Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen
GLORIES OF SEA
AND AIR SERIES
==============
_By_
_PERCY F._
_WESTERMAN_
THE MYSTERY SHIP
THE RIVAL SUBMARINES
BILLY BARCROFT OF THE R.N.A.S.
A WATCH-DOG OF THE NORTH SEA
A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.
THE DREADNOUGHT OF THE AIR
_Publishers_
PARTRIDGE
LONDON
BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.
[Frontispiece: "THE FLAMING WRECKAGE WAS PLUNGING EARTHWARDS,
LEAVING A FIERY TRAIL IN ITS WAKE."]
BILLY BARCROFT
R.N.A.S.
A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
AUTHOR OF
"A WATCH-DOG OF THE NORTH SEA"
"A SUB. OF THE R.N.R."
ETC. ETC.
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published December_, 1917
_Reprinted_ 1928, 1929, 1930
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. "YOUR BIRD!"
II. A PRICE ON HIS HEAD
III. CONCERNING PETER BARCROFT
IV. WHEN THE ZEPPELIN WAS OUT
V. AT LADYBIRD FOLD
VI. KIDNAPPED
VII. THE RAID
VIII. 'MIDST THE SCENE OF RED RUIN
IX. BETTY
X. THE SEAPLANE'S QUEST
XI. THE TERRORS OF THE AIR
XII. THE RAIDER'S RETURN
XIII. EXIT SEAPLANE NO. 445B
XIV. BUTTERFLY
XV. RECALLED BY WIRE
XVI. CAPTIVES IN A SUBMARINE
XVII. THE MIDDLE WATCH
XVIII. AN OCEAN DUEL
XIX. HELD UP IN THE NORTH SEA
XX. INVESTIGATIONS
XXI. ON THE TRAIL
XXII. THE STRUGGLE ON THE CLIFFS
XXIII. ON THE ROCKS
XXIV. ENTWISTLE'S DECISION
XXV. THE BOMBING EXPEDITION
XXVI. A FUTILE RESCUE
XXVII. FUGITIVES
XXVIII. TRACKED
XXIX. GASSED
XXX. THE BARN BY THE RIVER
XXXI. THE FRONTIER
XXXII. AN AVERTED CATASTROPHE
XXXIII. VON EITELWURMER'S OPPORTUNITY
XXXIV. KIRKWOOD'S WINDFALL
XXXV. ONE CARTRIDGE LEFT
XXXVI. THE ELUSIVE OBJECTIVE
XXXVII. "THE GREAT STRAFE"
XXXVIII. SNATCHED FROM HER PURSUERS
XXXIX. AND LAST
PREFACE
THE GREAT WAR OF 1914 opened the floodgates of hatred between the
nations which took part and this stirring story, written when
feelings were at their highest, conveys a true impression of the
attitude adopted towards our enemies. No epithet was considered too
strong for a German and whilst the narrative thus conveys the real
atmosphere and conditions under which the tragic event was fought
out it should be borne in mind that the animosities engendered by
war are now happily a thing of the past, Therefore, the reader,
whilst enjoying to the full this thrilling tale, will do well to
remember that old enmities have passed away and that we are now
reconciled to the Central Powers who were opposed to us.
BILLY BARCROFT R.N.A.S.
CHAPTER I
"YOUR BIRD!"
Two Bells of the First Dog Watch somewhere in the North Sea.
To be a little more definite it was bordering that part of the North
Sea that merges into the narrow Straits of Dover and almost within
range of the German shore batteries of Zeebrugge.
It was mid-October. The equinoctial gales had not yet arrived to
convert the placid surface of the sea into a regular turmoil of
short, broken waves. Hardly a ripple ruffled the long gentle
undulations. Not a cloud obscured the sky. The slanting rays of the
sun played uninterruptedly upon the sloping deck of H.M. Seaplane
Carrier "Hippodrome" as she forged slowly ahead, surrounded by an
escort of long, lean destroyers.
Her day's work was apparently over. The operations against the
Zeebrugge defences--operations of almost a daily occurrence--had
been carried out according to orders. The observation "kite" balloon
had been hauled down and stowed in the "Hippodrome's" after-well;
her brood of seaplanes had, save one, returned from their task of
"spotting" for the guns of the monitors, and everything had been
made snug for the run back to her base. She awaited only the
reappearance of the stray "duckling" to increase speed for home
waters.
