's brightest and best," was Bones's only comment as the door slammed after Kelson.

Half an hour later the bustle of running feet could be heard in the street, and far away the Panshanger hounds began howling.

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Again Kelson poked his head in, this time to order in an excited whisper : Put out that light; lcok sharp! There's one coming!"

Out went the light, and we all groped our way hurriedly but quietly to the street. Outside we flattened ourselves against the building and waited.

At first nothing could be heard but the distant howling of the hounds; the bustling in the street had ceased. Gradually, however, a faint humming became audible, like the far away roar of a tremendous electric fan. It awakened memories in me of Brussels and Namur. A Zeppelin was coming.

It was about nine o'clock, very dark and cloudy, with a bit of fog in the air, but calm-ideal conditions for a raid.

Louder and louder grew the humming, till it almost approximated a roar. This was

certainly no "LZ 74" coming, but one of the older models. Still nothing could be seen. At last, however, there was a sudden awestruck whisper, "There she is !" and the dim outline of the cigar-shaped monster appeared.

It was just over the church spire. Flying surprisingly low, and at about a twenty-five or thirty mile pace, it passed over the village. Straight it went, Hatfield way. Disappearing one moment and reappearing the next in shadowy outline in the clouds and fog, it looked for all the world the picture of the modern Flying Dutchman.

Long after we had caught our last sight of it, and long after its peculiar humming sound had died away in the distance, we all stood by the wall of the inn, awestruck and silent.

Finally Bones announced that he needed something very badly, and we returned to the tap-room. Lights were turned on again, but this time not before rugs had been care

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