I completed my "century" of seaplane flights over the North Sea with an
adventure the like of which, I trust, will never occur again.
Many varied experiences have gone to total up that number of
ascents--some far from pleasant, others most interesting, and well
repaying one for occasional hardships.
The sequel to my one-hundredth flight, however, will take a lot of
effacing from my memory.
The atmosphere was a trifle thick when we started off from our base
with the intention of flying an ordinary hundred-and-fifty-mile
circular patrol.
The farther we progressed, the thicker grew the haze, till we at last
were travelling through dense fog.
We left at 7.30 a.m., and climbed to two thousand five hundred feet to
get above the heat-haze and fog over the water.
At eight-twenty-five, almost an hour later, the revolutions of the
eight-foot tractor began slackening perceptibly, and presently, to our
dismay, the engine stopped dead.
We were compelled to descend so quickly that there was no time to send
a wireless signal; in fact, I just barely managed to cut the trailing
aerial wire free before we struck the sea.
That I did so was a slice of luck, as, otherwise, the fuselage would
probably have been ripped up, and the machine capsized.
When the floats smacked the water we got quite a bump, and a decided
jar in the nape of our necks.
Fortunately, however, the under-carriage struts retained their rigidity
and did not buckle, and the seaplane rode the water right way up.
I will not worry the reader with a technical explanation of the trouble
which had befallen our engine. Sufficient to state that it was of so
serious a nature as to preclude us from any attempt at "patching her
up."
"Do you know where we are?" inquired the pilot, after we had heartily
chorused a round of expletives appropriate to such an eventuality. I
shook my head.
It must be remembered we had been travelling through fog most of the
journey, and therefore could not spot the regular aids to maritime
aerial pilotage, such as light-vessels, sandbanks, buoys, and coast
contours. In addition to this there are always air currents about, to
counteract a dead compass-reckoning alone.
By taking the mean of our calculations, however, we were eventually
able to place a finger on the approximate area where we believed
ourselves to be on the chart.
The result was anything but encouraging. We were at least fifty miles
from the shores of England, and in a neighbourhood devoid of all
shipping, even in times of peace. What was worse, it was gradually
borne in upon us that we were perilously near, if not actually in, a
most extensive mine-field!
Personally, I was feeling anything but buoyant, and the reason is not
far to seek. I had had the middle watch (12-4 a.m.) in the wireless
cabin ashore the previous night. A report then came through that
there was "something buzzing"--hostile submarines scudding round, or
Zeppelins or other aircraft--and I had the wireless of half-a-dozen
machines to overhaul, and superintend their going off. Then my own turn
came, and, minus breakfast or a bite of anything, off I went, having
had no food since the previous afternoon at five. Worse still, I had
not so much as a bite of "grub" about me, or even a smoke.
The pilot went through his pockets, and discovered one solitary
cigarette resting in state in his case. Being a sportsman, as well as
a companion in misfortune, he offered it to me, and, on my emphatic
refusal, halved it. So we both lit up whilst we reviewed the situation.
I don't believe I ever treated a smoke with greater care than I did
that half-cigarette. For aught I knew it might be my last.
When we had finished our cogitations the joint result of our thinking
was by no means hopeful.