"Billy's getting properly strafed, I fancy," remarked
Flight-Lieutenant John Fuller as the distant growl of innumerable
"antis" reverberated in the still air. "Wonder what the deuce he's
doing? When we swung about over Position 445 he was heading almost
due east."
"Billy won't suffer from cold feet," rejoined his companion--"a
regular glutton for work. Give him a chance for a stunt (bombing
raid) and he's all there. For a mere youngster, I say, he's----"
Further remarks concerning the rashness of Billy--otherwise
Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft--were postponed by the appearance of
yet another member of the "Hippodrome's" flying-officers.
"Young Barcroft's just tick-tocked through," he announced. "He's on
his way back. Cool cheek, by Jove! Keeping the crowd of us waiting
while he's joy-riding somewhere in the direction of Berlin. Wonder
how far he went?"
From where they stood, just abaft the starboard funnel-casing, the
officers scanned the horizon. The "Hippodrome," like most of her
sisters, had at one time been a liner, but the building up of a
launching-platform for seaplanes had resulted in considerable
alterations to her external and internal appearance. Amongst other
things she now had two funnels abreast and far apart in place of her
original foremost one, in order to give full scope to the inclined
plane that extended from her bows to within a few feet of the
navigation bridge--a piece of new construction perched at least 150
feet further aft than the old bridge and chart-room of pre-war days.
The clank of a steam winch and the swinging overhead of a long steel
derrick announced the fact that preparations were being made to
welcome home the "stray bird." Although a seaplane could be launched
with ease from the sloping platform, on her return she would have to
alight in the water and "taxi" alongside her parent ship. Hence the
necessity for a long and powerful derrick to swing the seaplane,
with its broad expanse of wings, clear of the ship's side and
deposit it carefully upon deck.
"Here he comes!" exclaimed Fuller, indicating a faint object in the
eastern sky.
Rapidly it resolved itself into a large biplane with triple floats
in place of the three landing wheels that form a necessary adjunct
to army aeroplanes. Then the polished wood propeller, glinting in
the oblique rays of the sun, could be discerned as it slowed down
preparatory to the seaplane commencing a thousand feet glide.
With a succession of splashes the biplane took the water, "bringing
up" with admirable judgment at a distance of less than fifty yards
from the starboard quarter of the parent ship.
The seaplane carried a crew of two. The pilot pushing up a pair of
goggles revealed a fresh-looking, clean-cut face that gave one the
impression of a public school boy. Billy Barcroft was still in his
teens. He had just another month to enter into his twentieth year.
In height he was a fraction under five feet ten inches; weight--an
important consideration from an airman's point of view--was "ten
seven." Supple and active, he carried not an ounce of superfluous
flesh. Standing up and lightly grasping a stay, he swayed naturally
to the slight lift of the seaplane--the personification of that
product of the Twentieth Century, the airman.
His companion, who had just completed the "winding in" of the
trailing aerial, raised his head above the coaming surrounding the
observer's seat. In appearance he resembled Barcroft so
strongly-that the pair might have been taken for twin-brothers. But
no relationship, save the ties of friendship and duty, existed
betwixt Billy Barcroft and his observer, Bobby Kirkwood. The latter
was an Assistant Paymaster, who, deserting the ship's office for the
freedom of the air, had already mastered the intricacies of
"wireless" and other qualifications necessary for the responsible
duties of observer.
"You've been a jolly long time, you belated bird!" shouted Fuller in
mock reproof. "What's the stunt?"
"Couldn't help it," replied Barcroft with a broad grin. "If you were
in my place and saw a crowd of Hun Staff officers pushing along in
motor-cars wouldn't your idea of courtesy lead you to pay them a
little attention? Kirkwood gave 'em a couple of plums and a whole
drum. Result--a slight increase in the Hun death-rate."
