EXIT SEAPLANE No. 445B
"WHY did I leave my comfortable bunk and try my hand at fishing at
night upon the wild North Sea?" enquired Lieutenant Fuller as he
withdrew his benumbed hands from his airman's gauntlets and fumbled
ineffectually for his electric torch. "Dash it all, man! What are
you fiddling about with?"
"Only that releasing lever," replied Kirkwood from the depths of the
fuselage. "That confounded Zep! If only the blessed thing hadn't
jibbed I'd have strafed her, sure as fate."
"Chuck it!" ordered Fuller. "Let the beastly thing alone, or you may
drop a plum. This child doesn't want to be hoist with his own
petard. Well, thank goodness we're afloat. That's some consolation.
Where the hooligan Harry is that confounded torch?"
"Take mine," said the A.P. passing for'ard the desired article.
"Say, old man, we appear to be rolling more to starboard than to
t'other side. Hope the float isn't leaking."
Fuller leant over the side. It was too dark to discern anything.
Prudence forbade him to flash the torch upon the invisible
support--a support so light and frail that the wonder of it all was
that it hadn't given way under the force of the impact with the
waves.
The crippled seaplane was tossing and rolling under the combined
action of the short crested waves and the stiff breeze. It wanted
about two hours to daylight. Meanwhile every minute saw the
amphibious craft drifting further and further from shore.
There were no signs of the "Hippodrome." Possibly the seaplane
carrier had resumed her voyage, in the supposition that the missing
hornet had made one of the fishing harbours on the Yorkshire coast.
The absence of any wireless call rather knocked that theory on the
head. On the other hand the "Hippodrome" could not, without great
risk of being submarined, since she was unaccompanied by destroyers
or patrol-boats, steam seaward on an apparent wild-goose chase for
her errant child.
"She's holding, I fancy," said Fuller referring to the suspected
float. "Anyhow we've kept afloat so far and there's no reason why we
shouldn't do so until I tackle this most refractory motor."
Making cautious use of the flash lamp the pilot minutely examined
the complicated mechanism. It was not long before the mischief was
discovered. Not only was the petrol-tank completely perforated by
three shrapnel bullets, but the pipe leading from it to the
carburetter had been cut clean through. That accounted for the
engine running for some seconds before coming to a stop. Until the
last of the petrol in the carburetter had been drawn into the
cylinders firing was still taking place.
Further examination revealed the fact that, the motor was otherwise
undamaged, although, judging by the holes in the fuselage and
through the planes, it seemed wonderful that pilot and observer had
escaped being hit.
"Can I bear a hand?" enquired Kirkwood.
"No, thanks," was the reply. "Close enough quarters as it is. We
should only be tumbling over one another."
By the aid of a piece of flexible tubing lined with indiarubber the
broken portions of the petrol pipe were temporarily reunited. The
next step was to plug the holes in the tank. This task was performed
by means of a metal instrument consisting of a metal rod of about a
third of an inch in diameter and four inches in length. Two thirds
of the length was threaded and fitted with a "butterfly" nut in
front of which was a cylindrical plug of guttapercha faced with
indiarubber. At the other extremity was a swivelled cross-bar of
about an inch in length and so arranged that it could lie in a
straight line with the rod.
This end Fuller inserted in one of the perforations in the side of
the tank. Then, giving the rod half a turn, he allowed the swivel
bar to fall into a position at right angles to the rod. It was then
impossible to withdraw the latter owing to the cross-piece engaging
on the inner side of the tank.
The flight-lieutenant's next move was to screw the pliable plug hard
against the perforated metal by means of the "butterfly" nut, and by
so doing hole No.1 was repaired--the first of six. While Fuller was
engaged upon the work of making good defects Kirkwood, his mind
still uneasy on the subject of the float, lowered himself over the
side.
Gaining the upper side of the float he felt along it with his hand.
As he did so a wave swept the frail buoyant structure.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "This is a treat. The water is quite warm."
Compared with the intense coldness of the upper air the sea, at this
time of the year, was indeed tepid. The contrasted temperature acted
like balm to his numbed hands. He revelled in the comfort.
While thus engaged the A.P. discerned a large object looming through
the darkness--a cylinder nearly a yard in diameter. It was floating
with very little of its bulk showing above the surface, and, owing
to the comparatively rapid drift of the seaplane, it appeared to be
moving steadily through the water and bearing straight down upon the
float.
