Disabled in Mid-air
Ross climbed agilely into the observer's seat, and, at his flying
companion's suggestion, buckled a broad leather strap round his waist.
At his right hand was the wireless transmitter, together with a pair of
prismatic glasses and map. The latter was held in a transparent
celluloid case, while the glasses were secured by a cord sufficiently
long to enable the observer to use them in any direction. Everything
was attached to the sea-plane so that in the event of the machine
having to "loop the loop" nothing would be lost.
The Sub, who for the present was to act as pilot, took his place in the
forward part of the body. Giving a few preliminary touches to the
mechanism, he announced that everything was in order.
The self-starter was released and the motor fired, causing the twin
propellers to buzz smoothly and powerfully.
Ross waved his hand to his chum as the sea-plane glided away from the
_Capella_, and from that moment his whole attention was centred upon
the work on which he was engaged.
For nearly a hundred yards the sea-plane "taxied", rising lightly over
the waves; then almost imperceptibly it glided upwards with an even
motion. Ross could hardly believe he was flying until he saw the sea
apparently receding from him.
"All right?" asked the Sub through the telephone that formed the only
audible means of communication between pilot and observer. "Not
feeling giddy?"
"Not a bit," replied Ross. Without experiencing the faintest sensation
of vertigo, he found himself able to lean over the side of the chassis
and look down at the scene two thousand feet beneath him.
The sea-plane was rising in a direction diverging obliquely with the
coast. She was, in fact, almost over the line of empty transports that
looked little bigger than a fleet of toy boats. Farther away could be
discerned the _Capella_ and her consorts, moving with apparent slowness
upon a perfectly calm sea, for at that altitude the waves were merged
into a flat surface. Small splashes of white--the spray thrown up by
falling shells--could be seen all around the patrol-vessels, which, in
obedience to a signal, had now taken up a position rather nearer to the
monitors.
Presently the Flight-Sub, having gained the desired altitude, moved the
steering-plane ever so slightly. Quickly the machine answered her
helm, swinging round until she pointed towards the land.
Three minutes later Ross found himself immediately above the British
monitors. The sea-plane was now pitching slightly in the disturbed
air, for the concussion of the heavy weapons was distinctly felt even
at seven hundred yards above the bombarding ships. Although the roar
of the concerted cannonade was deafening, Ross heard not a sound of it.
To all intents, as far as he was concerned, the guns might have been
fired with silencers attached to their muzzles. The whirr of the
sea-plane's motor and the rush of air past his ears out-voiced every
other sound.
Five miles beyond the line of monitors, could be discerned the Belgian
coast, composed for the most part of undulating sand-dunes dotted with
clusters of buildings.
As the sea-plane approached the land Ross could, with the aid of his
binoculars, distinguish other objects--wavy lines, dotted with ant-like
figures bunched together round something that looked like stumps of a
lead pencil. The lines were the German trenches, the "ants"
grey-coated artillerymen, and the "stumps" the heavy howitzers.
"That's our pigeon!" spoke the Flight-Sub through the telephone. "The
battery a hundred yards to the north of that ruined church tower. Our
fellows haven't knocked it out yet. Wireless them; fifty yards over."
Ross sent the desired information. The sea-plane, having flown over
its objective, turned, describing an elongated figure eight. As she
swung round, Ross noticed a mushroom-like cloud of white smoke a short
distance beneath, and to the left of the fuselage. Then another a
hundred feet immediately in front. At each "mushroom" the sea-plane
curtsied. Something zipped close to the lad's ear. A wire snapped,
the severed portions circling themselves into erratic spirals. A
fragment of fabric from one of the main planes flew past him, like a
scrap of tissue-paper in the grip of a boisterous wind.
Then Ross tumbled to it. Those silent mushrooms of smoke were shrapnel
shells bursting unpleasantly close. For a moment, the young observer
felt himself seized by an almost irresistible impulse to take refuge
under the coaming surrounding his seat. He uttered an involuntary
exclamation of unwelcome surprise.
"What's up?" asked a voice in his ear. It was the Flight-Sub, to whom
the telephone had transmitted Ross's exclamation.
"Nothing," replied the lad.
"Thought so," was the laconic reply. "Don't worry."
Reasoning with himself, Ross came to the decision that the advice was
thoroughly sound. Worrying would not help him in the least; neither
would cowering inside the frail body of the sea-plane. Twice within a
very short space of time he had experienced a sensation of "funk".
