A CROSS-CHANNEL FLIGHT
"I AM off to France to-day, lads," announced Desmond Blake on
returning to the battleplane after the conclusion of the conference.
"It's sharp work, but now these gentlemen have warmed up they are
like high pressure blast-furnaces. I suggested handing the plane over
to one of the Flying Corps camps and remaining until a military crew
had been trained to its use. They weren't keen on that exactly, so
they made me promise to fly the machine across to the Front. I have
been given a commission as captain in the R.F.C., so the poor
neglected inventor blossoms out into a warrior of the aerial blue.
Well, lads, the best of friends must part----"
"No, fear," declared Dick stoutly, and Athol backed him up in his
protest. "It's not fair."
"On the contrary, it is perfectly fair," said Blake. "You have
rendered me great service, and I deeply appreciate it. But when the
battleplane goes abroad our implied contract is automatically
broken."
"I don't see it," objected Athol bluntly. "We agreed to bear a hand
for a definite period. Locality didn't enter into the conditions.
Haven't we been entirely satisfactory?"
"Entirely."
"Then why are we to be pushed out of it? We are frightfully keen on
the job."
"That I don't doubt," replied Blake. "It isn't that I don't want to
take you. It's the official regulations coupled with a desire on my
part not to run you into danger. You were turned back from the Front
once before, remember."
"Hardly," replied Dick. "We were all right out there. It was coming
home that did us in as far as the Army was concerned. The rotten part
about the whole business is that the authorities insist upon a cast
iron rule concerning a fellow's age. The number of years that a
fellow has lived surely ought to be no criterion. A fellow might be
absolutely fit for active service at sixteen or seventeen; another a
physical wreck at thirty. It's jolly hard lines."
"A youngster of sixteen or seventeen might think he's fit," remarked
Blake. "His heart is in his work and all that sort of thing, but his
constitution is not properly developed. He crumples up under the
strain, and additional and preventable work is thrown upon the
medical authorities. That's the Army view of the case, I believe, and
it's a sound view to take."
"Yet we maintain that each individual case should be tried on its
merits," declared Athol. "To put the question bluntly: have you any
objection to our going?"
"None whatever," replied the inventor.
"Then let us make an application. If you back us up there'll be no
difficulty. You have the whip hand over this battleplane business."
"I'll see," replied Blake, loth to commit himself. Secretly he was
pleased at the lads' determination and patriotism. Already he knew
that they were capable. Their previous record at the Front proved
that they were physically fit; and they had been strongly recommended
for commissions by the commanding officer of their regiment.
"All right," he continued. "Come with me."
Leaving a gang of men at work painting distinctive red, white and
blue circles on various conspicuous parts of the battleplane, Blake
set off to find Sir Henry. In the record time of less than half an
hour, so strongly did he set forth the charms of his youthful
assistants, Athol Hawke and Dick Tracey were gazetted second
lieutenants in the finest corps of airmen in the world.
The next step was to undo the mischief Blake had practically been
forced to do by giving a public display of the marvellous
capabilities of the battleplane. Accordingly it was announced, with
all semblance of a confidential secret, that the machine had
developed serious defects, and had been rejected by the authorities.
Experience proved that by giving out the news in this manner it would
spread as quickly or even more rapidly than if it had been proclaimed
from the house-tops. No doubt there were scores of German agents
mingled with the throng on the Horse Guards Parade, and in spite of
all precautions a fairly detailed description of the battleplane, and
particulars of her destination, would speedily be transmitted to
Berlin.
At two o'clock in the afternoon the battleplane started on her
cross-Channel flight. She rose awkwardly, side-slipping and missing
fire badly, thanks to Blake's elaborate deception, and heading in a
nor'-westerly direction was soon lost to sight.
Still climbing Blake kept her on a course diametrically opposite to
her next landing-place until the battleplane attained the dizzy
height of sixteen thousand feet. At that altitude, favoured by a
slight haze, she was totally invisible from the ground. Then swinging
round she retraced her course, flying at a rate of one hundred and
eighty miles an hour towards the French coast.
Forty minutes later the battleplane planed down. As she swooped down
out of a bank of clouds the lads could see what appeared to be a
comparatively narrow stretch of silvery plain that expanded almost
indefinitely in either direction north-east and sou'-west. It was the
English Channel in the neighbourhood of the Straits of Dover. Ahead
were the chalky masses of Cape Grisnez, the frowning promontory
"flattened" out of all recognition by reason of the immense altitude
of the observers.
