Chapter VIII: 'midst the Scene of Red Ruin

FIVE minutes before the fall of the first bomb, Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft alighted from a tram-car in the market square of Barborough.

The stopping of the railway service had upset his calculations, for instead of the train running into Barborough Station it had come to a stand still at Wolderton, a little town five miles from his destination.

"Can't go no further yet awhile, sir," replied a porter in answer to the flight-sub's enquiry. "They say as 'ow Zeps is about, though I fancy they won't come to Lancashire, sir. Don't hold wi' these silly scares mysen."

"Where are we?" asked Barcroft, striving vainly to read the name of the unlighted station. "Wolderton, sir; if you're for Barborough you can get a car just outside. They are runnin', Zep, or no Zep."

The young officer alighted, made his way out of the station and boarded the first northbound car, which in due course deposited him at Barborough--a stranger in a strange land.

"For Tarleigh, sir?" rejoined a policeman to his question. "Matter o' four or six miles. No, sir, you'll not be findin' a taxi to-night, I fancy. Just you go along yon road, take first on your right then straight on till you come to Chumley Old Road. There you'll find a car that'll take you as far as Black Pit Brow, and it'll be forty minutes sharp walking to Tarleigh."

Somewhat bewildered Barcroft set out to follow the constable's directions. He found himself slipping on the rough and greasy setts, jostling people in the darkened streets, and barking his shins against obtrusive door steps. The road was a mean and narrow one--a short cut to a main thoroughfare. A dank unwholesome smell permeated the misty air. It struck the young officer as being worse than the atmosphere of the lower deck of a battleship battened down during a three-days' gale.

Suddenly the darkness was rent by a terrific flash. The light was so dazzling that Barcroft was under the impression that it came from the centre of the street. Stunned by the deafening crash he felt himself lurching against a wall, amidst a shower of broken glass.

Another explosion followed and then two more. The flight-sub felt the wall of the house rock with the concussions. He was quite prepared to see the building collapse under the impact of the displaced air. Fragments of slates and tiles, mingled with shattered woodwork, hurtled overhead. Glass tinkled upon the setts. The rumble of falling masonry was added to the uproar, while flames shot up from a mound of debris that a brief instant earlier had been the homes of three English families, and threw a fitful glare upon the scene of destruction.

"Factory explosion, I suppose," thought Barcroft. "Can't be a Zep., or I should have heard her engines."

He put his hand to his cheek. It was warm and moist. Blood was welling from a deep gash. He hardly noticed it. His attention was attracted by the shouts and screams of the terrified inhabitants of the neighbourhood--those whose houses having escaped annihilation but were within the danger zone, had fled pell-mell into the streets.

Other crashes followed, but at a greater distance.

"Then it is a Zep., by Jove!" declared the young officer. For the first time he realised his helplessness. He was virtually one of the thousands of civilians unable to raise a hand in self-defence against the cowardly night-raider. A Tommy in a trench with only a rifle--an almost useless weapon against an aircraft of any description--has the satisfaction that he is armed. He is willing to take his chance. But here the townsfolk were utterly at a loss to defend themselves, and it was sorry consolation to be told by the authorities that the inhabitants of raided districts are only sharing the dangers to which the troops in the trenches are exposed.

"If only I were up aloft with young Kirkwood," thought Barcroft. "We'd make the beggars skip out of that gas-bag. Perhaps some day--"

A woman, with her shawl wrapped tightly round her head, came hurrying in the opposite direction to which the stream of terrified people forced its way.

"Eh!" she exclaimed. "An' I left t'owld mon's supper on t' stove. I'll be fair angry if 'tis spoilt."

It was genuine anxiety. Even in the midst of the scene of destruction her thoughts dwelt upon the little cares of everyday domesticity.

With the sailor's typical eagerness to render aid Barcroft hurried down the street. Already the ebb-tide of fugitives was thinning and giving place to the flood-tide of willing helpers. Here and there men staggered and groaned, bleeding from serious wounds caused by the flying fragments of the deadly missiles. Here and there came others supporting or carrying victims unable to help themselves-- stalwart men, frail women and puny children reduced in the fraction of a second to mangled wrecks.

Pungent, asphyxiating fumes drifted slowly down the narrow thoroughfare, while the glare of the burning buildings threw an eerie light upon the surroundings.

In the street not one panel of glass remained intact. Cast-iron stack-pipes were riddled with holes cut as cleanly as with a drill. Brick walls were perforated like paper; stone-steps--the "scouring" of which is a solemn rite with Lancashire folk--were chipped and splintered like glass. Doors were burst open as if with a sledge-hammer. And this was fifty yards or more from the scene of the actual explosion.

Where the first bomb had fallen nothing remained of the house except a mound of smoking rubbish. The two adjoining buildings were cut away from top to bottom almost as evenly as if severed by a saw. In one the roof was exposed on the underside. The slates were still in position but riddled like a sieve. So violent was the force with which the flying fragments were projected upwards that the fragile slates were perforated before they had time to crack or be dislodged from the rafters.

