A FIGHT TO A FINISH
FOR the next three days the crew of the battleplane were kept busily
employed in getting ready for active service against the Huns. With
the utmost expediency thousands of bullets made to Desmond Blake's
specification had been turned out in one of the British ammunition
factories and dispatched across to the aerodrome. Here they were
taken in hand by mechanics attached to the R.F.C. and fitted into
ordinary Service rifle cartridges for use with the automatic guns.
Both Athol and Dick had to undergo a brief but efficient machine gun
course, and were instructed in the art of aiming at rapidly-moving
targets from an equally mobile platform. Several branches of the
flying officers' art they were not at present to touch. Blake's
battleplane was to be used for purely offensive purposes, so that
there was no occasion for the lads to be instructed in registering,
observation and reconnaissance work. Nor was there time to study
wireless. An apparatus had, however, been installed, and to work it a
fourth member of the crew was appointed--Sergeant Michael O'Rafferty.
O'Rafferty was an Irishman by birth, name and characteristics. He was
a light-weight of eight stone seven pounds, as agile in body as he
was mercurial in temperament. Already he had two Hun biplanes to his
credit, and was one of the most reckless flying men of that
particular squadron.
Amongst other alterations to the battleplane on becoming a Service
machine a regulation bomb-dropping device had been fitted in the
floor of the fuselage. Eighteen powerful bombs were to be carried,
and, when occasion arose, released by the application of the pilot's
foot upon a pedal, while for offence against bodies of troops boxes
of "flêches" or steel arrows were stowed on board.
The arrival from London of their uniforms completed the lads'
preparations, and fully equipped they eagerly awaited an opportunity
of meeting the Hun airmen.
The chance came sooner than they expected, for late one evening, when
most of the reconnaissance machines had returned to their hangars,
four enemy battleplanes were observed to be approaching. They were
flying high to avoid the anti-aircraft guns in the rear of the third
line of trenches.
Enemy air-raids had been few of late. The Hun aviators for the most
part contented themselves by merely patrolling behind their lines on
swift Fokkers, swooping down upon the equally daring but
under-powered aeroplanes employed by the British for observation
purposes. On this occasion it was evident that a raid upon the
aerodrome was in contemplation.
Instantly there was a rush to man the British aircraft. Three got
away before Desmond Blake could collect his crew and drag the
battleplane from her shed; but once the huge mechanical bird drew
clear of the ground her marked superiority in climbing became
apparent.
Athol stood by the foremost quickfirer; O'Rafferty was at the after
one; Dick had perforce to tend to the motors since the slightest
hitch might result in victory to their opponents. Blake, cool and
collected, though it was the first time that he was opposed to a
hostile airman's fire, piloted the swift battleplane, manoeuvring to
gain the equivalent to the old time "weather-gage"--a superior
altitude.
Observing the novel type of aircraft rising to meet them, two of the
Fokkers circled and prepared to dart down upon their opponent. Either
they misjudged the speed and power of the British battleplane or else
they deprecated the skill of her crew until it was too late.
With her engines all out the battleplane darted across and far
beneath the downward course of the two German aircraft. A sharp burst
of machine gun fire from the Huns was futile, for under-estimating
the speed of their antagonist they made insufficient allowance in
their aim. Harmlessly a sheaf of several hundred bullets whizzed
astern of the secret battleplane.
Round swung the Fokkers in pursuit. For the first time they realised
that in a climbing contest they were hopelessly beaten. In twenty
seconds Blake had secured an undisputable gain. He was nearly a
thousand feet above his opponents, and almost immediately overhead.
In that position the British battleplane was immune from her
opponent's fire. The machine guns of the Fokkers were mounted so that
they could fire ahead between the blades of the swiftly-moving
propellers--less than five per cent. of the bullets being deflected
in their path through the arc of revolution. The guns could also be
swung round to fire on either side, but training of the weapons in a
vertical plane was considerably restricted. It was impossible to fire
at any target that was anything like overhead; a contingency that the
Huns had not provided for, since their hitherto superior speed
enabled them to decide their own conditions of fighting.
"Stand by, Athol!" shouted Blake.
Considering that Athol had been "standing by" during the whole of the
flight the order seemed unnecessary until the lad grasped the
significance of his superior officer's bidding.
Like a kestrel the battleplane dived towards the nearmost of her
opponents. The pilot of the Fokker saw the danger. Discharging a
large smoke-bomb he strove to escape under cover of the dense pall of
vapour. For a few seconds it seemed as if the manoeuvre would prove
successful, until Blake turned his craft and brought her on a
parallel course to the escaping Hun.
