BILLY'S FLYING-BOAT
"BY all the powers, Slogger! You here?"
Farrar "brought up all standing," face to face with one of the last
persons he expected to encounter at Malta. He was on his way up the
Strada Reale in Valetta when the cheery hail greeted him.
"Cheer-o, Holcombe!" he replied. "This is great--absolutely. What's
doing?"
"Brought the 'Antipas' into the Grand Harbour yesterday morning,"
explained Hugh. "We left a week ago under sealed orders, and have
been pelting along at twenty-five knots practically ever since,
except for a short stop at Gib. Something's in the wind, Slogger,
you mark my words, or they wouldn't send seven modern destroyers up
the Straits."
"Pity Greenwood and I weren't given a passage in her," remarked
Farrar. "It would have saved a rotten run in one of the slowest old
tubs it was ever my luck to sail in--the 'Timon'; know her?"
Holcombe shook his head. "What's your packet?" he inquired.
"The 'Zenodorus.'"
"Lucky blighter!" declared Holcombe. "You have a jolly decent
skipper. Aubyn's his name, isn't it?"
"Yes," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "From all accounts he's hot stuff. I
haven't seen much of him yet. We only joined the ship late last
night."
"Where's Bruno?" was Holcombe's next question.
"Left him behind at Penkestle. Greenwood's governor is taking care
of him. Didn't seem to like the idea at first. Thought Bruno would
be too much of a handful, but before I left he was quite pally with
the dog. I should be surprised if he wants to part with him. You
see, there was no accommodation on the 'Timon,' so Bruno and I had
to 'split brass rags.'"
"It's little use crying over spilt milk, Slogger," continued his
chum. "Had I known that you were here and that we were under orders
for Malta I could easily have given Bruno a passage. But I'll tell
you what I'll do: the storeship 'Gunnybag' is leaving Devonport in
about a fortnight. I'll write to young Jolly, who's a pal of mine,
and ask him to bring the dog out--that is, if you want him?"
"Thanks, rather," replied Farrar warmly.
"Come along to the Naval Club," suggested Holcombe, and the two
chums made their way towards the rendezvous of the members of the
Senior Service in Valetta.
"Do you know that chap?" asked the R.N. sub, indicating a tall,
supple-framed, deeply tanned officer in the uniform of a
flight-lieutenant, who was replacing a cue after the victorious
termination of a "hundred up" with a tubby, round-faced
engineer-lieutenant.
"Can't say I do," replied Farrar.
"Come along, then, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, grasping his
friend's arm. "I say, Barcroft, let me introduce my pal Farrar."
The two men shook hands.
"Seen you from a distance," remarked Farrar. "When you strafed the
Hun that strafed us. I was on the old 'Tantalus.'"
A smile swept across Billy Barcroft's face.
"That so?" he queried. "The U-boat's rash persistence gave me a fine
chance. So you are the Farrar my gov'nor mentioned in his last
letters?"
"He was stopping in the same house--with Greenwood's people,"
explained the R.N.V.R. sub. "Yes, he looked absolutely top-hole.
Grumbled a bit, though, because you didn't say anything in your
letter about strafing U 254."
"I see they've let von Loringhoven slip through their fingers,"
commented Billy. "Wonder if he's been collared yet?"
"Not according to latest reports from home," said Holcombe. "It's a
rummy world," he added, breaking off on a fresh tack. "Yesterday
evening I ran full tilt into you, Barcroft, and now I've just barged
into this child."
"Did you bring Blimp 144A out here?" asked Farrar.
Barcroft made a deprecatory gesture with his hands.
"I'm dead off blimping," he explained. "It's not bad sport, but,
somehow, there's something lacking. S'pose it's the knowledge that
you're held aloft by a gas-bag. If anything goes wrong you can't
'plane down,' you know. Your only chance is to jump mighty quick,
and parachutes have a knack of letting you down in more senses than
one. I saw a Hun crash.... his 'chute refused to open. It wasn't a
pretty sight."
"So what are you doing now?" inquired Farrar.
"Oh, now? Just yarning," replied Billy, his ivory teeth gleaming as
he smiled.
"Quite so," agreed the R.N.V.R. sub. "So please carry on. You are
still in the Air Service?"
"Rather," declared Barcroft emphatically. "Yes, I felt a bit fed up
with the old Blimp, so I got a pal of mine up-topsides to put in a
word for me. Result: I've been given a brand-new flying-boat. Had to
bring her right across France without a stop, and then on here from
Marseilles. Yes, with luck things ought to hum in the Mediterranean.
Fritz has been having too easy a time recently--and our patrol boats
haven't been idle."
