A FUTILE RESCUE
WITHOUT a second's hesitation Barcroft turned the rudder-bar. Almost
on the verge of sideslipping the seaplane swung round and headed
straight for the enemy aircraft.
"Something wrong with friend John," muttered the flight-sub, "or he
wouldn't turn tail to half a dozen strafed Fritzes."
Everything pointed to Barcroft's surmise being correct. Fuller's
seaplane was in flight in a double sense. He had lost the
superiority of altitude. His observer was replying to the
machine-gun fire converging upon the fugitive craft from three
different points. A hundred feet higher and about three hundred
yards astern of the British seaplane was a large, double-fuselaged
biplane. To the right and left but practically on the same
horizontal plane were two Fokkers--a tough set to be up against, but
in ordinary circumstances the dauntless flight-lieutenant would not
have hesitated to engage.
Presently the British seaplane's Lewis gun barked. It was evident
that the machine was running uncontrolled, as she was wobbling
considerably. Barcroft was now near enough to see what had happened.
There was just time for a brief glance, for his plane was
approaching the on-coming Huns at an aggregate speed of nearly 180
miles an hour.
There was no sign of Gregory, but Fuller, abandoning the joy-stick,
had climbed into the observer's seat in order to work the automatic
gun. This he did so successfully that within five seconds of the
weapon opening fire one of the Fokkers crashed earthwards,
completely out of action. Then the British gun was silent.
This was all that Barcroft could see as far as Fuller was concerned.
He had devoted all his attention to the double-fuselaged craft.
While Kirkwood was letting loose a drum of ammunition from the Lewis
gun Barcroft employed his usual tactics. He steered straight for his
antagonist. If the gun failed to do its work in time, and if the Hun
pilot's nerves did not desert him, the result would be a rending
crash in mid-air as the two swift-moving craft collided. The
interlocked wreckage, a mass of flame, would drop like a firebrand
to earth--a swift yet terrible death for friend and foe alike. But
Billy knew how the odds were against such a mutual catastrophe. The
Hun, if he managed to avoid the stream of bullets, was not likely to
"stand up" to the resistless onrush of the British seaplane.
Suddenly the double-fuselaged biplane nosedived. Only just in time
did Barcroft tilt the ailerons, for the seaplane literally scraped
the tail of his vertically-descending foe. For nearly a thousand
feet the machine "plumbed," then like a silvery dart it flattened
out.
"Old trick, Fritz," muttered Barcroft. "Well, you've lost your
altitude advantage. I'll renew your acquaintance later."
The flight-sub knew that some minutes must elapse before the
double-fuselaged machine could climb to renew the encounter. During
that interval he had time to devote his attention to the remaining
Fokker that, following Fuller with deadly persistence, was firing
the while but receiving no reply from the British craft.
Already Fuller was a couple of miles away. His antagonist was
gaining slightly. It seemed remarkable that with such a prodigious
outlay of ammunition the Huns had not succeeded in strafing their
quarry.
Suddenly Fuller's seaplane dipped. Barcroft gave vent to an
involuntary groan, but the next instant he wanted to cheer, for his
chum had looped the loop two or three times and was now heading in
the opposite direction.
"I see the move," thought Barcroft. "He's luring Fritz towards us."
The two seaplanes passed one another at less than a hundred yards.
Fuller raised his arm by way of greeting as they swept by. As he did
so shreds of canvas flew from the lower plane, and dipping abruptly
the crippled machine dropped, lurching hideously as it did so.
Almost simultaneously the Hun pilot of the Fokker collapsed across
the decking of the fuselage. The machine, no longer under control,
swayed through a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, and then,
tilting obliquely, began a terrific tail spin that ended in a jumble
of wreckage on the unsympathetic soil of Belgium.
"Now for the double bus," muttered Billy. "The Huns will pay dearly
for strafing poor old John."
But the remaining aeroplane of the two had had enough, for, seeing
the British seaplane swooping down to engage upon round two, she
promptly sought safety in flight.
Pursuit, Barcroft knew, was futile. Not only was the fugitive going
in an easterly direction, which meant that had Billy held on in
chase he would be lured further and further away from his floating
base, but the Hun machine was more powerfully engined and possessed
an undoubted superiority of speed.
"By Jove!" shouted the A.P. "Fuller's planing down. He's got the old
bus under control of sorts."
The flight-sub looked downwards. A small rectangular patch of grey
eighteen hundred feet down confirmed the truth of Kirkwood's
statement. The injured seaplane was volplaning in wide circles. Her
pilot was about to make an involuntary landing. This, in itself, was
a highly dangerous performance, as the floats were very
unsatisfactory landingskids. It was a hundred chances to one that
the seaplane would bump hard and collapse, pinning the pilot under
the wreckage. Even if Fuller escaped with his life or without broken
limbs, he was confronted with the additional danger of being made a
prisoner.