The Fokker could now use her machine guns, although aiming was a
matter of extreme difficulty. A hail of bullets clipping neat little
holes in the tips of the battleplane's wings showed how close the
shots were to securing telling hits.
Athol and Sergeant O'Rafferty opened fire simultaneously, since both
machine guns could be brought to bear upon the German aircraft.
Caught by the stinging hail of bullets the Fokker's struts and
tension wires seemed to fly into fragments. Her shattered planes
tilted upwards as she commenced to fall earthwards. Then, bursting
into flames, the Hun machine crashed to the ground two thousand feet
below.
A peculiar and disconcerting ping close to Athol's head warned him
that the fight was not yet over. The second Fokker, finding that the
mysterious aeroplane was directing its attention upon Hun No 1, had
manoeuvred for its favourite position, and owing to the battleplane
describing a circle the relative distance was now considerably
decreased.
In a trice Blake banked steeply. As he did so O'Rafferty let loose a
couple of dozen rounds. The Hun, hit more than once, turned and fled.
Giving a hasty glance round Blake took in the situation. The
remaining Fokkers had been disposed of by the British biplanes, but
not before one of the latter had to make an involuntary landing with
its petrol tank perforated like a sieve and its observer badly
wounded. There was now a fair chance of matching Blake's battleplane
against the vaunted and possibly overrated Fokker.
The latter, with clouds of smoke pouring from her exhaust, was making
off towards her own lines. Before gaining shelter she would have to
pass over the British trenches less than thirty miles from the
encounter, even if she were successful in throwing off pursuit.
Blake was equally determined to smash his opponent long before the
latter came within sight of the German trenches. It was essential
that in this early stage the secret battleplane should not show
herself to the Huns over their own lines. The systematic
disappearance of the "star" enemy airmen, without any hint of the
nature of their destruction, would have a telling effect upon the
_morale_ of their flying men. It was a parallel case to the steady
and unannounced decrease in the number of German submarines, scores
of which left port never to return, and leaving no record of their
disappearance save that known and jealously guarded by the British
Admiralty.
"Now see what you can do, Athol," exclaimed Blake, as the
battleplane, gaining upon her antagonist hand over fist, was in a
favourable position to open fire.
Glancing along the sights Athol pressed the thumbpiece of the
firing-mechanism. Some of the shots took effect, for the Fokker, in
spite of the frantic efforts of the pilot to keep it under control,
began to dive.
Athol ceased firing. The hostile aircraft was done for. Humanity
urged him to let the Hun crew save themselves if it were possible to
avoid being dashed to pieces upon the ground.
Erratically swaying, lurching and side-slipping, with one of the
wings twisted like a broken reed, the German aircraft fell through a
thousand feet of space before the pilot was able to check its
descent. For ten seconds it seemed on the point of recovering itself,
then the headlong flight was resumed.
Well in its wake followed the British battleplane. Blake was resolved
to watch developments. He was curious to know the fate of the Hun
crew.
Retarding the battleplane's flight the pilot kept her well under
control, circling around the path of his defeated antagonist. Just as
the Fokker was on the point of landing with an appalling crash the
machine tilted acutely, then making a tail-dive alighted heavily upon
the ground, throwing both pilot and observer from their seats.
In an instant the redoubtable Hun pilot regained his feet. Although
fully expectant to be greeted by a discharge from the battleplane's
machine-gun he staggered towards the wreckage and dragged his
unconscious comrade further from the pile of tangled and twisted
metal and canvas. Then striking a match and igniting his celluloid
map he threw the blazing fabric into the petrol-soaked wreckage.
Bringing the battleplane to earth within twenty-five yards to
windward of the burning aeroplane Blake descended, followed by Athol
and the sergeant.
The Hun, revolver in hand, stood on the defensive, although no escape
was possible, for already soldiers were hurrying up from their
billets in a neighbouring hamlet. The Hun, not knowing what treatment
he would be accorded, was evidently under the impression that no
quarter would be given.
"Hands up!" ordered Blake.
"You no shoot, me no shoot," replied the German aviator, still
brandishing his pistol. "Spare my life and surrender I will make."
"We respect a brave foe," exclaimed Blake. "But you are our
prisoner."
The German dropped his revolver and folded his arms. Blake advanced
with outstretched hands to compliment his opponent on his bravery,
but as he did so the aviator reeled and fell senseless to the ground.
"They'll both pull through, I should imagine," declared an army
doctor who with others had hurried to the spot. "They look a pair of
tough birds. But, by Jove! what type of aircraft have you here?"
"Just an experiment," replied Blake modestly. "We haven't done so
badly for a first attempt. Hop in, Athol, night's coming on apace,
and I'd rather tackle half a dozen Huns than risk a landing in the
dark."