ALL GOES WELL WITH ENGLAND
WITH her replenished stock of fuel the battleplane had no difficulty
in rising once she was clear of the surface; for, owing to the
absence of properly contrived floats and the restricted limit of the
beats of her wings, the tips of which could not be dipped into the
water without considerable risk, she could not soar at her usual
angle. It was only after "taxiing" for nearly two hundred yards that
she was able to shake herself clear of the unnatural element.
"Much more of this sort of business and I shall have to modify the
design," declared Blake. "Ah, here they are again," he added,
indicating the approaching seaplanes.
"Stand by with the guns. I'm going right through them."
With this laudable intention Blake took the battleplane up quite a
thousand feet above the altitude of the hostile aircraft, and at full
speed tore to meet the hostile seaplanes.
By this time the Huns had learnt of the presence of the battleplane.
Recognising her by the beat of the powerful wings they one and all
declined combat, and scuttling like a flight of wild duck, made rapid
tracks for home.
"That's decided me," declared the imperturbable pilot. "We'll make a
short cut for home. O'Rafferty."
"Sir?"
"Send off a wireless to the petrol depot ship. We are within call, I
fancy. Tell them not to wait. We have more than enough petrol to take
us home."
"Now, Athol," continued Blake, "I'll give you fellows a sight of the
Kiel Canal and of Heligoland. I don't suppose any British airman has
seen Billy's ditch from the air before."
At an immense altitude the battleplane swung round, crossing the
Schleswig-Holstein isthmus at a height of seventeen thousand feet.
Unseen--or if she were seen no attempt on the part of the Huns was
made to molest her--she glided serenely across to Heligoland Bight,
the islands of Heligoland and Sandinsel looking like mere dots in the
sea. Then following the chain of Frisian Islands she skirted the
Dutch coast on her way south-westwards.
In about nine hours--including the stop for repairs--the battleplane
had covered a distance of nearly a thousand miles, and was within
half an hour's run of the opposing forces on the Western Front.
Already the airmen could feel a strange rumbling sensation in the
rarefied air. It was not the thunder of the guns in Flanders--it was
something far louder than that. The concentrated fire of hundreds of
enormous allied guns was literally shaking the firmament.
"I know where we are now," declared Blake. "That town we can see
ahead is Peronne. By Jove! we're in time to see the 'Big Push,' lads.
Look, our line is different from what it was three weeks ago. It's
beyond that village--Fricourt, I think is its name."
In vast circles the battleplane volplaned earthwards, the two lads
and O'Rafferty surveying the scene of terrific carnage by means of
their binoculars.
There was no doubt about it. Our khaki-clad troops, recking not the
stubborn resistance of the grey-coated Huns, were pressing forward
with bombs and bayonets. All along the line, as far as the limit of
vision permitted it to be seen, the lads could mark the irresistible
progress of their brave countrymen and the equally gallant French
allies. Overhead, although at a considerably lesser altitude, flew
swarms of aeroplanes, all bearing the distinctive marks of red, white
and blue. Of the Black Cross machines not one was visible. It was an
Allies' day with a vengeance.
Unable to take part in the operations for want of previous
instructions, Blake manoeuvred the battleplane up and down the
changing line of opposing forces. The spirits of the two lads rose to
high water mark. They realised that this was the beginning of the
end; the set purpose, which after weeks and months of tedious and
seemingly wasteful inactivity, was to justify the waiting tactics of
the silent Joffre.
Suddenly Athol noticed an ominous movement in our part of the
far-flung line. A village, although the buildings were almost
levelled by the accurate gunfire of the British, was still being held
with the utmost stubbornness by the Huns.
Evidently the enemy had preserved a number of machine guns intact in
spite of the terrific hail of shells. The British, pinned to the
earth by the terrific machine-gun fire, were unable to advance; while
evading the "barrage" of shells, strong reinforcements of Germans
were being rushed forward to convert the British check into a
defeat--glorious but none the less a set-back that might adversely
influence the concentrated operations.
And, with the exception of Blake's battleplane there was no other
British machine to warn the infantry of the approach of the German
reserves.
"Now for it!" shouted Blake, the glint of battle in his eye. "Let 'em
have bombs and flêches when I give the word. Get ready with the
automatic guns."
Athol, the end of the ammunition belt already in the breech
mechanism, depressed the muzzle of his weapon. O'Rafferty was ready
on his part, while Dick stood by to operate the bomb dropping gear,
keeping one hand on the lever that would release hundreds of steel
darts upon the close columns of German troops.
Like a hawk the battleplane swooped down, descending to less than
four hundred feet. Greeted by a terrific fusillade from the rifles of
the astonished and demoralised Huns she returned the compliment with
interest. Bombs, darts and bullets wrought havoc in the crowded
ranks, until the survivors broke and fled, leaving a trail of dead
and wounded as they sought a doubtful shelter from the terror of the
skies.
Dismayed by the rout of their supports the defenders of the ruined
village slackened their fire. Quick to seize the advantage the
British troops, with a cheer that could be distinctly heard above the
roar of battle, swayed forward on and over the rubble of masonry and
carried the position.
This much Athol saw. Then his attention was attracted by a groan.
With his head and shoulder resting over the coaming lay Sergeant
O'Rafferty, the blood oozing from a bullet wound in his neck. Before
Athol could make his way to the sergeant's assistance Blake called to
him in an unsteady voice to take the steering-wheel.
"The blighters have got me," he exclaimed. "Plugged through both
wrists."
"Dick," shouted his chum. "Bear a hand with the sergeant. He's hit.
Sharp as you can, then stand by with the motors."
"We'll have to come down," replied Dick. "Petrol tanks perforated."
Only sufficient fuel for half an hour's run remained before the
damage was done; with the precious spirit trickling in a steady
stream it was doubtful whether the engines could be kept running more
than a few minutes.
Dick, too, did not mention that he had stopped a bullet, which,
passing through the fleshy part of his right arm, had rendered that
limb useless and was causing him exquisite pain.
Just then the motors coughed and stopped abruptly. Athol was only
just in time to grip the steering wheel when the long volplane to
earth began.
He attempted to tilt the aerilons. The operating rods responded
stiffly to the action of the levers. The movable tips to the wings
were firmly locked. Absolute control of the battleplane was no longer
possible.
"There'll be a most unholy smash!" muttered the lad between his
clenched teeth.
The next instant the battleplane flattened out, not under the
influence of the pilot's guidance, but through some freakish
aircurrent. Then, before she could gather momentum for her tail-dive
she crashed to earth.
Myriads of white lights flashed in front of Athol's eyes, and then
everything became a blank.
* * * * *
When Athol recovered consciousness he found himself in a base
hospital. By his bedside stood Desmond Blake and Dick, both swathed
in bandages.
"How goes it?" asked Athol feebly.
"The battleplane's done for," replied Dick.
"She's done her bit, and for a wonder we're all here to tell the
tale."
"But the Big Push?" persisted the lad.
Desmond Blake's features were wreathed in a smile that betokened
confidence.
"Don't worry, Athol," he replied. "So far all goes well with the arms
of England and France."
THE END
THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED LONDON AND NORWICH ENGLAND
[Transcriber's Notes:
This book contains a number of misprints.
The following misprints have been corrected:
[Hop it and we'll] -> [Hop in and we'll]
[Ammunnition and stores] -> [Ammunition and stores]
[The moniplane's tail rose] -> [The monoplane's tail rose]
]
End of Project Gutenberg's The Secret Battleplane, by Percy F. Westerman