THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE
"YOU'RE wanted on the 'phone, sir. Senior Officer Trecurnow Base is
speaking."
Flight-Lieutenant Barcroft, V.C., was coming away from the airship
sheds when a petty officer brought the urgent message that Sir
George Maynebrace wanted him on the telephone.
The lieutenant was acting-commander of a "wing" of coastal airships
stationed at Toldrundra Cove, within ten miles of Trecurnow Base.
During the last few days "business" had been slack. Regularly the
Blimps flew over their allotted patrolling districts without
sighting a single one of the Kaiser's underwater boats. It looked as
if the German submarine had given up the chops of the Channel as a
bad job.
It was a great blow to Billy Barcroft when, consequent upon injuries
received in a seaplane raid, the Medical Board refused to allow him
to fly again in a machine heavier than air. As a partial
compensation he was appointed to the airship branch, which, although
lacking the opportunities of raiding, was not devoid of excitement
and danger.
144A, the Blimp in which Barcroft had just completed the morning
flight, consisted of a cigar-shaped envelope one hundred and twenty
feet in length, and with an extreme girth of ninety feet. Suspended
from the envelope by a ramification of light but enormously strong
wire cables was a four-seated fuselage, similar to, but on a
slightly larger scale than, the bodies of the battle-seaplanes. Fore
and aft was mounted a machine-gun, while projecting through the
floor of the fuselage was a complicated arrangement that at first
sight looked like three drain-pipes with mushroom heads and a small
crowd of "gadgets" thrown in. This was the aerial torpedo projector,
a highly perfected apparatus capable of hurling its sinister
missiles with uncanny accuracy. The 'midship section of the fuselage
was taken up by the propelling machinery--a petrol motor coupled
direct to the shafting of a huge aerial propeller.
Aft was the wireless installation, the petty officer occupying the
dual rôle of machine-gunner and telegraphist. Underneath the chassis
were the emergency water ballast tanks, but for normal alterations
of altitude the Blimp depended upon her elevating rudders and also
upon the reduction or addition of gas in the envelope--the reserve
of hydrogen being kept under pressure in strong metal cylinders.
Hastening to the air-station office Barcroft entered the telephone
cabinet and picked up the receiver.
"Yes, sir; Barcroft," he replied in answer to the senior officer's
inquiry.
"Look here, Barcroft," resumed Sir George. "'Tantalus' has been
submarined. She's still afloat. Her reported position is---- Got
that down? Good. There's something very fishy about the business.
The escorting destroyers had just returned under wireless orders
from goodness only knows who. I am sending 'Antipas' and other
destroyers to 'Tantalus's' assistance. I want a coastal airship to
be on the spot with the utmost dispatch."
"Very good, sir," rejoined the flight-lieutenant.
"And," added Sir George Maynebrace drily, "I might add for your
information that there are no British submarines operating within
fifty miles of the given position. Good luck, Mr. Barcroft. Ring
off."
Replacing the receiver Barcroft doubled back towards the sheds,
adjusting his leather flying helmet as he ran. Half way across the
large open space he encountered Kirkwood, the O.C. of Coastal
Airship No. 144B, which was undergoing slight adjustments.
"Hullo, Bobby!" exclaimed Barcroft. "You're just the bounder I
wanted. Look here, my sub's crocked--sprained his wrist. I had to
push him into sick quarters not ten minutes ago."
"You want to pinch my sub, then, Billy?" asked Kirkwood with a
smile.
"No," was the reply. "It's you I'm after, old man. The 'Tantalus'
has been torpedoed, and I'm off to see what's to be done."
"Good enough!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "I'm ready. Grub on board, I
hope?"
"Enough for a month on the Rhondda scale," replied Barcroft. "At any
rate, there'll be sufficient even for your huge appetite....
Messenger!"
"Sir?"
"Rout out Anderson and Bell. Tell them we must get under way in five
minutes."
Quickly the preparations for the urgent flight were completed.
Squads of mechanics set to work, each man knowing exactly what was
required of him, and doing it expeditiously and without undue noise.
The petrol tank was filled by means of hose pipes communicating with
the distant fuel reservoir, hydrogen was pumped into the pressure
cylinders and thence into the envelope, until the manometer
registered the requisite lifting power. Machine-gun ammunition was
already on board, but the deadly aerial torpedoes, risky missiles to
handle even with the safety caps in position over the sensitive
detonating mechanism, had to be brought from a store at some
distance from the sheds.