In the house on the other adjoining side the parting wall had vanished, leaving the remaining walls and flooring practically intact. A fire was still burning in the kitchen grate, and on it an iron pot was simmering. In front of the fire were three pairs of "clogs" of varying sizes--the footgear of a family that was no longer in existence.

It was the same story. The raid from a military point of view was of no consequence. The munitions factory, in spite of von Loringhoven's assurances, had been missed--missed handsomely.

The flight-sub did not linger at this particular spot. Human aid was unavailing as far as those ruined houses were concerned, but on the other side of the street groans and cries of pain told him that here at least there was work to be done.

Through an open doorway Barcroft dashed. The woodwork of the door was in splinters. Part of the floor had vanished. The place was full of smoke, while gas from a severed pipe was burning furiously.

Grasping a large fragment of paving-stone the flight-sub battered the pipe.

"Iron, worse luck," he exclaimed. "Wonder where the meter is?"

He discovered it just above the door. In the absence of a key to turn off the inflammable gas he knocked the lead pipe flat. The flame began to die down until it gave a fairly safe illumination.

Up the rickety stairs the young officer made his way. With smarting eyes and irritating throat he groped through the stifling smoke, guided by the cries of the injured victims. The room was feebly lighted by a nightlight set in a basin of water. The light flickered in the breeze that swept in through the glazeless window, while its intensity was even more diminished by the eddying smoke. Yet it was sufficient to enable Barcroft to take in his surroundings.

The ceiling had fallen. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor, and every object presented a flat, face-upward surface. On the walls were crude prints hanging at grotesque angles and ripped by flying fragments. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere in evidence.

In one corner of the room was a bed. One leg had been torn off, causing it to touch the floor. On the bed was a grey-haired woman, groaning feebly and with her forehead dabbled in blood.

She opened her eyes as Barcroft approached, then raising one hand pointed to the side of the bed. There was a cradle that had hitherto escaped his notice, and in it was a baby of but a few months old. Although the old woman could not speak she made it known that the rescuer should first save her grandchild.

Even in that scene of desolation Barcroft could not bring himself to lift the baby from its cot. Dimly he fancied that he might harm it. He hadn't the faintest notion how to hold an infant of tender years.

Lifting the cot bodily he bore it with its contents down the stairs and out into the night. By this time other rescuers were hard at work. Two of them seeing the flight-sub issuing from the house came up to him.

"D'ye want a hand, sir?" they asked.

The uniform imparted an air of authority, and instinctively the men realised the fact. True the naval rig was foreign to them. For all they knew Barcroft might be a sanitary inspector or a school-attendance officer, but his peaked cap and naval blue coat denoted an official of some sort, and, in cases of this description, the distinction carries weight.

"Yes, there's a woman injured in that house," replied the flight-sub, setting down his burden. One of the men bent over the cradle and drew back the covering. Then he hastily replaced it.

"Might have saved yourself the trouble, sir," he gulped. "Those baby-killing swine! If that cursed Zep, should happen to fall anywhere round about and any of the devils are left alive, I bet my last shilling the women-folk o' Barborough 'ud tear 'em limb from limb. An' serve 'em right. Lead on, sir."

Not until the last of the living victims of the outrage had been removed from this section of the bombed district did Barcroft and his willing helpers desist from their arduous labours. Nothing more could be done until daybreak. Police guarded the approaches to the devastated street, while firemen stood by, ready at the first sign to tackle a fresh outburst from the still smouldering ruins.

"Suppose I ought to try for an hotel," soliloquised the flight-sub. "I don't know. I'm in a horrible mess. Feel like a dustman or a scavenger. Perhaps I'd better carry on. The governor might be a bit anxious if I don't."

Receiving fresh directions Barcroft stepped out briskly. Taxis and even tramcars were now out of the question.

"Most confusing place I've struck for many a day," he muttered. "I feel completely out of my bearings. I'm supposed to be going north; it's my belief I'm making in a southerly direction."

Vainly he looked aloft to "verify his position by stellar observation." Not a star was visible. He was now clear of the town. The road ran steeply up a bleak hillside and was bounded by rough stone walls. Doubtless there were plenty of houses scattered about in the surrounding valleys, but these were not in evidence. Every light still burning had been carefully screened. It was a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had been stolen.

Presently he reached the junction of two fork roads, either of which might lead to Tarleigh. A tantalising sign-post afforded no information, for upon swarming up the post the flight-sub was unable to read the weather-beaten directions.

"What on earth possessed the pater to hang out in this benighted spot I cannot imagine!" exclaimed Barcroft disgustedly. "Suppose I must wait here in the hope that some one will be passing this way. It seems the safest chance."