Lost in Limbo
Shrapnel ripped through the fabric of
both wings but luckily, the spars that held them apart withstood the
blast. One of the ailerons on the upper
wing had been torn away leaving wires flapping madly along the trailing edge
but luckily, the pilot still had some control of his failing aircraft.
George Slingsby craned his neck and peered
over the edge of his open cockpit searching desperately for a place to land. Oil was beginning to spew from his engine and
suddenly it didn’t sound quite right.
A fierce battle was raging hundreds of feet
below but he had no idea which side was his own, he had completely lost his
bearings and the pockmarked ground yielded few clues. He could try flying low over one side, see if
his British aircraft drew enemy fire, but it was too late for that. Suddenly his engine seized with a shudder
that sealed his fate.
George fought desperately at the controls
and managed to hold his aircraft true, but the battlefield was hardly an ideal
place to land. His aircraft slewed
sideways and lost speed, George had no choice he would have to bring his
stricken machine down.
The landing was heavy and George was
thrown from the cockpit and as he lay breathlessly in the mud a deathly silence
settled around him. He thought that he might
have lost his hearing, the noise when flying could be deafening at times, but
then he heard voices. A lull in the
fighting was in progress and troops were beginning to stir from their trenches,
so cautiously he raised his head.
Removing his flying goggles so he could see more clearly he was shocked
to find lost equipment and unexploded shells half buried in a sea of mud that
stretched for as far as he could see.
The wreckage of his aircraft lay smouldering close by and it saddened
him to see it in such a state. Broken
spars, fabric and bits of engine lay strewn about and it was hard to believe
that just moments before this magnificent machine was flying high up in the
sky.
The troops in the trenches had
watched as George attacked the enemy balloon high above their positions. All morning shells had rained down on them
guided by the observer who had a perfect view of the battlefield. This act of bravery had come at a price. Everyone knew of the dangers of flying too
close to a balloon filled with hydrogen gas, especially if you were firing
bullets at it. The troops on the ground
were too far away to be of any help, all they could do was watch as George made
his attacking runs. Luckily, the
observer parachuted to safety, but when the balloon eventually exploded, the
little aircraft was lost in a cloud of fire and smoke.
George slipped and struggled over the
rough ground hoping to find his countrymen.
The voices he’d heard earlier had gone and now the silence was beginning
alarm him. His whole body was tingling
and he didn’t quite feel himself, perhaps it was the affects of shock, he had already
encountered a number of battlefield horrors in just a few minutes.
Fighting in the air was fraught with
danger, but it was a clean almost clinical way to conduct a battle, it was
without the filth and suffering endured by the men on the ground. Suddenly George stumbled into a hole full of
foul tasting water and something brushed against his legs. Crying out in terror, he managed to pull himself
clear and laying face down he attempted to shake off his fear and
revulsion. Scrambling away on all fours,
he crossed an area of wire where scraps of ripped clothing hung like washing
fluttering in the breeze then as he stopped for breath, he could hear voices
again. He was certain they were friendly
but before he could move, a shell exploded nearby. A whistle sounded followed by a battle cry
then men appeared all around him as they pulled themselves up from their
trenches. With bayonets fixed they charged
and caught up in the mad rush, George dragged himself along with them. Bullets ripped through their ranks bringing
men down and in his panic he managed to latch onto a small group who
miraculously made it to safety. Throwing
themselves into a hollow in the ground, they worked their way towards the
wreckage of his aircraft where they took cover before another machine gun
sounded not far away.
“That was close,” George said as he
dug in beside the smashed fuselage.
Two men were crawling up towards the
cockpit, but they ignored him as they went by.
“I could do with a fag Joe,” one of
them said.
“Could do with something stronger,”
Joe chuckled.
“I’ve got a hip flask full of cognac
if you would care for some,” George said reaching into his pocket but Joe ignored
him completely.
“Please yourself,” George moaned as
he took a sip himself.
Crawling towards the cockpit, George
wanted to get a clearer view of the area ahead.
He now had a better idea of the damage that his aircraft had
suffered. On impact, the engine had
buried itself into the ground reducing the cockpit area to ragged scrap. One wing had sheared off completely and
trailing wires that had once operated the ailerons and rudder were now hanging
and useless. George thought it a sad sight
indeed and as he peered into the remains of the cockpit, he was surprised to
find a body. Reaching forward with
shaking fingers he took hold of the goggles that covered the dead man’s eyes
then pulling them aside he recognised his own face.
© 2018 Kevin Marsh