While this work was in progress, Barcroft and Kirkwood were busily
engaged in testing controls and supervising the work of the
mechanics. Long experience had taught them that "if you want a thing
to be well done, you must do it yourself"; failing that, the next
best course is personally to overlook the job.
Presently the two remaining members of the Blimp's complement
hurried up. It occasioned them no surprise to be turned out almost
as soon as one cruise had been completed. The airship patrol was
much like the lifeboat service or a fire-brigade in the metropolis:
its work was never ended. Beyond the ordinary routine there were
emergency calls at any hour of the day or night.
"All ready?" asked the lieutenant.
He raised his hand. The motor began to purr, the swiftly revolving
propeller churning up a cloud of dust that speedily rose as high as
the recently vacated shed. The assistants, holding on to the
restraining ropes, awaited the signal.
Barcroft lowered his hand smartly. With a motion not unlike that of
a lift suddenly starting to ascend, the Blimp shot vertically
upwards, the drag of her propeller being just sufficient to
counteract the light head wind.
Not until the altitude gauge registered two hundred feet did the
airship begin to forge ahead. Gradually the motor controls were
opened out until the din of the whirling propeller grew terrific. At
fifty miles an hour, and with the huge gasbag quivering under the
enormous wind pressure, the Blimp tore to the aid of the torpedoed
cruiser.
Kirkwood, who was searching the vast expanse of sea with his
binoculars, raised the voice-tube to his lips.
"Say, old man," he exclaimed. "The destroyers have nearly twenty
miles' start of us. I can spot them."
"The 'Antipas' is out," remarked Barcroft with a chuckle. "Won't old
Tressidar be in a tear if we beat her! We'll try it, anyway."
Anderson and Bell, although ignorant of the precise nature of No.
144A's mission, were keenly on the alert. No doubt, in that
mysterious way that supposedly secret information spreads with
incomprehensible rapidity, the news of the torpedoing of the
"Tantalus" was common property in and around Trecurnow; but beyond
giving Kirkwood a brief account of what had occurred, Barcroft had
refrained from mentioning the matter to any one at the airship
station.
Twenty minutes after leaving _terra firma_ the Blimp had left Land's
End on her starboard quarter. Just within the western horizon could
be discerned the cluster of small islands and rocks comprising the
Scillies. North and south wisps of smoke gave evidence that, U-boats
notwithstanding, the British mercantile marine was still
unperturbed, for liners and tramps were to be seen either making for
or leaving the Bristol Channel and English Channel ports.
"Are we gaining, do you think?" inquired Barcroft.
"Don't know, Billy, my festive," replied his second-in-command. "We
seem to be overhauling the four older destroyers, but the 'Antipas'
is a slipper. It's this head wind that's doing us in the eye."
The Blimp had struck a "rough patch." Tricky air currents, requiring
all Barcroft's skill to counteract, made her plunge and yaw in a
most erratic manner. At one moment the fuselage would be shooting
ahead in practically a straight line, while overhead the gas
envelope would be swaying from side to side like an ungainly
pendulum; at another, the suspended car would be rearing and
plunging like a dinghy rowed against short, steep seas; the while
the breeze was whistling through the network of tensioned wires, the
shrieking of the wind being audible even above the bass hum of the
propeller and the noisy pulsations of the open exhaust.
Five hundred feet below the sea looked as calm as a mill-pond. Away
to the west'ard patches of fog rendered observation a spasmodic
business. Occasionally the horizon would be clearly visible, while a
few minutes later a bank of thin vapour would form and blot out
everything beneath it.
"There's the 'Tantalus'--a couple of points on our port bow!"
exclaimed Kirkwood. "She's still afloat, then.... By Jove! She has a
list."
Barcroft gave the Blimp the necessary amount of helm to bring her
nose pointing directly for the painfully crawling cruiser.
"She's got it properly in the neck," he admitted. "We're gaining a
bit, I think (his anxiety to beat 'Antipas' was almost an
obsession). I can fancy Old Tress jumping about on the bridge like a
cat on hot bricks, and working the engine-room johnnies like
billy-ho."
"The wind's dropping; that's why we're gaining," said Kirkwood.
"It's petrol motor versus turbine now, and let the best craft win.
...Hullo! the cruiser's opened fire again. Billy, my lad, we look
like strafing that U-boat. Fritz is getting much too rash: he wants
correcting."
"Stand by!" ordered Barcroft, addressing the aerial torpedo man
through the voice-tube.
