TRICKED
"MORNIN', Blake," remarked the Wing Commander. "Feel like an
out-and-home flight? Thought so. Well, give a glance at this map."
Three weeks had elapsed since the secret battleplane had worsted the
two Fokkers--three weeks of strenuous activity. The battleplane bore
many honourable scars, souvenirs of aerial combats. But as yet her
rôle had been a purely defensive one; she had never gone over the
German trenches, hostile anti-aircraft had not as yet sent their
shrapnel shells bursting all around her. Already the Huns had learnt
of the presence of a super-powerful aircraft of unique design, and
with feelings akin to dismay they realised that risky as it had been
to fly over the British lines it was no longer practicable anywhere
within the radius of action of the mysterious mechanical bird.
"Look here," continued the Wing Commander, placing a long, slender
finger on the unfolded map that lay on the trestle table, "that's
Olhelt, a village or rather hamlet not far from Hasselt, and within
ten miles of the Netherland Frontier.
"We've received information that the Bosches have a secret Zeppelin
base there, and that their new airships that are to be employed
solely for raids over England are finally tested there before passing
to active service. The place is strongly protected by Archibalds, and
there are a dozen planes constantly on duty. Now, I want you to make
a reconnaissance. If possible, bomb the Zeppelins to blazes. Would
you prefer to undertake the job alone or shall I send a supporting
squadron of swift battleplanes?"
"We'll tackle it alone, sir, I think," replied Blake. "Our silent
motors are a decided factor in our favour, which would be thrown away
if we were accompanied by any biplanes."
"So I thought, but I felt that I ought to give you the option,"
rejoined the Wing Commander. "Now, there is another point. We have a
Belgian officer here, a man furnished with the highest credentials
from the Belgian headquarters. He's a Limburger, and knows the
district around Olhelt remarkably well. His name, let me see,"--the
officer referred to a docket--"yes, his name is Etienne Fauvart, a
lieutenant of the 21st Regiment of the Line. This man, for patriotic
and personal motives--it was he who first reported the Zeppelin base;
had the information from a relative living near Hasselt--wishes
particularly to take part in the raid. According to his story he has
a heavy account to settle with the Bosches near his home. It occurred
to me that he might be useful for pointing out the various landmarks.
From all accounts the place is rather puzzling for a strange airman
to find."
"Whether he is to come with us or otherwise is for you to decide,
sir," said Blake.
"Personally I am inclined to favour the suggestion," continued the
Wing Commander. "Since you are so good as to leave the matter in my
hands, I think you'd better take Lieutenant Fauvart. I'll have him
brought in."
He touched a bell. An orderly appeared in the doorway.
"Bring the Belgian officer here," ordered the Wing Commander.
Lieutenant Etienne Fauvart was a loose-limbed man of about thirty. He
was of average height, broad of shoulder and dark-featured. Although
he clicked his heels as he saluted he lacked the alertness of the
typical British officer.
"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir," he said in English
with a good accent when Desmond Blake and he were introduced. "Also I
esteem it an honour to go with you in your magnificent invention. I
hope that we are able to blow the Zeppelins to pieces. Ciel! I look
to the hour."
"Certainly an enthusiast," thought Blake as the Belgian discussed
with his British confrères the plan of attack.
It was eventually decided that the secret battleplane was to leave
the flying ground at an hour before sunset, soar to a great altitude
and arrive over her objective shortly after sunset. Elaborate
arrangements were made for her return, the aerodrome to be
brilliantly lighted on receipt of a wireless message from the
returning battleplane. In view of the possibility of a failure of the
wireless a red and a blue star rockets were to be fired by the
airmen.
The Belgian officer formed a supernumerary member of the crew, since
Blake was loth to leave either of his three airmen behind.
Accordingly Fauvart was placed at the post usually occupied by Dick
when his duty with the motors had for the time been accomplished.
Young Tracey accepted the situation with the utmost good-nature.
Although reluctant to miss the visual part of the fun he realised
that it was "some" luck to be able to participate in the great raid.
For the rest of the day the airmen were busily engaged in overhauling
the mechanism, studying maps and otherwise preparing for the task.
Etienne Fauvart, evincing great interest in the battleplane, had
taken a deep fancy to Dick, and followed him with keen zest, asking
innumerable questions.
"The fellow bores me stiff," soliloquised the lad. "He seems a decent
sort, but he does ask awkward questions. He looks too cute to be
stuffed, and I don't like choking him off. The only thing I can
suggest is to refer him to Blake."
The Belgian took the hint quite good-naturedly. He refrained from
asking any further technical questions, but Dick noticed that he made
no attempt to "freeze on" to the imperturbable inventor.
At length, at the appointed hour, the battleplane started on her
adventurous flight, her crew being sent-off with the hearty good
wishes of their brother airmen--wishes for the most part expressed in
that bantering, happy-go-lucky style that characterises men who have
more than a nodding acquaintance with death.
The thin air literally shook under the concussion of hundreds of
heavy guns as the battleplane swung high over the opposing lines. A
big "affair" was in progress--one of those furious exchanges of
strafing that are airily referred to in the official reports as "an
activity of some magnitude." Two mines had just been sprung, their
positions marked by huge clouds of smoke and dust. But of the actual
fighting none was visible to the crew of the battleplane. A dense
haze hid the khaki and grey fighting men from view, although rifle
firing and the rattle of machine-guns could be distinctly heard as
the see-saw struggle for the possession of the newly-made craters
continued with the utmost desperation.
