[Illustration: cover]
THE GREAT ADVENTURE SERIES
Percy F. Westerman:
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE
Rowland Walker:
THE PHANTOM AIRMAN
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
DEVILLE MCKEENE:
THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY AIRMAN
BLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE
BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V 2
OSCAR DANBY, V.C.
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
[Illustration: "Blake released his grip of the rough-and-ready dart."
--_Page_ 65.]
THE
SECRET BATTLEPLANE
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.," ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: logo]
S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published 1916_
_Frequently reprinted_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SNOWED UP
II. A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
III. THE WONDERS OF THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
IV. A TRIAL TRIP
V. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR
VI. THE INTERRUPTED VIGIL
VII. THE BATTLEPLANE'S OFFICIAL DEBUT
VIII. A CROSS-CHANNEL FLIGHT
IX. A FIGHT TO A FINISH
X. TRICKED
XI. THE FATE OF A SPY
XII. SERGEANT O'RAFFERTY'S LUCKY BOMB
XIII. THE FRONTIER
XIV. ATHOL TACKLES VON SECKER
XV. GAME TO THE LAST
XVI. _À BERLIN_
XVII. DISABLED
XVIII. TURNING THE TABLES
XIX. A DUEL WITH A ZEPPELIN
XX. LIBERATED
XXI. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
XXII. ALL GOES WELL WITH ENGLAND
CHAPTER I
SNOWED UP
"THAT rotter of a garage fellow!" exclaimed Athol Hawke explosively.
"He hasn't done a thing to the wheel; and, what is more, he rushed
me sixpence for garaging the bike, the young swindler."
"Didn't you go for him?" enquired his chum, Dick Tracey.
"He wasn't there to go for," replied Athol. "He was away on some
job, and left the explanations to a youngster. But, my word, it is
snowing! Think she'll stick it with that groggy wheel?"
The scene was the Market Square, Shrewsbury. The time, nine o'clock
on a Saturday morning, March, 1916. It was, as Athol remarked,
snowing. A week or more of intermittent blizzards had culminated in a
steady fall of large, crisp flakes, and judging by the direction of
the wind, the heavy, dull-grey clouds and an erratic barometer, the
worst was yet to come.
Athol Hawke was a lad of seventeen, although he looked several years
older. He was tall, lightly yet firmly built, of bronzed complexion,
grey eyes and with dark hair. The fact that he was wearing waterproof
overalls, leggings and fur gloves tended to conceal his build.
His companion, who was similarly attired, was Athol's junior by the
short space of three days. In height he was five feet seven--four
inches less than that of his chum; build, thick-set; complexion might
have been fair but exposure to wintry conditions had resulted in his
face being burnt to a reddish colour. His hair was light brown, with
a tendency to crispness; his eyes blue. By disposition he was
remarkably bright and cheerful, characteristics that served as a foil
to Hawke's almost invariable staidness.
The two chums were riding a motor-bicycle and side-car. They had
"been on the road" nearly a week. What possessed them to select a
time of blizzard and equinoctial gales to go tearing across England;
why they were apparently "joy-riding" in wartime; why they chose a
district that was most decidedly within the region of activity of
hostile air-craft--all this will have to be explained in due course.
At eleven o'clock on the previous day they had ridden into the quaint
and picturesque old town of Shrewsbury, having left Chester shortly
after daybreak. During the run they had made the disconcerting
discovery that several of the spokes of the side-car wheel had worked
loose, possibly owing to the drag of the snow and the atrocious
"pot-holes" and setts of Lancashire. The wheel might last out till
the end of their tour--and it might not. Dick suggested risking it,
but the ever-cautious Athol demurred. They would remain at
Shrewsbury, he declared, until the following day and get the damage
made good.
A motor mechanic had promised faithfully to carry out the job, and
had let them down badly.
"Well, what's the programme?" asked Athol. "We may be able to push
on, but I guess it's pretty thick over the hills. Already there's a
good two inches of snow--and it's still tumbling down."
Dick surveyed his surroundings in his customary optimistic manner.
The cobbled square was already hidden by a dazzling white mantle. The
roofs of the old buildings and the detached pillared market-house
were covered with fallen flakes. A weather-worn statue, poised
stolidly upon a lofty pedestal, was fast resembling the time-honoured
character of Father Christmas.
Save for a few belated lady-clerks of the Army Pay Department, who
cast curious glances at the two snow-flaked motor-cyclists as they
hastened to their daily toil, the square was deserted. At the corner
of an adjacent street two recruiting sergeants stood in meditative
silence, regarding with a set purpose the pair of strapping youths.
"More of 'em, by Jove!" exclaimed Dick, as his eyes caught those of
one of the representatives of His Majesty's Army. "Here they come,
old man. Stand by to give 'em five rounds rapid."
"Nothin' doing, sergeant," announced Athol as the foremost non-com.,
beaming affably, vouchsafed some remark about the weather as a
preliminary feeler to a more important topic. His companion had
diplomatically "frozen on" to Dick.
With a dexterity acquired by much practice each lad unbuttoned his
mackintosh coat and from the inner breast pocket of his coat produced
a formidable-looking document.
"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the first sergeant. "Who'd a' thought it?
Very good, sir; we can't touch you--at least, not yet. You never
know."
"You speak words of wisdom, sergeant," rejoined Athol, as he replaced
his paper. "Now, to get back to more immediate surroundings, what do
you think of our chances of getting to Ludlow to-day?"