"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Anderson confidently. Then, bringing the tube
into the nearest possible position to the horizontal, he carefully
placed a sixty-pound missile into the breech, trained the weapon
downwards, and stood by with his hand resting lightly upon the
firing lever.
"All correct, sir," he reported.
Maintaining her former altitude the Blimp passed immediately above
the badly listing "Tantalus," the crew of which raised a mighty
cheer. The faint echoes of the true British greeting were wafted to
the airship like a gentle murmur, in spite of the noise of the
motor. Barcroft acknowledged the cheering with a wave of his hand,
then, knitting his brows and compressing his lips, he centred all
his attention upon the grim work that was about to be done.
Presently his eyes glittered with the light of battle, Three miles
astern of the cruiser, and almost in the frothy wake of her
labouring propeller, could be discerned an elongated, shadowy form,
showing faintly against the greenish grey expanse of water. It was
the U-boat running under the surface.
"Confound it!" ejaculated the lieutenant, as a dark grey swiftly
moving vessel zig-zagged towards the spot where the U-boat's
periscopes were last seen. "The old 'Antipas' is going to spoil my
game."
A violent upheaval of foam, followed by a muffled detonation,
announced that the destroyer had exploded a depth charge.
"You'll have to be a jolly sight more careful, Tressidar, old boy,"
soliloquised Barcroft. "You'll be blowing up the stern of your old
hooker if you don't mind.... Ah! I thought so. You've missed your
bird this time. Now, for goodness' sake fade away and let me have a
look in."
"How's that?" morsed the wireless, as the operator of the "Antipas"
sought advice and guidance from the Blimp.
"Missed!" replied the airship's wireless laconically. "If you can't
do better than that, push off. You're in our light."
Ronald Tressidar, lieutenant-commander of the "Antipas," was nothing
if not a sportsman. First upon the scene he had done his level best
to send the U-boat to Davy Jones; failing at the first attempt, and
not knowing the direction taken by the submerged pirate, he was not
one to fail to recognise that the Blimp was better adapted to the
task than the destroyer.
"Good luck!" flashed the aerial message from the "Antipas," as she
steadied her helm and dashed away from the scene of her futile
efforts.
The dark shadow was twisting and turning. The U-boat had dived so
deeply that, viewed from the airship, she could hardly be
distinguished from the water. It was enough for Barcroft: once on
the trail it was a rare occurrence for him to be put off the scent
when it came to Fritz hunting.
"Set to twenty fathoms!" he ordered.
"Twenty fathoms, sir!" replied Anderson, as he manipulated the
fuse-timing that would allow the aerial torpedo to sink to the
stated depth before detonating.
In his former seaplane career Barcroft had bombed his various
objectives with uncanny precision. Good luck and sound judgment
combined to make him a past master in the art of "getting there."
But in aerial torpedo work against a submerged object a new factor
had arisen--the effect of refraction. Unless a bomb-dropping
machine--be it airship or seaplane--is directly over its objective,
due allowance must be made for the deceptive qualities of air and
water in conjunction. A simple experiment will easily show this.
Take a bowl of water and place in it an object heavier than
water--for example, a penny. Stand immediately over the bowl, and
with a long rod attempt to "spear" the coin. Unless one's hand be
wobbly the task will be easy enough. Next, take up a position so
that an imaginary line from the eye to the penny forms an angle of
about forty-five degrees with the horizontal. Repeat the thrusting
operation and the coin will be missed handsomely, while the rod will
appear to be sharply bent from the point where it enters the water.
Down to two hundred feet dropped the Blimp. The loss of altitude
diminished the visibility of the presence of her prey, but there was
just enough indication of the presence of the submerged submarine to
enable Barcroft to risk a shot.
The motor was throttled down. Flying slowly and almost dead in the
eye of the wind the airship was keeping pace with her blinded
antagonist. It was like a keen-eyed hawk hovering over a stream and
waiting to pounce upon an all unsuspecting fish.
Leaning over the side of the fuselage, Barcroft awaited the crucial
moment. Then he raised his hand in a peremptory and unmistakable
manner.
Instantly Anderson thrust down the firing lever. With a hiss of
compressed air being released the powerful missile sped on its way,
its course being clearly visible to the watchers from above.
A slight splash marked the torpedo's impact with the surface of the
sea. Then, after a seemingly interminable wait, a dome-shaped mass
of water was lifted bodily upwards, breaking and falling back in a
smother of foam.
"Bon voyage, Fritz!" exclaimed Kirkwood.