Barcroft had, in fact, gone well inland over the German batteries,
on a sort of informal joy-ride. From a height of 5,000 feet the
observer had spotted what appeared to be a motor convoy bowling
along the road between Zeebrugge and Bruges. With a daring bordering
on recklessness the pilot had vol-planed down to within two hundred
feet, greatly to the consternation of the grey-cloaked German Staff
officers, who, leaving the shelter of their steelroofed cars,
scurried with loss of dignity for the safety that was denied most of
them. For with admirable precision Kirkwood had dropped two bombs
fairly into the line of cars, following up the attack by firing a
whole drum of ammunition from the Lewis gun into the fleeing Huns.
Deftly the flexible steel wire from the outswung derrick engaged the
lifting hooks of the seaplane. The machine was just clear of the
water when the order came "Avast heaving." Simultaneously a bugle
blared. It was the call for Flying Officers.
Leaping into the stern sheets of a boat in attendance, Barcroft and
Kirkwood were taken to the side of the "Hippodrome," where they
gained the deck of the ship. Already Fuller and the rest of the
airmen had gone aft. Something was literally in the air.
The signal commander held up a leaf torn from a signal pad.
"A wireless has just come through," he announced in clear deliberate
tones. "A hostile plane has made a raid over parts of Kent. She is
now on her way back, apparently heading for Ostend. Machines from
Eastchurch have started in pursuit, but the Hun has a useful lead.
Now, gentlemen, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse: we are
between the raider and his base."
The assembly dispersed like magic, the airmen hurriedly donning
leather jackets and flying helmets and giving peremptory orders to
the mechanics in attendance. In less than five minutes the first of
the stowed seaplanes was ready to glide down the inclined platform
to take to flight.
Yet, from a starting point of view Barcroft had a decided advantage.
His seaplane was practically ready. There was enough petrol for a
lengthy flight, and a good reserve of ammunition for the Lewis gun.
Bombs there were none, nor were any likely to be required for the
task in hand. The chances of a hit on a small and rapidly-moving
target were very remote. It was by machine-gun fire that the attack
upon the returning raider was to be made.
With the motor throbbing noisily and with clouds of oil-smelling
smoke pouring from her exhaust, Barcroft's seaplane taxied away from
the towering side of her ungainly parent. Then, so gracefully that
it was impossible to determine the exact moment when the aircraft
ceased to be waterborne, the seaplane rose swiftly and steadily in
the air.
Climbing in steep spirals the machine quickly rose to a height of
5,000 feet. It was enough for all practical purposes, allowing a
margin of superior altitude to that of the expected Boche.
"Good enough!" shouted the flight-sub through the speaking tube.
"Aerials paid out? All ready?"
"All serene," replied Kirkwood, affixing a whole drum of ammunition
to the upper side of the breech mechanism of the deadly machine gun.
"By Jove, we've all been pretty slick this time. The fifth bird has
just got away."
Barcroft leant over the side of the fuselage. Seven hundred feet
below and speeding away to the nor'-west were a couple of the
"Hippodrome's" seaplanes. Two more, at a lower altitude but still
climbing, were heading in a south-easterly direction. Thus, when the
formation was complete, Barcroft's machine would be in the centre of
a far-flung line thrown out to form a barrier betwixt the solitary
raider and his base.
The British airmen were at an atmospheric disadvantage. Straight in
their face came the rays of the setting sun, while the calm sea
beneath them was one blaze of reflected light. Against that blinding
glare it was almost impossible to distinguish the mere black dot in
the vast aerial expanse that represented the returning hostile
aviator; while on the other hand the Hun, with the sun at his back,
would be able to discern with comparative ease the glint of the
seaplane's wings.
The characteristic tick of the wireless brought. Kirkwood to
attention. With the receiver clamped to his ear he took down the
message and passed it on to his companion.
"Our pigeon!" soliloquised Barcroft grimly. The information was to
the effect that the "Hippodrome" had first sighted the approaching
Hun machine by means of telescopes. The hostile craft had previously
spotted two of the intercepting seaplanes, and her pilot, taking
advantage of the light, decided to make a vol-plane to within a few
hundred feet above the level of the sea. By so doing he was
sacrificing his advantage of altitude, but there was a chance of
slipping unobserved under the British aircraft. Once through the
far-flung cordon he hoped to rely upon superior speed and climbing
powers to elude pursuit.
By this time Barcroft had "picked up" his opponent. At first sight
it seemed as if the Hun were executing a nose dive. Keenly on the
alert the flight-sub depressed the ailerons with a quick yet decided
movement. There was no trace of jerkiness in the pilot's actions.