Twice he was surprised to find how quickly he recovered; for, at the
next shot from the monitor for which he was "spotting", he found that
the sensation of "cold feet" had given place to one of exhilaration
when he was able to record a "direct hit".
By this time the initial operations were terminating. The German fire
had almost ceased to be troublesome. Most of the big howitzers and
long-range guns had been knocked out. A few were still firing, but
very erratically.
At a signal from the senior officer, the monitors drew out of range,
and steaming at the maximum speed--a bare 11 knots--kept a course
parallel with the shore, accompanied by the patrol-vessels and
transports.
Well above effective shrapnel range, the squadron of sea-planes headed
for Zeebrugge. A number of aviatiks, which were flying over the German
new sea base, hurriedly turned tail. Previous experience had taught
them that naval air-craft could hit hard, in addition to carrying out
observation work.
There were, however, plenty of evidences that the Germans were rushing
up thousands of troops in order to deal with the supposed landing in
force. Train after train made towards the town, crammed with soldiers.
The sea-planes let the trains pass unhindered. It was not their
purpose to stop Germans from pouring into Zeebrugge. Once the troops
were there, then would be the time to cut their lines of communication.
Again the monitors opened fire. Their reception was hotter than it had
been in the neighbourhood of Ostend, for, in spite of frequent and
destructive molestation, the Germans had succeeded in throwing up
numerous heavily armed and cleverly concealed batteries.
At almost extreme range the British ships maintained a rapid high-angle
fire. In a few minutes fires had broken out in several places.
Fifteen-hundred-pound shells dropped in the canal basin, blowing to
atoms several submarines that were in the process of fitting out. The
harbour works were swept by the huge projectiles. The long curved
breakwater suffered heavily. Huge gaps appeared in the solid masonry.
Everything lying afloat in the enclosed water was either set on fire or
sunk. In an hour the havoc wrought at Zeebrugge had wiped out the work
of months.
Ross had little time to notice the work of destruction. His particular
business was to observe the fire directed upon a large redoubt to the
north-east of the town. The first shell from the monitor fell short,
blowing an enormous crater in the grass-grown dunes. The second fell
beyond, completely demolishing a house. The third dropped fairly in
the centre of the redoubt, causing a terrific explosion that was not
due solely to the lyddite bursting-charge. The magazine had exploded.
Skywards rushed an enormous cloud of black and yellow smoke. Caught by
the blast of the violently displaced air the sea-plane rocked, then
began dropping like a stone.
For the moment Ross imagined that the end had come. He was no longer
afraid. A sensation of intense curiosity as to what the machine and
its occupants would look like seemed to obsess his mind.
Then, with a jerk that reminded the midshipman of the sudden starting
of a lift, the sea-plane "flattened out" and began to climb out of the
enveloping cloud of smoke.
The Flight-Sub turned his head and grinned broadly. His manner could
not do otherwise than inspire confidence. Although not a pilot, he was
master of the frail machine. Side-slips and nose-dives troubled him
but little, provided he was flying at a safe altitude.
"A jolly good wipe-out!" he exclaimed. "There won't be many Bosches
left within half a mile of that battery, I'm thinking. Now watch when
the next shot lands: that will give you the objective."
A sharp buzzing in the receiver attached to Ross's flying helmet
announced that the monitor was "calling up" her observer. Quickly the
lad seized the pencil, and gave the signal that he was ready to take
down the message.
The Morse signal, when translated into writing, was as follows:--
"Register Position 47."
"Good!" exclaimed the Plight-Sub when Ross had telephoned him the
message. He consulted his map, which was similar to the one at the
observer's disposal "Position 47: that's a railway junction."
In the course of their work of fortifying Zeebrugge, the Huns had
constructed a double-track railway, passing within a few yards of the
Dutch frontier for several miles before heading straight for the new
submarine base. Two miles from Zeebrugge the line joined the existing
railway, the junction being recorded on British airmen's maps as
Position 47.
The time was now ripe for the monitor which had successfully demolished
the redoubt to attempt a similar exploit, namely, to destroy the
junction.
The sea-plane's appearance was the signal for a furious fire from the
numerous anti-aircraft guns mounted in the vicinity of the station.
At six thousand feet the risk of being hit was small, while the height
did not prevent the observer making a fairly accurate register of the
hits.