"Do you remember the first time we crossed Channel?" asked Dick of
his chum. "Sixteen solid hours of physical discomfort between
Southampton and Havre. We were jolly bad."
"A submarine alarm would not have spurred us to energy," agreed
Athol. "Four hundred and fifty men who had been singing 'Rule
Britannia' at the top of their voices were lying on their backs, and
bewailing the fact that the lady with the trident didn't rule the
waves straighter. And now we are crossing the ditch in absolute
comfort."
"Put on your flying helmets, lads, and lower the wind-screens,"
ordered Blake. "Nothing like getting used to Service conditions. Be
careful as you lower away."
The warning was most necessary, for when the struts supporting the
wind-screens were removed, it took practically all the strength at
the lads' command to resist the fearful pressure of the wind upon the
transparent panes.
Speaking, save by means of the voice-tubes, was now an impossibility.
The furious air-currents, whirling past the airmen's heads, sounded
like the continual roar of a mountainous sea breaking upon a
rock-bound shore. The keenness of the wind cut the lads' faces; its
violence almost took their breath away. For the first time they fully
realised the sensation of speed through space.
Suddenly Blake, leaning outwards, pointed at something almost
immediately beneath the fuselage. Following the direction of his
outstretched hand, the lads could see a small glistening speck
seemingly but a few feet above the sea. It was a monoplane.
Bringing their glasses to bear upon the machine the lads could
distinguish it clearly. It was a British aircraft also making for the
French coast, although owing to the relative difference of speed it
looked as if it were flying stern foremost in the opposite direction.
It was staggering in the teeth of a strong north-easterly gale, the
effect of which was hardly noticeable in the upper air. The use of
the binoculars also revealed for the first time that there was quite
a mountainous sea running, while a patch of swirling foam betokened
the presence of the dreaded Goodwin Sands.
Blake raised his wind-screen. His companions followed his example
with alacrity. Peace reigned within the body of the battleplane, and
conversation could be resumed.
"Plucky fellow, that airman," remarked Blake. "It wants a bit of
nerve to set out across Channel on a day like this. Yet it is an
everyday occurrence, and mishaps are few and far between. Contrast
what that flying mail has to encounter with the conditions under
which Blériot flew from Grisnez to Dover. The Frenchman's
achievement was the talk of the world; probably only half a dozen
people know of that fellow's flight. Of course I don't want to
detract anything from Blériot's splendid feat, but--hulloa! what's
that?"
Instead of the rhythmical purr of the motors came the unmistakable
"cough" that precedes the stoppage of the engines through carburation
troubles. In a trice Dick slid from his seat and made a hasty
examination. As he did so the motors ceased firing.
"We're out of petrol," he reported. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Blake
incredulously. "The tanks were refilled when we started from London."
"They're empty now, at any rate," added Dick. "Yes, I see what it
is, the pet-cock on the draining pipe is open."
"Some of our visitors must have knocked it accidentally," declared
the inventor. "Be as sharp as you can, Dick. There are some spare
tins in the after compartment. One will save her. We're volplaning
rapidly and against the wind we won't be able to fetch the land."
With her wings rigidly extended the battleplane was descending at an
angle of thirty degrees to the horizontal. In ordinary circumstances
she ought to be able to cover a distance of ten or twelve miles--more
than sufficient to land her in French territory--but owing to the
force of the hard wind her relative speed over the "ground"--which
happened to be a raging sea--would be less than a couple of miles.
While Athol unscrewed the cap of the tank Dick crawled for'ard with a
two-gallon tin of spirit. Recklessly he poured in the precious
fuel, "tickled" the still warm carburettor and swung the engine.
Without hesitation the motors began purring in their normal and
businesslike manner.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Blake. "You were just in time. We were only fifty
feet up when she fired. Carry on with the other cans. There'll be
just enough to get us home."
Dick was now painfully aware, as he carried can after can of petrol
from the store compartment, that the battleplane was in the grip of
the storm fiend. In her downward glide she had passed from the region
of comparatively uniform wind pressure to a stratum in which vicious
erratic currents assailed her on every side. In spite of the lad's
utmost caution he was continually hurled violently against the side
of the fuselage, while it was a matter of greatest difficulty to keep
his footing upon the heavy floor of the steeply-inclined machine.