All were performed with that smooth dexterity and rapidity that
comprised the essential qualifications of a successful airman.
At an aggregate speed of nearly two hundred miles an hour the rival
aeroplanes converged. It seemed as if each pilot were bent upon
ramming his opponent and sending the colliding craft to a common
destruction.
Barcroft, his hands resting lightly on the "joy-stick," was keenly
alert to every forthcoming move of his adversary. Already the Hun
observer was letting off rounds from his machine-gun in the vain
hope that some of the hail of bullets would disable the British
seaplane. On his part Kirkwood "stood by," ready at the first
favourable opportunity to let the Hun have a taste of the Lewis
gun--and the opportunity was not yet.
Suddenly the German monoplane straightened out, then, lifting,
attempted to pass above the seaplane. Quick as a flash Barcroft
grasped the situation. Round swung the British machine, though not
before a dozen holes had been ripped in her wings, as, banking
steeply, she presented a vast spread of canvas to the hostile
machine-gun.
Through the turning movement of his opponent the Hun had gained
nearly three hundred yards. The observer, swinging his gun aft, was
busily engaged in fitting a new belt of ammunition.
It was now Kirkwood's chance. The hostile monoplane was still within
easy range, although momentarily her superior speed was taking her
further and further away from her pursuer. She had broken through
the cordon. Ahead was a straight, unimpeded run for home.
The Lewis gun began to splutter. Half--three-quarters of the drum of
ammunition was expended without tangible result. The Hun observer,
too, had got his machine-gun in working order and was pumping out
nickel at the rate of five hundred rounds a minute.
It was a duel to the death. At that dizzy height no human being
could fall and reach the surface of the sea alive. No cover, no
sheltering trenches protected the four combatants. In the blue vault
of heaven they were compelled to kill or be killed, or even deal out
complete and horrifying destruction to each other.
"Got him, by Jove!" shouted Kirkwood, as the Hun at the machine-gun
threw up his arms and toppled inertly across the barrel of the
weapon. For perhaps ten seconds he hung thus, till the monoplane,
rocking through an air-pocket, tilted violently. For a brief instant
the body trembled in the balance, then slipping sideways the dead
Boche toppled over the edge of the fuselage and fell like a stone
through space.
"Keep it up, you're on it!" yelled Barcroft, never for a moment
taking his eyes off the fugitive monoplane.
His observer heard the shout but the words were unintelligible in
the deafening rush of air Nevertheless he maintained a steady fire
at the enemy machine.
To give the Hun pilot his due he made no attempt to throw up the
sponge. He might have made a nose-dive, trusting to flatten out' and
gain the surface of the water. The machine would have sunk like a
stone, but there was a faint chance of the pilot being able to
unbuckle the strap that held him to the seat and make an attempt to
save himself by swimming.
The Hun did unfasten the leather strap, but for a different purpose.
The monoplane, being of a self-steering type, could be relied upon
to continue her flight more or less in a straight line, without a
controlling touch on the rudderbar.
With a stealthy, cat-like movement the German made his way to the
observer's seat, and gripping the firing mechanism of the machine
gun prepared to return the dangerous greetings from his pursuer.
Less than fifteen miles off--twelve minutes flight--lay the flat
outlines of the Belgian coast. Unless Fritz could be brought down
rapidly the raider would win through.
Suddenly the monoplane tilted and settled down to a dizzy nose-dive.
Whether a vital part had been hit or whether the uncontrollable drop
was due to faulty construction neither Barcroft nor his companion
knew. For the moment the flight-sub imagined that it was a daring
ruse on the part of the Hun pilot, until he realised that the latter
was in the observer's seat when the catastrophe occurred.
Down plunged the vanquished monoplane, spirally, erratically. The
pilot was clinging desperately to the machine-gun. Even as the
'plane dashed through space the weapon, under the pressure of the
Hun's hand, was aimlessly spitting out bullets.
Again the wireless ticked off a message. It was from another
seaplane that, although far away in the original cordon, had swung
round and joined in the pursuit. Kirkwood's eyes twinkled as he
deciphered the dots and dashes: "Congrats: your bird!"