It was a very long range, but the monitor's 14-inch guns did excellent
work. Seven shells sufficed to reduce the station to a heap of ruins
and blow whole sections of the line to atoms.
Again came a wireless order:
"Sea-plane to proceed to Zwilhuit. Attempt destruction of bridge
across canal."
Once more the Flight-Sub smiled. This was work that suited him
immensely. For the nonce "spotting" was finished with. The sea-plane
had to drop her cargo of bombs upon an important strategic position.
"All right!" exclaimed the Flying officer. "Keep a cool head. When I
give the word, press that pedal under your right foot. Bend down and
you'll find a safety pin just above the floor. Remove it, but be jolly
careful not to touch the pedal until I give the word."
Underneath the fuselage were six bombs hanging from an inclined steel
rod. These were released by means of a rachet operated by the pedal to
which the Flight-Sub had alluded. To prevent a premature release the
pedal was "locked" by a safety device. When this was removed, each
depression of the pedal would result in the liberation of a potent
missile of destruction.
The sea-plane was not alone on her errand. In her wake flew two more,
for the actual bombardment had now ceased, and the air-craft were at
liberty to engage upon a raid several miles inland.
The Huns had not constructed their strategic railway close to the Dutch
frontier without a cunning reason. Extreme care had to be exercised by
British airmen, since it was an easy matter for a bomb to drop across
the border. Nothing would please the Germans better, for at once there
would be a case of violation of Dutch territory. On the other hand,
the Huns had no scruple in mounting a battery of anti-aircraft guns,
training them in such a manner that the earthward flight of spent
shrapnel would assuredly fall upon the Dutch village of Venterloos,
which was separated from Zwilhuit by a distance of less than four
hundred yards.
In twenty minutes the sea-plane's objective came in sight: a broad line
of railway crossing a canal by means of a steel bridge. It was evident
that the Germans meant this base to be a permanent one, for the bridge
was of massive construction, strong enough to bear the transport of the
heavy 42-centimetre guns, and yet sufficiently high above the waterway
to admit the passage of large lighters with towering deck-cargoes.
"Stand by!" cautioned the Flight-Sub. "Keep cool. Do as well as you
have already done, and everything will go like greased lightning."
Volplaning at an acute angle, the sea-plane swooped down upon her
quarry. Shrapnel shells burst over, in front, behind, and underneath
her. It seemed impossible that such a frail object could escape
destruction.
At five hundred feet the Flight-Sub checked her downward course.
"Now!" he ordered. "And again!"
Two puffs of white smoke marked the points of explosion of the powerful
bombs. One had fallen fifty yards short of the bridge; the other had
burst almost at the junction of the railway lines.
Round spun the sea-plane. As she turned Ross could discern the second
of the aerial raiders gliding down, while the third was still at a
great altitude. Before the one in which Ross was flying could again
soar over its target the second sea-plane had dropped three of her
missiles. All fell close to the bridge. The work of demolition was
accomplished, for when the smoke and dust cleared away the substantial
fabric had been precipitated, a mass of twisted steel, into the canal.
[Illustration: "THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED"]
"Two more on the station and then we've finished," exclaimed the
Flight-Sub. "Ready?"
"Ay, ay!" replied Ross.
He turned his head to watch the progress of the other sea-planes. One
was still maintaining a terrific altitude, and showed no signs of
making a volplane.
The other was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was as well that the
midshipman had not noticed what had befallen her, for a few seconds
previously a shrapnel shell had burst close underneath the chassis.
The explosion had communicated itself to the remaining bombs, with the
result that utter annihilation had overtaken the plucky British airmen
in the moment of their triumph.
Ross's companion had witnessed the catastrophe. More, his trained eye
had discerned half a dozen small specks in the western sky. Quickly he
brought his binoculars to bear upon them. No mistake now; the specks
revealed themselves as German aviatiks intent upon cutting off the
retreat of the two remaining British air-craft.
Not until Ross had dropped the remaining bombs did his companion speak.
"We've a bit of a shooting match on," he announced. "Get that rifle
ready. It's under the coaming on your right hand. Sight at three
hundred yards, and let rip when I give the word."
Ross took up the weapon almost as a matter of course. After the
excitement of bomb-dropping and being shelled by shrapnel, the approach
of a fleet of Zeppelins would hardly disturb his equanimity.
Already the third sea-plane, having gained a favourable altitude, was
making straight for her numerous opponents.
