ZEPPELIN NIGHTS IN THE EASTERN COUNTIES.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 167, 20 April 1916, Page 1

ZEPPELIN NIGHTS IN THE EASTERN COUNTIES.

From an Fnglish Paper.—By C. W. P. Kogehs.) • " Three Zeppelins have been sighted Hying west, and are nearing the coast." It is doubtful whether many who live in the Western counties realize what that report means to us on the Eastern side, or what response we make to it. " East is East,. and West is West"—and never more truly than touching these alarms of war. It has become a common-place now, this visit from the creatures of the sky. And to meet it we hare organised and disciplined ourselves. Our measures are the fruit of many trials and long experiences. That experience has taught us that our greatest safety lies in our being, not partially, but perfectly dumb and invisible ; and dumb and invisible we are when the murdering raiders arrive.

Only the dwellers in these Eastern towns know what " total darkness " really means. On the countryside there is even on the darkest night a certain amount of light that filters down from the open sky. But in the narrow streets of an old town, whose houses and*" shops rear high and close on either side ; where no shaft of light may' escape the windows ; where blinds of holland are backed with blue or green or black, and, to make certainty doubly certain, the gas burners and electric bulbs are screened with sombre shades ; where the trams are heavily curtained and their doors kept fast; where no street lamps pierce the gloom ; and where only pink translucent letters " Open " let into the opaque covering of the shop door tells the passer-by that business as usual is being carried on behind the shutters and blinds, the words " I couldn't see my hand before my face " take on an absolute meaning. It is not pleasant, but it is comforting, and it makes for as much safety as is possible at all. If to us who are so near objects lose all distinction, what may be observed from an altitude of thousands of feet '{

No chiming clocks are ever now to be heard. They are resting for the duration of the war. Nor at evening may bells be rung ; and the Churches gather in silente. To an enemy that can hover, sound is as sure a guide as light. Certainly trams hurlte out of the gloom, with riotous clang to clear thefr way before them. But they can be stopped from one central Htation on the word of warning. Not so easily can bells and clocks be controlled. So they must go. We are taking no risks.

It is seven o'clock iu the evening. The night is moonless, but clear. A gentle breeze, a mere drift of air, is blowing from the West. A day of continuous woik, speut indoors, adds a zest to the freedom and freshness of the outer air. All other thoughts give place before the joyous sense of release as we tako our evening exercise.

But gradually another impression obtrudes upoD our consciousness and forces itself upon our attention. The ear is the medium of' unrest. We are conscious of the absence of sound ! The night is extraordinary still—too still. There is none of that indeterminate, indefinable murmur, hardly anything more than a mere mental background, that is inevitably associated with a town, and is made up of a thousand different elements. The ear strains to pick up the sounds it knows. Our trams are rowdy vehicles ; their clatter and clang are ordinarily to be heard for long distances, well beyond the confines of the town. Clearly they have returned early to their sheds. Nor is anything to be heard from the railway. The evidence is suliicieiit. " They're coming again." The streets are curiously elfin in the blackness and stillness. Uuseen people go hustling or loungiug by. Strange, eerie figures suddenly loom up aud collide, with muttered apology and a laugh they pass upon their separate ways. There is no panic. Expectancy there is, and a sense of curiosity, a wonder where the attack wi 11 fall : but no fear or wild excitement. Iu a way these affairs are inconvenient and disturbing, but more deeply arc they felt to be very stupid—anil, to tell the truth, after a time not a trifle boring. At the station the lights,- always in these days dim and closely shaded, are extinguished. Patiently the would-bo travellers sit or walkabout in the cold desolatiou, unwilling to leave, lest in their absence the danger should pass and their train set oil' without them. In one of the side streets the noise of a fast-travelling, highly-eugiued motor strikes suddenly with painful shock upon the ear ; brilliant beams from its headlights shatter the darkness and Hood the neighbourhood with a glare of unearthly brilliance. With hasty curao the passors-by turn round. "Who is this fool V" The annoyance vanishes, lor it is tho armoured ears of the anti-ain raft mobile section carrying guns aud men to their appointed station. Heavily the thunder by, the engine's roar dies iu the distance, aud darkness aud silence fall agaiu. Nothing remains but to wait. It is 11.00 aud nothing has happened. Most of the townsfolk are in bed, for only those who have boen out know of the raiders' proximity. We decido that they have gone in another direction, and think of

bfed ourselves A faint boom pulsates upon the air. It is really no more than a ciuick, dull throb, a mere pressure upon the air. But it is unmistakable. Out in the open another boom is heard ; then a number in rapid succession. Judging by the sound they seem to be about eight miles off. Then silence. It is chilly outside, but the chill passes unnoticed— all attention is concentrated to catch the slightest indication of the airships' approach. Gradually a subdued hum begins to pervade the air; from what quarter it proceeds cannot be defined. Above, a window is thrown up, and a muffled figure appears. " Is that a Zeppelin ?" " I think so. But it's a long way off."

"Do you thiuk we had better come down ?"

" You can if you like. But you neadn't bother. I'il let you know if lhey come close." " All right. Mind you do. I should never forgive myself if I missed a chance of seeing one."

The low hum rises until it becomes the piercing, high-pitched, singing note peculiar to the Zeppelin. It is clearly coming our way. Friends who have gone to bed depending on us to call them " only if they come really close " must be called. This neighbourly act performed, we join forces and strain our eyes to pierce the sky—in vain. The personal interest and the wonder as to whether anything will happen this time are of short duration. The aerial scream rises to a maximum of intensity. The airship is just overhead, though it cannot be seen. But no bombs fall, and we are well content that we, too, are out of sight. The sound begins to die away ; then suddenly a crash and a momentary flash rend the air. " That was pretty near," says

oue. " About a mile and a half," suggests another. Another crash. "Further off, I think." We agree. Once more wo have escaped; once more are the raiders, making chance casts, baulked by our scheme of passive defence. " Good-night," we cry. And so to bed, But something nasty might happen.