It was enough so far as it went. Now for the gas-bags, the sausages;
for these observation balloons were the real object of all this
nocturnal pother.
"Forward!" came the signal again and, steering to the left, rising
higher from the forty to fifty foot level they had hitherto kept, the
squadron made for the rear line. Here rose a shadowy line of oval
bags, so shaped as to qualify them for the term "sausage" as humorously
fitted to these defenseless spying observatories. In daytime their
elevation enabled them to see over a great expanse of that level,
war-ruined region.
There they were, open carriages below, in each a small group of
Fritzies with machine gun and bombs handy for use in times like the
present. But here, too, Fritz was at a decided disadvantage.
Evidently no raid was anticipated, for here they swung, hardly half
manned except by the few constituting the night watch. In and out
among them shot the fast planes, the machines belching their deadly
hail, with Fritz apparently too dazed by surprise to make much
resistance.
Using explosive bullets that would flare sparks of fire at the moment
of contact, soon those bags of gas were ignited, one after another.
Down rope ladders the occupants climbed or dangled, dropping off to hit
the ground maimed or lifeless. By this time, however, the Archies were
pouring a rain of shells from the machine guns at the assailants with
murderous and often fatal effect.
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