For a brief instant Kirkwood remained stock still in his recumbent
position, unable to raise a finger or utter a cry. The object was a
floating mine.
He could discern the horns with remarkable clearness, for the thing
seemed surrounded by an aura of phosphorescent light. One blow from
the underside of the float upon those delicately adjusted
projections with which the mine simply bristled would result in
utter annihilation.
Kirkwood's mind was steeled to the dangers of a ten or fifteen
thousand feet fall through space; but this, to him, unusual danger
literally took the wind out of his sails.
Then, like a flash, the reaction set in. The will to cope with
sudden perils asserted itself. A plan, unpretentious in all its
details, formulated in his active brain.
Throwing himself flat upon the float and grasping one of the
supports with his left hand, the A.P. hung as far in front as he
possibly could without losing his balance. His outstretched hand
came in deliberate contact with the drifting horror. The smooth,
slimy surface--for the mine had evidently been in the water for some
time--offered no resistance, and he thrust until his fingers
"brought up" against one of the horns.
How far short of the minimum pressure required to snap the brittle
projection and allow the chemicals contained therein to ignite
Kirkwood was never to know. He was just aware that either the
seaplane or the mine was swinging clear--perhaps it was a mutual
"get out of my way" affair.
Scraping the for'ard outer corner of the float by a bare six inches
the infernal contrivance, fended off by the A.P.'s outstretched
hand, glided past, until with a sigh of relief the observer watched
it disappear in the darkness.
For quite a minute he hung on, his heart beating like a piston, his
eyes peering through the blackness ahead. Floating mines, he knew,
were generally in considerable numbers. The fact that one peril had
been averted was no guarantee that all danger from these jettisoned
cylinders of potential death was over.
"Where the Christopher Columbus are you, old bird?" exclaimed
Fuller, who, pausing in his work, had missed the rest of the "crew."
"What, down on that float? What's wrong now?"
"We nearly bumped into a mine," reported the A.P. "The beastly thing
was within six inches of my nose."
"A miss is as good as a mile," remarked the pilot nonchalantly. "If
the thing had gone up six inches or six feet wouldn't have made any
difference. They wouldn't have found either of us, and there
wouldn't be enough of the pair of us to make a satisfying meal for a
solitary North Sea herring. Look here. Up with you and give me a
hand at filling the tank. I want to test my handiwork."
By the time the repairs were completed to the satisfaction of all
hands, grey dawn was breaking over the wild North Sea. As far as the
eye could penetrate the haze that hung about in detached patches the
expanse of water was unbroken. Not a sail of any description was in
sight and the beetling cliffs of the Yorkshire coast had long since
dipped beneath the horizon.
"Fill her right up now," continued the pilot, indicating the
repaired tank. "It's lucky we had so many spare tins of stuff on
board. We'll mop up most of the petrol during the plug home against
the wind, I reckon."
Fuller, deep in final adjustments, and Kirkwood hard at work
emptying the contents of the petrol-cans into the tank, were unaware
of the new menace that threatened them, until a huge grey shape
loomed up within fifty yards to windward of the seaplane.
The shape was a German submarine mine-layer, She was running awash,
while on the short, narrow platform in the wake of her conning-tower
stood a couple of officers and a half a dozen seamen.
"You vos surrender make!" shouted one of the Germans.
"I'll see you to blazes first!" retorted Fuller as he frantically
manipulated the starting mechanism.
For once the accurately-timed engine failed to respond to the
master-hand. A mutinous back-fire was the only result. Fuller tried
again but ineffectually.
The Hun submarine then thought it time to butt in. This she did most
neatly but none the less completely by running her nose into the
resistless structure of the jibbing seaplane. Her rate of speed was
but three or four knots, but that was enough. Amidst the rending of
struts, the crashing of the shattered floats and the harp-like twang
of severed tension-wires the luckless 445B turned absolutely over
and disappeared beneath the waves, leaving pilot and observer
struggling in the water.
"Dash it all!" soliloquised Fuller as he struck out for the
submarine. "This is the second time the Huns have nabbed me. I'll
bet there'll be a third. Just my rotten luck. Come on, old bird,
half a dozen more strokes. They are going to heave us out of the
ditch."