Читать книгу The Canadian Readers, Book V - John Miller Dow Meiklejohn - Страница 29

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The Great War added to the records of British valor countless deeds of unequalled bravery. In that war, the most terrible ever fought, the manhood of our Empire set new standards of gallantry for our race. The sea, the land, the air bear witness to their courage.

The Air Force especially gave hundreds of examples of the most splendid courage and devotion. Our pilots, most of them mere youths, showed wonderful dash and skill. Many of them won military honors by their fearless exploits. Conspicuous among these was Lieutenant Alan McLeod, who was awarded the most coveted of all decorations—the Victoria Cross.

Alan Arnett McLeod was born at Stonewall, Manitoba. He was attending school there when war broke out, and, like many another Canadian lad, waited eagerly for the time when his age would permit him to join the Air Force. Three days after his eighteenth birthday he left to report at Toronto, and reached France as a commissioned officer in December, 1917.

On March 21st, 1918, came the last great German offensive. Half a million of their best troops were hurled with terrific force against the Fifth British Army. The British line was bent and broken, and through the gaps poured the masses of German infantry in victorious advance. The tide of battle swept back over the costly ground won in the Somme campaign, back over the old British lines, and paused only when fresh divisions faced the Germans on the line before Amiens.

During our retreat the Allied airmen worked tirelessly to hamper the German troops. Bombs and machine-guns took terrible toll of the marching columns of gray-coats. The German airmen did their utmost to drive our pilots from the air, and the monotony of bombing was varied by the more exciting dangers of air duels. The air was full of German squadrons, and, until new dispositions could be made of our air strength, our men had to fight against very heavy odds.

Alan McLeod, V. C.

On the morning of Wednesday, March 27th, Lieutenant McLeod and his observer, Lieutenant Hammond, rose from an aerodrome near Bethune and headed for Albert. With them flew five other bombing machines. The weather was thick and misty; clouds hung low over the earth, sodden with a light fall of melting snow. McLeod had great difficulty in keeping his squadron in sight and lost them completely before reaching Albert. The ground was unfamiliar both to him and to his observer, and so, spying a British aerodrome, they decided to make a landing.

They lunched and set out once more for Albert. After looking in vain for a friendly squadron which they might join, they flew over the battle-lines to drop their load of bombs. They knew the danger of going alone, but that made no difference. They must not fail the hard-pressed infantry below, who were in desperate need of all the help that they could give.

Beneath them the battle-lines writhed and twisted as khaki and gray met in stubborn hand-to-hand conflicts. They could be of no use here, for friends and foes were too closely mingled in that awful death grapple. They flew on and searched for a target back of the struggling infantry. Sighting a German battery in action, they flew down low over it and began to drop their bombs.

Suddenly the air seemed full of hostile planes. A squadron of eight triplanes had swooped down upon the lonely Britisher from behind the heavy clouds where they had lurked in ambush. Huge things they were, decked out in bright red paint, with Germany’s black cross upon their wings. They fired as they came.

McLeod climbed rapidly to five thousand feet and engaged the foe. His only hope of safety lay in speed of action. All his skill was brought into play. He dived, looped, slipped, and stalled, dodging the German fire, while Hammond poured burst after burst of bullets into the German planes. In quick succession three of the enemy went crashing down to earth.

The British plane was soon riddled by the hail of bullets. McLeod was bleeding from five wounds, Hammond from six. Nothing daunted, they fought on. At last a shot pierced their petrol tank, and a spurt of flame told them that they faced the most awful danger of the air, a burning plane.

McLeod nose-dived without hesitation. The fire was on the right side of the plane; if it could be kept there, he had a slight chance of reaching the earth in safety. Carefully he freed himself from his belt, climbed out of the cockpit, and balanced himself on the left wing. From there he guided the plane to earth, side-slipping steeply so that the rush of the plane drove the fire back. The German planes followed them down, firing all the way, while Hammond, despite the burning plane, despite the impending crash, gave them burst for burst.

They crashed between the lines. McLeod fell clear and escaped injury, but Hammond, still belted in his seat, was pinned beneath the blazing wreckage. The German planes continued to pour heavy fire upon them. German machine-guns in the trenches swept them with a level stream of bullets. To add to the danger, if that were possible, eight bombs and a thousand rounds of ammunition, which they had not used, were likely to explode at any minute. These could have been dropped during the descent, but McLeod was not certain of his position and refused to risk bombing his own comrades on the earth below.

As calmly as though upon a training field, McLeod set to work to release his observer. A splinter from a German shell struck him as he worked. He paid no heed. Although weakened by his wounds and exhausted by the dreadful strain, he set his teeth and doggedly tugged and pulled, pried and loosened, until he succeeded in freeing his comrade. With a last great effort he dragged Hammond a few paces away from the wreck, just in time to save them both from the long-expected explosion of their load of bombs. Then, his task finished, he fell unconscious.

The boys were carried into the British lines by a few South Africans, after a sharp fight with a party of Germans, who rushed out of their trenches to capture the two heroes. Balked of their prey, the Germans pounded the trench in which they lay with heavy shells, so that eight hours elapsed before they received medical attention.

For months McLeod hovered between life and death. His father went to England to be at his son’s bedside. At last he recovered sufficiently to return to Canada. All Winnipeg acclaimed the hero, as he stepped from the train with his father. He intended to return to France, but the life so miraculously spared upon the battlefield was taken by influenza on November 6th, 1918.

He has gone; and yet he leaves behind an undying story and an immortal name. He will live forever as a type of the best and noblest of our nation. His example will inspire Canadians through the years to come with love of honor, contempt of danger, pride of race. That is true immortality.

—D. E. Hamilton.