Without a moment's delay Barcroft switched off the ignition and
commenced a volplane. At least he would be able to discover whether
his chum was able to make a safe landing. Beyond that--
"Good old Fuller!" almost yelled the A.P. "He's spotted a canal. I
see his move--artful bounder!"
Running in a direction approximately east and west was a long
stretch of artificial water. The straightness of its course showed
that it was not a river. It was bordered on either side by a broad
tow-path, which in turn was fringed by a line of poplars. With the
exception of a string of barges being towed down by a small tug (and
they were nearly two miles away) the canal looked deserted.
It was for this expanse of water that Fuller was making. Provided
there was sufficient width for the extreme breadth of his wing
spread and a margin to boot, there was little doubt of the
experienced flight-lieutenant's ability to make a safe descent.
"He's done it!" announced Kirkwood.
"If he has managed it there is no reason why we shouldn't," thought
Barcroft grimly. "Stand by, old man; we'll shove down and pick him
up."
The canal appeared to expand in size in order to meet the descending
seaplane. It required all the skill and nerve at the youthful
pilot's command to carry out his desperate plan. An error of a few
feet to right or left meant irreparable damage to the frail craft
and failure of his devoted efforts on behalf of his stranded friend.
With admirable judgment Billy brought his "bus" down, making a fine
"landing" on the surface of the canal at a distance of less than a
hundred yards from the crippled aircraft, Then, drifting gently, the
seaplane brought up alongside the bank, with one of her floats
rubbing against the edge of the tow-path.
"Nip out and hold her on, old man!" exclaimed Billy.
The A.P. obeyed promptly. Fortunately this required little or no
effort, for the thick-set though leafless trees broke the force of
what wind there was.
Barcroft quickly followed Kirkwood to the bank. Already Fuller had
got ashore, and was preparing to destroy his machine when, to his
utter astonishment, he had seen another seaplane skim over his head
and alight at a short distance off.
Running by the path Billy approached the lieutenant.
"Come along, old man!" he said hurriedly. "There's no time to be
lost. We'll give you a lift in our bus back to the old 'Hippo.'"
"Thanks," replied Fuller coolly. "What's the hurry? No Huns in
sight. I'll do this job properly."
The odour of petrol vapour wafted to Barcroft's nostrils. Fuller had
allowed the spirit to escape from the tank, and was engaged in
wrapping a piece of oil-soaked paper round a stone.
"No explosives left, I hope?" asked Billy. "None except the petrol,"
replied Fuller. "That's explosive enough, I reckon, for this job.
No, I dropped all my plums over Aerschot. Gregory's gone (s'pose you
can see that for yourself?); shot through the head; he gave a sort
of leap--he wasn't strapped in, you'll understand--and flopped right
over the fuselage."
"You've been strafed!" exclaimed Barcroft, for Fuller's quick
sentences, coupled with the fact that he winced frequently, pointed
to that.
"The child is correct," agreed the flight-lieutenant. "Machine-gun
bullet clean through the left arm. It stings a bit, but nothing
much. No, don't trouble about it now. It'll keep. Now for a blaze."
Striking a match he set light to the oiled paper and tossed the
flaming missile into the fuselage of the doomed seaplane. With a
rush of air and a lurid flare the petrol vapour caught. In an
instant the machine was enveloped in fire.
"Good enough," declared Fuller, with an air of satisfaction. "Hard
lines on the old bus, though. She was a beauty. I was just getting
used to her, too."
"Come along, old man," urged Barcroft again.
Giving a farewell glance at the burning wreckage, Fuller turned
reluctantly away and accompanied his chum to the waiting seaplane.
"We're going to pitch you out of your perch, my festive," announced
the flight-sub addressing the observer. "Fuller's tried to stop a
bullet. He didn't succeed, and as a result the nickel's left a hole
through his arm. Now, all aboard. We're lucky not to have a swarm of
Huns about our ears."
Having assisted the wounded flight-lieutenant on to the float and
thence into Kirkwood's seat in the fuselage Barcroft swarmed up and
took his place at the joy-stick.
Standing on the float and steadying himself by holding on to a
strut, the A.P. gave a vigorous push with his foot against the canal
bank. As the seaplane drifted towards the centre of the artificial
waterway he clambered nimbly to the deck of the fuselage and, lying
at full length, steadied himself by grasping the coaming surrounding
his surrendered place.
"All right?" asked Barcroft.
The motor fired smoothly. With the engine throttled down the pilot
taxied cautiously for a short distance, then increasing speed and
tilting the ailerons he started to climb.
At barely twenty feet from the ground a sudden and furious gust of
wind caught the seaplane fairly abeam. Quickly Billy actuated the
rudder-bar in order to turn the machine sufficiently to counteract
the side-drop.
It was too late. Swept bodily sideways the seaplane failed to clear
the line of poplars. The left-hand planes struck a tree-trunk and
crumpled like brown paper. The next instant the whole fabric crashed
to the ground across the tow-path.