SERGEANT O'RAFFERTY'S LUCKY BOMB
CAPTAIN DESMOND BLAKE had hit the mark when he described the
soi-disant Belgian lieutenant as a star. Subsequent enquiries
revealed the fact that the real lieutenant Etienne Fauvart had been
captured by the Germans in an affair of outposts near Dixmude. Armed
with the papers found in the prisoner's possession and clad in a
Belgian uniform a German staff officer had so successfully
impersonated Lieutenant Fauvart that he had deceived the British
staff officers. With the express purpose of luring the secret
battleplane he had offered his services, and had made a true
statement as to the position of the German Zeppelin sheds. Therein
lay the secret of his ruse, for the British Intelligence Division
already had some knowledge of the Zeppelin base, and finding that the
supposed Belgian officer's description tallied with their reports,
their suspicions, if any existed, were disarmed. If on the other hand
the spy had indicated a Zeppelin station that had an existence only
in his imagination he knew that he ran a grave risk of having his
information challenged and himself arrested, court-martialled and
shot.
Confident in his belief that the British secret battleplane would be
rendered incapable of getting within effective distance of the
Zeppelin sheds of Olhelt, he did not hesitate to indicate their exact
position.
Once he succeeded in getting taken as one of the battleplane's crew
he had no difficulty in compelling the machine to make a forced
landing. Taking advantage of the excuse to fetch his coat, he had,
during Dick's temporary absence, contrived to spray the high tension
wire with a powerful corrosive. The wire, it must be explained, led
from the magneto in a single length, afterwards branching into a
number of subsidiary wires to the respective sparking plugs of the
cylinders. By spraying the electric current conductor between the
junction and the magneto the whole of the firing was put out of
action simultaneously, after the acid had taken time to eat through
the guttapercha insulating cover.
When Dick discovered the failure, but was unable at the time to
ascertain the cause, he fortunately removed the high tension wires
and replaced them with a spare set, which Blake, with commendable
forethought, had made in case of emergency.
It will now be necessary to follow Athol Hawke's movements from the
time when he followed the unsuspected spy into the wood.
Keeping close to the supposed Fauvart's heels the lad moved rapidly
and cautiously, carefully avoiding treading upon dry twigs that
littered the ground.
At intervals the lieutenant turned to reassure himself that the
British airman was following, making signs to him to keep close.
Proceeding thus they covered about two hundred yards, when suddenly
the spy turned and grappled Athol by throwing both arms round the
lad's body and pinning his arms to his sides. At the same time Athol
saw numbers of German troops emerging from behind the trees.
Like a flash of lightning the lad realised that Fauvart was a spy.
With a sudden wrench he freed his right arm, and drew his revolver,
and fired at his captor. Only by adroitly ducking his head did
Fauvart escape the bullet. As it was his forehead and hair were
singed by the blast from the muzzle.
With a muttered curse the spy hurled the lad violently against the
trunk of a tree, at the same time ordering some of the soldiers to
secure the prisoner. Since Athol's shot had given the alarm, the
question of an effective surprise no longer held good. Led by the
officer in Belgian uniform the Germans, who had quite prepared for
the contingency, rushed through the wood towards the British
battleplane.
Bruised and shaken by his fall, Athol found himself roughly pulled
upon his feet. With a burly Prussian on either side and a sergeant
following, holding a revolver--Athol's own--against the prisoner's
head, the lad was forced onwards, further and further away from his
comrades.
Then came the sharp reports of a dozen rifle-shots followed by the
well-known sound of the battleplane's motors running "all out," and
the angry shouts of the foiled Huns.
Soon Athol and his guards were overtaken by the soldiers who had
hoped to capture the British aircraft. Knowing the German language
tolerably well, the lad overheard their conversation, although the
disappointed mien of the Huns would have been sufficient to tell him
that their efforts had been foiled.
To the accompaniment of the firing of the anti-aircraft guns Athol
was hurried along. Presently the party arrived at another clearing.
Here the Huns halted, looking skywards to see if the battleplane was
still in sight. Athol followed their example.
What they saw did not help the Huns' good temper, for even as they
watched they saw the battleplane loop the loop in the misty twilight,
shedding several dark forms as she did so. Two of the bodies of the
luckless Germans fell with a sickening crash within fifty yards of
their watching comrades, while to Athol's intense satisfaction,
notwithstanding the horror of the scene, he saw the Belgian-uniformed
spy dashed to the ground almost at the feet of the men he had so
treacherously summoned to seize the secret battleplane.
"Himmel!" ejaculated one of the Prussians. "They'll be dropping bombs
on us soon. Let us hasten."
Still gripping their prisoner the men hurried off into the depths of
the woods, where under the trees it was hardly possible to see one's
hand before one's face. Stumbling over exposed roots, cannoning into
tree trunks, the Huns continued their way. Athol overheard one of
them say that the Zeppelin sheds were not a safe place for them, and
that they had better make off in a different direction until the
English aircraft had disappeared.
Even as he spoke a lurid flash threw a vivid glare over the sky, the
gleam even penetrating the thick foliage. The crash that followed
shook the ground, and sent a shower of leaves and twigs whirling from
the trees. The Huns broke into a run, still retaining their hold upon
their captive.
Another and yet another deafening detonation followed. The heavens
glowered with the blood-red flames from the blazing Zeppelin sheds.
Débris hurtled through the air all around the lad and his guards,
although the scene of the explosion was at least half a mile away.
The atmosphere reeked of the smoke of burning oil.
Presently the Huns, well-nigh breathless, came to a halt.
"It's all over now, Fritz," said one. "No more bombs have fallen. And
Herr Major would have us believe that the English airmen were no
good."
"It is all very well for Herr Major," retorted the other. "He, no
doubt, is safe in his bomb-proof cellar. I, for one, should not be
sorry if an English bomb blew him sky high. He makes our existence a
misery. It is far worse than at----"
A dazzling flash seemed to leap from the ground almost at Athol's
feet. He was dimly conscious of being hurled backwards, deafened by
the noise of the detonation.
For quite a minute he lay still, not daring to move, and dimly
wondering whether he were yet alive. Then he opened his eyes.
Some fifty yards off a fire was burning. In the centre of a circle of
up-torn trees flames were bursting from a mass of débris, and
throwing a ruddy glare upon the surrounding scene. The flames were
spreading in the direction where he lay. He tried to rise. At first
his efforts were unavailing. Something heavy was pinning him down:
that something turning out to be the unconscious form of one of his
guards. The other, huddled against an uprooted tree, was groaning
dismally.
A sharp, burning pain on his right leg just above the knee warned
Athol forcibly of his peril. An ember from the conflagration had
settled on the limb and had burnt through his uniform trousers.
Giving a tremendous heave the lad freed himself of his encumbrance
and rose unsteadily to his feet.
"I'll have to drag those beggars out of it," he muttered, as he
contemplated the helpless forms of his former captors. "They'll be
burnt to cinders if I don't."
Suiting the action to the words he seized one of the Huns under the
shoulders. It was as much as he could do, strong as he was, to drag
the sixteen stone of listless humanity even a few yards.
Suddenly he became aware that men were hurrying through the wood. For
the first time the realisation that there was a possibility of escape
flashed across his mind. Pausing only to recover his revolver and
ammunition he withdrew, intent upon putting a safe distance between
him and the approaching Huns before coming to any definite plan of a
bid for safety.
"Jolly near shave," he soliloquised. "I reckon Desmond Blake didn't
know how close that last bomb came to blowing me sky-high."
He had yet to learn that Sergeant O'Rafferty's awkwardness had been
instrumental in freeing him, temporarily at least, from the clutches
of the Huns.