"Enough," ordered Blake. "Stand by. We're nearly there. I spot an
aerodrome. It may be a British one. At any rate, we'll land."
Dimly wondering how the pilot would bring the huge battleplane to
earth in that howling wind, the lads "stood by." Their confidence in
Blake was unbounded.
Head to wind the machine planed earthwards. The whole expanse of the
aerodrome seemed as if it were rising to greet the unique mechanical
bird. Men, to whom the almost hourly arrival and return of flying
machines caused little or no comment, emerged from their huts to
witness the landing of the weirdest battleplane they had ever seen.
With almost an imperceptible jerk the landing wheels struck the sandy
soil. Simultaneously Blake "switched off" the motors and thrust a
lever hard down. The wings folding without a hitch no longer offered
resistance to the wind, and the battleplane, pinned down to the earth
by its own compact weight, rested firmly on the soil of France.
* * * * *
"So you have arrived," was the Wing Commander's greeting. "We were
expecting you. Had a fair passage?"
"Fairly," replied Blake. "A slight mishap over the Channel well-nigh
landed us into the ditch. It was blowing very hard at the time."
"Seen anything of a monoplane on your way over?" enquired the flying
officer. "We had information that one of our latest type of machine
had left Newhaven a couple of hours ago."
"Yes," was the reply. "We passed her about half-way across. She was
flying low and apparently making slow progress against the gale."
"A tough task for a new hand," commented the Wing Commander. "The
youngster took his certificate only a fortnight ago, and this is his
first cross-Channel flight."
"He would have done better if he had kept eight or ten thousand feet
up," hazarded Blake.
"Possibly," rejoined his new chief drily. "Only it happens that our
new pilots are specially warned to fly low when making for the French
coast."
"I had no such instructions," declared Blake.
"Therefore it would not have been a great surprise to me if you had
carried on right over our lines and dropped gently on one of the
Germans' aviation grounds. We have already had one or two cases like
that. Our new pilots, not being sufficiently acquainted with the
locality, have overshot the mark. Deplorable of course, but the fact
remains."
"Here comes the expected monoplane, sir," reported a young
flight-lieutenant.
Still flying low and rocking under the influence of the eddying air
currents the monoplane battled towards the aerodrome. At that
altitude there was no mistaking the nationality of the men awaiting
the aviator's arrival. Two mechanics, detaching themselves from their
comrades, made ready to steady the planes when the machine touched
ground.
With admirable precision the airman "flattened out." So well timed
was his descent that it was almost impossible to determine the
precise moment when the monoplane was air-borne and when it was
supported by its landing wheels.
Rolling over the ground for nearly fifty feet the monoplane stopped
head to wind. The pilot descended, removed his goggles and flying
helmet, revealing the boyish, clear-cut features of a man barely out
of his teens.
Numbed by the cold he walked unsteadily, rubbing his hands as he did
so in order to restore the circulation.
"A bit nippy," he remarked casually, after he had formally reported
his arrival. "She did it jolly well, though. By the bye, I see you've
got here ahead of me," he added, addressing Blake and nodding in the
direction of the securely held battleplane.
"I didn't imagine that you saw us; we were ten thousand feet up when
we overtook you," said Blake.
"Neither did I," admitted the flight-lieutenant.
"Then how----" began the battleplane's inventor, surprised at the
confession and at a loss to understand why the pilot of the monoplane
was able to report on the former's progress.
"I'll let you into a secret," rejoined the young lieutenant laughing.
"Last Friday at a quarter to nine in the morning that weird-looking
'bus," and he nodded in the direction of the battleplane, "ascended
from a shed at a spot roughly twelve miles south of Shrewsbury, and
proceeded in a south-westerly direction. Quite a short flight, out
and home. Now, am I not correct?"
Almost dumfounded, Blake had to admit that the airman's information
was correct.
"How did you know that?" he asked.
"Simply that instead of your being ten thousand feet above me I was
that height above you," was the astonishing reply. "The Intelligence
Department is not so sleepy as some people would have it believe. We
had orders to try to locate a mysterious battleplane that was
propelled by means of movable wings. I happened to be the lucky one
to spot you, so you see we are not exactly strangers."
"And let us hope," added Desmond Blake, extending his hand, "that we
shall be pals."