So intense were the undulations of the atmosphere over the terrific
cannonade that the battleplane rocked violently. Her wings, beating
the disturbed air with tremendous speed, seemed hardly able to
support the main fabric. While the flight over the scene of the
fighting lasted the mechanical bird was plunging and banking like a
ship in a heavy following gale. So severe was the strain that had any
of the metal-work been the least defective the weakness would have
shown itself with dire results. Even Blake gave vent to an
exclamation of relief as the machine drew safely away from the
disturbed area.
"The spires of Hasselt," declared Lieutenant Fauvart, when, half an
hour later, one of many of the numerous Belgian towns appeared in
view, showing up clearly in the slanting rays of the setting sun.
"You see those forests to the north? Beyond them lies Olhelt. It is
in a valley, with trees all around. Already the valley is in shadow.
The time for vengeance is at hand."
Evidently vengeance was the uppermost thought in the man's mind. Both
lads had been curious to know the reason for the Belgian's oft
reiterated words, but with their typical English reticence had
refrained from asking him for enlightenment.
"I am cold," exclaimed Fauvart a moment later. "A man who is cold
cannot do his work well. I go and get my heavy coat."
"And he wouldn't take my advice before we started," thought Athol, as
the Belgian slipped from his seat and disappeared within the
fuselage.
"We are in sight of Olhelt," announced Fauvart to Dick, who was
sitting on the floor by the side of the motors.
"Are we?" replied the lad. "Think I'll have a look out."
He made his way to the Belgian's vacated post, and, leaning over,
took in the expanse of country far beneath. Blake was circling the
battleplane, since it was yet too early to volplane to the work of
destruction. At that immense height, and thanks to the almost total
absence of sound, the battleplane was safe from observation from the
earth.
"I feel like a stoker in a naval engagement," thought Dick as he
returned to his post. "Nothing to see, and all up if anything goes
wrong. Another ten minutes will see the job through."
It seemed an interminable time before an acceleration of the motors
announced that Blake had disconnected the wing mechanism and had
locked the wings for a spiral volplane.
Dick promptly throttled down, and stood ready at the first sign to
open the motors all out. As he did so he became aware of a peculiar
smell. It was something like but not the same as that of burning oil.
Then with disconcerting suddenness the motors ceased firing.
"Engine failure," reported the lad.
"Hang it all!" ejaculated Blake. "Couldn't have occurred at a worse
time."
The Belgian started and whipped out a revolver.
"For me there is no surrender," he exclaimed dramatically. "I shoot
myself rather than be a prisoner of war to the Bosches."
"Stop it!" exclaimed Blake, releasing his hold of the controls and
gripping the Belgian's arm. "We are not done in yet. Far from it. Put
that thing away and be reasonable. Look out and see if you recognise
a good landing-place."
Fauvart, rallied by Blake's manner, did as he was told. By this time
the battleplane was less than two thousand feet up. Somewhat to the
airmen's surprise no shells came from the invisible anti-aircraft
guns known to be somewhere in the vicinity.
"There!" exclaimed the Belgian, indicating a clearing in the woods,
where even in the twilight the grass showed distinctly against the
darker green of the treetops. "It may be safe to land there. If the
Bosches have not already seen us we may escape detection."
"Any luck yet, Dick?" called out the pilot anxiously.
"No, sir," replied the lad, still deftly juggling with the magnetos,
where apparently the fault lay.
With his customary skill Desmond Blake brought the battleplane to
earth in the clearing pointed out by the Belgian lieutenant. His
first act after landing was to fix a detonator and time fuse in
position. Rather than allow the machine to fall into the hands of the
enemy Blake had resolved to blow her to fragments.
"Be ready to slip it when I give you warning," he cautioned. "Stick
it, Dick, but don't stop a moment after I give the word."
Some minutes passed but there was no sign of outside interruption.
Athol, Sergeant O'Rafferty and the Belgian alighted, leaving Blake in
the pilot's seat and Dick toiling at the motors, since the lad
preferred to work alone in the confined space between the engines.
The Belgian, having seemingly recovered his self-composure, began to
stroll towards the edge of the clearing, carrying a large can.
"Where are you off to, Monsieur Fauvart?" asked Athol.
The lieutenant half turned his head and put his finger to his lips.
Then signing to the lad to follow, he hastened his footsteps,
although treading as softly as before.
O'Rafferty was about to accompany Athol when Blake called him back to
bear a hand at slewing the battleplane round head to wind.
"They've gone to get some water for the radiator," said the pilot
reassuringly. "Fauvart knows of a spring close handy. Getting on all
right, Dick?"
"I'm doing my best," answered the lad guardedly.
The sergeant, lighting a cigarette, paced to and fro, with eyes and
ears alert to catch the first sight or sound of anything of a
suspicious nature.
Suddenly, to Blake's intense satisfaction, the motors began to purr
smoothly.
"You've found out what was wrong, then," he said, at the same time
motioning to the sergeant to take his place on board. "What was it?"
Before Dick could reply a revolver shot rang out. Then came the
sounds of several men crashing through the brushwood. An instant
later twenty or more grey-coated figures appeared in sight, led by
the supposed Belgian officer.
"Surrender instantly!" he shouted. "Lieutenant Hawke is our prisoner.
Do further damage to the battleplane and no quarter will be given.
Hands up and you will receive honourable treatment."