"On that thing?" asked the sergeant. "Not much. It's as thick as can
be over Wenlock Edge. This is nothing to what's it's like up there.
You'd never get through."
The word "never" put Dick on his mettle.
"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway," he said. "Come along,
Athol, old man. Hop in and we'll have a shot at this Excelsior
business."
Athol Hawke would like to have lodged a protest. He was anxious
concerning the groggy side-car wheel, but almost before he knew where
he was, Dick Tracey had started the engine and the motor was swishing
through the crisp, powdery snow.
Down the steep Wyle Cop and across the narrow English Bridge they
went, then turning shook the snow of Shrewsbury from the wheels,
since it was literally impossible to shake the dust from their feet.
Mile after mile they reeled off, the road rising steadily the while.
Tearing through the snow flakes was really exhilarating. The air was
keen and bracing; the scenery fairy-like in the garb of glittering
white.
"Glad we pushed on," exclaimed Dick. "We're doing it on our heads,
don't you know. The little beast of an engine is pulling splendidly."
The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a perceptible
slowing down of the three-wheeled vehicle, although the motor
throbbed with increasing rapidity.
"Belt slipping," declared Athol laconically.
"It's the leather one," said his companion as he stopped the engine
and dismounted.
"We'll shove the rubber one on. Leather always is rotten stuff to
slip in the wet, and yet there's a proverb, 'There's nothing like
leather.'"
"Doubt whether the other one will do any better," remarked Hawke.
"See, the lowermost part of the belt rim has been ploughing through
the snow. This is the thickest we've had so far."
"It is," assented Dick. "But we'll push on. It is a pity to turn
back. We can't be so very far from Church Stretton now. From there
it's downhill almost all the rest of the way."
The change of belts was effected and the journey resumed. For the
next quarter of a mile progress was good, although great care had to
be exercised to avoid the snow-banks on either side of the road.
Presently the road dipped with considerable steepness, and bending to
the right crossed a small bridge. Beyond, it again rose and with
increased gradient, and appeared to plunge directly between two lofty
hills. The rising ground was thickly covered with pine trees, each
branch bending under the weight of virgin snow.
"Looks like a bit of Switzerland," observed Dick. "Hanged if I can
see why people want to go abroad to see scenery when there are places
like this at home. But, my word, we've a stiff bit of road to tackle!
Wonder if she'll do it?"
"She's got to," said Athol grimly. He was one of those fellows who
embark upon an undertaking with evident misgivings, but when fairly
in the thick of it warm to their task and are undaunted in spite of
difficulties and rebuffs.
But there are limitations even to the capabilities of a three and a
half horse power motor. Right nobly the engine did its work, but once
again the belt slipped with exasperating loss of power. So deep was
the snow at this point that the lower framework of the side-car was
ploughing through it, while the heated crank case coming in direct
contact with the snow was throwing off vapour like a high pressure
steam engine. To add to the difficulty an accumulation of compressed
snow had choked the front mudguard.
"All alight here!" shouted Dick. "By Jove, we'll have to jolly well
push up this hill."
With the engine still running on low gear the lads literally put
their shoulders to the wheel. It was hard work. In spite of the
lowness of the temperature they were glowing with exertion, as, under
their united efforts, they advanced at the rate of a mile an hour.
"Jolly long way to the top," panted Dick. "Hope we don't get snowed
up. I say, that looks cheerful."
He pointed to a derelict motor car, almost hidden in a drift by the
side of the road, where the bank of snow had risen to at least seven
feet in height.
"Can't be much farther to Church Stretton," said Athol encouragingly.
"Buck up, old man."
For another fifty feet they struggled manfully, until Tracey switched
off the motor and brought the bike to a standstill.
"Spell-oh!" he announced, shaking the powdered snow from his cap.
"I've had enough for a bit."
"If we stop we--like the drunken man--'goes over,'" declared Athol.
"Every minute things are getting worse."
"Can't help it," rejoined Dick breathlessly. "Like the engine, I'm
badly overheated."
For some moments the two chums stood still, taking in as much of the
scenery as the snowstorm permitted, for so thick was the air with
falling flakes that they could form no idea of the height of the
hills on either hand.
Presently a horseman appeared, his mount floundering through the
snow. So narrow was the track that in order to pass the bike and
side-car he had to plunge into the drift.
"Pretty thick," remarked Athol.
"Ay, that it is," replied the man. "An' it's worse up yonder."
"Any village about here?" asked Dick.
"Not for some miles," was the reply. "And not a house, if it comes to
that."
The man rode on. He seemed loth to waste time in conversation.
"We've struck the worst part of Wenlock Edge, it seems," said Athol
consulting his road map. "It would have paid us to have stuck to the
Severn valley, only we both wanted to see Ludlow and its castle.
Well, ready?"
Dick nodded assent, and restarted the engine. Although the belt
slipped frantically the slight friction of the pulley aided the
bodily efforts of the lads. By dint of much exertion another hundred
yards were covered; then despite their efforts they came to a dead
stop.
"How about turning back?" suggested Dick.
"No good," decided Athol. "We might get to the bottom of the
hill--might not. It's a moral cert we could not get up the rise on
the other side of the bridge."
"And we can't leave the bike here," added his companion. "It would
completely block the road."
"The road is blocked already, I fancy. The plain fact is this: we're
snowed up, and what's more the side-car wheel has gone to pot at
last."