The Zeppelin Raid over Paris
I decided to spend my four days’ “permission” in Paris, the rendezvous of all aviators when not on active service. From the first I felt conscious of unusual attention. People seemed to treat me with deference and with more respect than I had ever before experienced. I could not account for it. Then, of a sudden, I chuckled to myself. The envied stars and wings on my collar were the cause. I was a “pilote aviateur,” a full-fledged member of the aerial light cavalry of France.
For most “permissionnaires” Paris usually offers only the distractions of its theatres and restaurants, its boulevards, and its beautiful monuments. These pleasures I also had looked forward to, but in the first thirty-six hours of my visit occurred another, more startling diversion—two Zeppelin raids. It was my first real experience of the war.
The first alarm occurred as we were leaving a restaurant after dinner. A motor fire-engine rushed by, sounding the alert for the approaching enemy. Pandemonium reigned in the streets. I hastened to find a way to reach the aviation-field at Le Bourget, where I felt that duty called me. The concierge hailed a taxi. I jumped in and gave the address to the chauffeur. “Le Bourget! Oh, mais non,” exclaimed the man; “monsieur must think me a fool.” He flatly refused me as a fare. He was the father of a family, and he certainly would not go to the very spot where all the bombs were certain to be dropped; besides—he did not have enough gasolene in his tank for so long a run. We talked and argued. In desperation I thrust my hand in my pocket and handed him a generous retainer. At the sight of the money he wavered. I followed up my advantage and promised him a handsome tip if he started at once. He threw in his clutch. I had won my first “engagement.”
The streets were pitch-dark and jammed with people, all staring heavenward. The feeble oil-lights of the taxicab barely lit up their faces as we wound our way in and out. At breakneck speed we swung right and left, sounding the horn and crying out warning “attentions.” Near the outskirts of the city we could see search-lights flashing against the heavy mist. There was so much fog, however, that they could not pierce the veil which hung over the city. At one thousand five hundred feet the sky was opaque. The anti-aircraft batteries were barking and sending off deep-red flashes into the impenetrable murkiness in answer to wireless signals from the invisible air guards above. Now and then a military automobile dashed by.
As we neared Le Bourget, there was a deep detonation. A bomb had been dropped. The Zeppelin had arrived. My chauffeur in panic jammed on the brakes. I was literally thrown out of the taxi and into the arms of a waiting sentinel who flashed an electric torch into my face. The sergeant of the guard rushed up and escorted me to the guard-house, where an officer proceeded to question me. I immediately realized that I was an object of suspicion. Who was I and what was I doing here? Here I was, a foreigner in the French uniform, and unknown to them. Instead of being welcomed at the post of danger I found to my amusement that I was temporarily under arrest.
Several more explosions were heard. Then a deathlike silence. The cannon ceased their angry roar, the search-lights put out their blinding rays. Through the window I noticed a large fire in the middle of the “piste,” where several cans of gasolene had been ignited. It was the signal for the searching aeroplanes to return. The Zeppelin had left.
As soon as the electric current had been switched on again the captain returned. He seemed surprised at my “enthusiasm.” “Just like you Americans,” he said smiling. “A man en permission, however, should never look for trouble.” He then explained that this night guarding required special training. Even had he needed my services, I would have been helpless, as I had never before flown after sundown.
One by one the defenders of Paris returned. At two thousand feet they were invisible, though we could hear the humming of their motors. Then, as they came nearer and nearer we saw little indefinite lights moving in the mist above us, and finally the machines, their dimmed search-lights yet staring like two great eyes.
About fifty aeroplanes are in the air around Paris all the time. Each pilot remains up three hours, when he is relieved by another flier. When the Zeppelins are known to have crossed the front, some eighty miles away, the whole defense squadron of two hundred takes to the air. The organization of the aerial defense of Paris is admirable, and it is this, together with the efficient anti-aircraft posts in the environs, which prevents the “Boches” from raiding Paris more often.
I was allowed to examine everything at my leisure, and took advantage of this opportunity to gain as much information as I could about the lighting systems and the new models of small cannon which had recently been installed on the aeroplanes. Presently I was greeted by one of the pilots who had just landed. He proved to be an old acquaintance.
It seems that the Zeppelin had profited by the mist to slip by our watchers at the front, and had reached the very outskirts of the city before it was sighted by the air guards of Paris. The Boches dropped several bombs near the Gare du Nord and in the vicinity of Le Bourget. Then they had vanished into the mist. “How could they ever find the railway-station in the dark?” I asked. “That’s easy,” he answered. “The Zeppelins are equipped with a small observation-car that hangs down on a long cable. It is built something like an aeroplane and travels about five thousand feet below the dirigible. This evening the raider flew at an altitude of seven thousand feet, while the car moved along only two thousand feet from the ground. Its passenger could, therefore, locate everything easily and telephone the directions to the commander above.” “But,” I insisted, “how did they ever locate the freight-yards in the dark?” “Easily,” replied my companion; “their spies had arranged all that. They simply hung a series of blue lights in the chimneys of houses and laid out a path directly to the spot.” These spies in all probability had been already caught, but I was angry, very angry, to realize that their “espionage” was still so efficient.
On the way home Paris seemed surprisingly normal again. The street-lamps were glowing peaceably and the cafés were crowded with talkative men and women. I could not help thinking how wonderful those people were, how fearless and forgetful of danger.
The actual damage done by the bombs during that raid was insignificant. The photographs published in the daily press bore witness to this. A few civilians were killed, but no military damage was done. It was only an attempt at terrorism. I visited one of the “craters” the next morning. The bomb had landed directly over the subway and had blown a huge hole in the pavement. The tracks below lay open to view. Gangs of laborers were already at work, not repairing the damage but enlarging the hole. I asked them what this was for. “Why, monsieur, it is this way. The health authorities always insisted that a ventilator was needed in this part of the ‘Metropolitain.’ The Boches obligingly saved us the trouble and expense. We are now merely going to put a fence around it.”
That night there was another alarm. We were spending the evening with friends in the Latin Quarter when the pompiers startled us with their wailing sirens. From every direction came the “Alerte! the Zeppelins are coming. Lights out!” One by one the street-lamps faded, apartments were darkened, and the street-cars stopped where they were, plunged into darkness. It was thrilling. In the velvety gloom the outlines of people and motors could be seen moving about. The corner of the rue d’Assas alone remained illuminated. A “bec de gaz” was still burning brightly, to the rage of an old infantry colonel who was too short to reach it himself. To our amusement, a little girl clad in a red kimono and bedroom slippers ran out into the street and volunteered her aid. The old soldier blurted out a word or two, then lifted her up in his arms while she extinguished the light. “Thanks, mademoiselle. Now, quick!” he gasped; “run back to bed.”
We saw some of the people climb down into their cellars. The majority, however, gathered in the streets, looking up at the search-light swept sky. Tiny, starlike lights moved about above us and we knew that aeroplanes of the “Garde de Paris” were searching for the venturesome raider. “I don’t believe the sales Boches and their sausage balloon are coming this evening to beg food,” remarked one man. “Oh, no,” answered another, “it is clear and they well know that a Zeppelin over Paris to-night is a Zeppelin less for Germany.” Just then we heard the firemen coming back. Their bugles were playing a jubilant call. The Zeppelins had been frightened away. Everywhere lights were again lit. The people laughed good-naturedly at their neighbors’ strange attire. “Quelle guerre!” yawned the old officer at my elbow; “down in the ground, under the sea, and over our homes! Quelle guerre!”