"Lucky dog!" exclaimed Holcombe. "She must be a craft to be proud
of."
"Like to have a look at her?" continued Billy. "She's lying off
Floriana."
He glanced at his watch.
"One o'clock," he announced. "There's a steamboat from the Customs
Landing at two. You'll be able to do the honours to my little
packet, and I'll put you alongside your respective ships by eight
bells."
About half way to the landing-place the three officers found that
their progress through the already crowded street was impeded by a
mob of Maltese--the men in sombre garments that contrasted with the
motley attire usually sported by the natives; the women in black,
with the characteristic head-dress that somewhat resembled the
Spanish mantilla. Surging up the steps of the steep strada the
"Malts" were importuning every one they met, holding out metal cups
for the expected reception of coins.
"What's the move, I wonder?" remarked Holcombe, as the two friends
stood aside to let the throng sway past.
"Dunno," replied Barcroft. "It reminds me of Barborough Wakes."
"I can tell you," said a civilian, a dockyard official, who had
overheard Holcombe's query. "Do your remember that case of Angelo
Zurrico? No; you have not been long in Malta? Zurrico shot another
Maltese--sort of vendetta business. He was taken red-handed and
sentenced to death. His friends, unable to save his life by
obtaining a reprieve, are doing the next best thing according to
their lights. They are collecting money to pay for masses and a new
silk rope."
"Eh?" ejaculated Billy incredulously.
"Fact," continued his informant. "Custom of Malta, you know. Every
condemned criminal is provided with a silk halter if his pals can
raise the wind. Also, another quaint idea, the fellow selected to do
the hangman's job is at once put under arrest--partly for his own
protection in case the relatives of the about-to-be executed man
should take it into their heads to knife him, and also to prevent
him running away. But to see the Malts at their best I'd advise you
to be here for Carnival, if you are able."
The officers thanked their informant, and, the crowd having passed
by, resumed their interrupted walk. At the Custom House steps a
launch attached to the seaplane base was in attendance, and the run
up the Grand Harbour began.
"There she is!" exclaimed Barcroft proudly, pointing to a dark-grey
object lying on the surface of the water of a sheltered creek.
At first sight Farrar saw what appeared to be an exaggerated tadpole
floating on the water. The flying-boat was at least eighty feet in
length, with a blunt, rounded bow and a bulging body for'ard,
gradually tapering to a narrow, slightly up-turned stern. Being
broadside on the immense wing-spread of her triplanes was hardly
noticeable until the launch drew nearer.
"Come aboard," was Billy's invitation, "only please mind your
beetle-crushers. I don't want my mahogany planking scratched."
The flying-boat, on the bows of which was painted the name
"Avenger," was the triumph of expert brains and painstaking
workmanship. The hull was built of double-skinned mahogany with a
layer of oiled silk between the outer diagonal and inner fore and
aft planks, the skin being securely fastened to elm timbers and
ribs. Underneath, although for the present invisible, were six
hydroplane steps to facilitate the boat's ascent when "taking off"
from the surface.
Wide waterways formed the deck, the sheer being broken by the raised
gun platform for'ard, and, immediately in its wake, the conning
tower and navigation cabin; 'midships the motor-room and petrol
tanks, aft stores and provisions. Four light but powerful guns of
the Cleland Davis 5-in. non-recoil type, aerial torpedo dropping
gear, and a pair of searchlights comprised the attacking and
defensive armament.
Lightness compatible with strength was everywhere evident, yet the
tremendous bulk that had to be raised by the joint action of the
planes and the four propellers, actuated by ten motors each of 200
h.p., was not far short of fifty tons. While water-borne the
flying-boat was propelled by a single propeller coupled to a 160 h.p.
petrol motor.
"What's her crew--how many?" inquire Farrar.
"Eighteen all told," replied Barcroft. "We work in watches.
Kirkwood, my flight-sub, takes the port watch. He's gone down to
Bighi this afternoon to look up an old pal, Waynsford by name, who
is convalescing after a touch of Maltese fever."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Farrar enthusiastically; "she is a ripper. I
like that idea of a fore-and-aft canopy. Wish I had a chance of
taking on this sort of job."
"You never know your luck," answered Billy. "For the present,
however, I suppose you must make the best of things on the
'Zenodorus.' If you have a chance give my regards to your skipper.
He's an old chum of mine, I must look him up at the first
opportunity."
"Why not this afternoon?" asked Holcombe, "You are going back with
us in the launch?"
"Unfortunately, no," replied Barcroft. "I'll send you back, but I
cannot get away after six bells. We're giving a display for the
edification of the Commander-in-Chief and his staff. Meanwhile,
let's go across to the mess; you fellows must be wanting lunch--I
do."