The Flight-Sub now began to speed his machine up, climbing in short
spirals, so as to gain what was equivalent to the "weather-gauge" in
the sea battles of Nelson's days.
Ross unslipped the rifle. Mechanically he set the back-sight, and
jerked open the bolt-action to assure himself that the magazine was
charged. As he did so he became aware that the cartridges were bent
and buckled. A piece of shrapnel, passing through the side of the
fuselage, had lodged in the magazine of the rifle. In addition,
although it was possible to withdraw the bolt, the striking-pin had
jammed. As a weapon the rifle was useless. By stopping the shrapnel
bullet the rifle had saved Ross from a serious and perhaps mortal wound.
The midshipman was on the point of reporting the disablement of the
weapon, when the motor gave vent to a peculiar cough and abruptly
stopped. Unknown to the pilot the petrol-tank had been pierced almost
at its lowest point. The remaining petrol had been used up during the
spiraling process. The sea-plane was now at an altitude of three
thousand feet; propulsion, except under the force of gravity, was no
longer possible.
The Flight-Sub was quick to act. Before the hitherto climbing
air-craft began diving tail downwards, he regulated the elevating
planes, and a long volplane ensued. The sea-plane was bound to come to
earth, but it was not on hostile soil that the airman hoped to alight.
His goal was the ground beyond the seemingly endless line of barbed
wire that marked the frontier between Belgium and Holland.
The anti-aircraft guns had now opened fire, blazing furiously away at
the rapidly descending sea-plane. The rapidity of her descent saved
her, for, before the time-fuses could be altered to suit the
ever-varying range, the air-craft was well below the bursting-point of
the missiles. Nothing but a direct hit--a most difficult matter--could
harm her now.
At a thousand feet she passed the border-line. Still the Archibalds
barked. Ross could see the Dutch frontier guards bolting for shelter
as the hall of bullets fell on neutral ground. Not until the sea-plane
was well over the boundary did the guns reluctantly cease fire.
The earth appeared to leap up and meet the descending machine. It
looked as if a terrific smash were inevitable. A sea-plane alighting
upon solid ground has a thousand chances against her, for, being
unprovided with landing wheels, she is not adapted to withstand
successfully the impact with the earth.
Cool and collected, the Flight-Sub "flattened her out" to a nicety. At
forty miles an hour the floats struck the ground. For twenty yards the
sea-plane skidded, then with a rending crash the floats and a network
of struts and tension-wires gave way under the abnormal strain. The
next instant Ross found himself sprawling on the sandy soil, the sudden
jerk tearing his securing-belt from its fastenings.
He sat up. A multitude of dazzling lights seemed to flash before his
eyes. He was dimly aware of a tangle of wreckage, out of which a
practically undamaged plane rose at an oblique angle, lumbering the
ground quite twenty yards from where he found himself. Men were
hastening towards the wrecked sea-plane from all directions, but, thank
Heaven, they did not wear the uniform of the Hun.
With his head still whirling, Ross was supported by two Dutch soldiers,
while a third poured a quantity of raw spirits down his throat. Blood
was streaming from a gash on his forehead, and his knees, grazed and
discoloured, were visible through rents in his trousers.
Of what happened during the next quarter of an hour, the midshipman had
but a very hazy idea. The men had laid him on the ground, propping him
against a large stone. He felt horribly sick. The pain across his
chest, caused by the strain upon the leather belt, was acute--far worse
than the wound on his forehead which the kindly soldiers were bathing
with handkerchiefs dipped in water.
The men were talking excitedly. He could not understand what they were
saying. He felt inclined to tell them to shut up. They irritated him
beyond measure; if only they would go away and leave him in peace he
would be deeply grateful.
Suddenly it dawned upon him that he had been in an awful smash. The
wrecked sea-plane had not hitherto led the train of his thoughts to the
subject of the accident. Now he realized his position.
"Where's my companion?" he asked, "Is he knocked out?"
"Do not yourself fret," said a voice that sounded far away. "He is
hurt, but badly not at all. We him have carried away. I am a doctor.
You quiet must be, and zen recovery rapide will be."
The doctor--a Dutch army surgeon--ran his hands lightly over the lad's
limbs.
"Goot!" he ejaculated. "Nodings broken is."
He gave directions to the men in attendance. A stretcher was laid on
the ground beside the lad. Two men lifted him gently upon it. Even as
they did so, Ross gave a low groan and passed into merciful oblivion.