The Jammed Machine-guns
An irresistible impulse prompted Derek to make a landing. It was
something more than morbid curiosity or sentiment that made him do
so. Why he knew not, but land he did, pancaking faultlessly in an
untitled field covered with long, rank grass.
Scanning the immediate vicinity, and finding nothing of a suspicious
character, Derek descended from his 'bus, and, automatic-pistol ready
for instant action, made his way towards the nearest pyre.
Fifteen yards away was a battered corpse, lying in a hole three feet
deep made by the terrific impact. By the colour of the flying-coat,
in spite of its being badly burnt, Dick knew that it was not his
chum's body. A short distance away, and almost hidden in the grass,
were two more bodies, those of the Hun pilot and one of the
machine-gunners.
While Derek was contemplating the wreckage, he saw someone
approaching--a figure literally crawling on hands and knees.
It was Kaye. In spite of the blistered face, burned and battered
coat--which was still smouldering--Derek recognized him. At full
speed he ran towards him, thankful to find his comrade alive, and
still more so to find that Kaye could both see and speak.
There was no time for questions. The sharp whine of a bullet, quickly
followed by others, gave stern warning that a Hun patrol had arrived
upon the scene. Derek could discern several field-grey figures
advancing rapidly across the untilled fields, the nearmost being only
eight hundred yards away. Grasping Kaye's arm, Derek ran. It was a
case of discretion being the better part of valour. With bullets
whizzing past their heads, the two pilots succeeded in reaching EG
19, through the planes of which the German missiles were cutting
furrows in the doped canvas.
Assisting Kaye to mount the fuselage, and telling him to throw
himself at full length in the wake of the pilot's seat, Derek swung
the prop. The motor fired, faltered, and stopped. Advancing the spark
at the risk of a back-fire, he made a second attempt--this time
successfully.
Daventry rose across the wind. It was a precarious business, but,
with a dozen Boches running with the wind, and only a short distance
away, there was very little choice in the matter. Pursued by a
fusillade of innocuous shots, the monoplane climbed rapidly and
steeply to a height of two thousand feet.
A thump in the ribs made Derek turn his head. Kaye was hanging on
with one hand and pointing to the only serviceable machine-gun with
the other. Daventry understood: his companion was mutely proposing
that they should return and give the Hun patrol a little lesson upon
the folly of attempting to fire upon a serviceable British machine.
"Work it, then!" bawled Derek, and, putting the 'bus into a steep
vol-plane, he made for the spot where the Huns, winded by their long
run over heavy ground, were gathered in a tempting group in the open.
Directly the Boches saw that the biplane was descending in their
direction they scattered. The field was dotted with grey-clad figures
making a bolt for cover that did not exist.
"We've got 'em cold!" exclaimed Derek, as the machine, moving at will
at a speed of over a hundred miles an hour, was directly above the
heads of the terrified men, who at their best were not able to run at
one-tenth the rate of the biplane. "Why the deuce isn't Kaye turning
on the tap?"
He waited in vain to catch the rapid reports of the deadly weapon.
The opportunity passed. EG 19 was beyond her quarry. To ensure
opening fire, the biplane had to turn again to approach the
panic-stricken Huns.
Derek glanced over his shoulder to find Kaye feverishly manipulating
the mechanism of the gun. Like its fellow, the weapon had jammed at
an awkward moment.
"'Pose some sort of good luck attends even Huns at times," he
soliloquized. "There's one blessing, I've scared 'em stiff. Now for
home."
He laughed to himself at the idea of calling the ramshackle
collection of huts comprising the aerodrome as "home", then, putting
the old 'bus up, he turned towards the British lines.
In spite of a load well above that for which it was constructed, the
single-seater behaved magnificently. Derek took her up to nine
thousand feet in order to cross the opposing lines at a fairly safe
height, as far as danger from gun-fire from the ground was concerned.
Presently he caught sight of an object in the air at about a distance
of two miles. It resembled an inverted bottle with a stumpy neck.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "if that's not a Hun with invisible wings
I'm a Dutchman. Wonder if it's old Von Peilfell's 'bus? There was a
rumour that the old brigand was buzzing around in this sector. And
our guns are jammed, too."
Kaye also noticed the approaching aeroplane, and called Derek's
attention to it. Just then the Hun, encountering an air-pocket, dived
a couple of hundred feet, the sun glinting upon the transparent
fabric of the broad wing-spread.
"Hun!" he bawled. "Von Peilfell's, for a dead cert."
Derek had to make up his mind. There was a choice between flight and
pure bluff. He chose the latter.
The Hun and the British machines were on widely-converging courses.
Already the lurid colourings on the former's fuselage were plainly
visible. He was closing with the evident intention of taking stock of
a possible opponent.
"I'll make him sit up," declared Derek, as he swung round and headed
straight for the Hun.
Count von Peilfell--for it was he who piloted the gaudily-painted
'bus--at first made no effort to avoid a possible collision. It was
not until Derek was within fifty yards that he dived steeply, and,
looping, came up under the tail of the British biplane, a manoeuvre
which Derek encountered by looping and practically sitting on his
adversary's tail.
Thus both the British pilot and the Hun had a chance which they ought
to have seized, but neither of them opened fire. Derek knew why he
could not; his opposite number was in a similar plight.
For a space of four minutes the pair engaged in bluffing tactics,
each trying to "put the wind up" the other by bearing down at full
speed and then adroitly avoiding a disastrous collision.
Then the encounter fizzled out. British and Hun machines set off on
parallel courses at a bare fifty yards apart, the respective crews
laughing and gesticulating at each other as if mortal combat in the
air was a thing unheard of.
"In working order!" shouted Kaye, tapping the rear machine-gun.
"Good!" yelled Derek in reply. "We've had enough of this joy-stunt.
Let rip right aft."
Without a shadow of doubt the Hun, had he been similarly placed,
would have fired a tray of ammunition straight at his opponent, but
British airmen are made in a different mould. Even at critical
moments the innate sporting instinct shows itself.
Directing the muzzle of the gun away from the tempting target
afforded by the gaudily-hued Hun, Kaye let rip. For a moment Von
Peilfell's face--or rather that portion of it not masked by his
goggles--showed consternation and astonishment; then, realizing that
the "fool Englander" was chivalrously throwing away a decided
advantage, he gave a farewell wave with his gauntleted hand, banked,
and was soon a mere speck in the sky.
Four minutes later EG 19 passed over the opposing lines, not a
hostile air-craft being in sight, although five thousand to seven
thousand feet below the air was "stiff" with 'planes bearing the
distinctive red, white, and blue circles. Evidently Fritz was in for
a very sticky time, to use a common service phrase.
A violent bump, followed by a succession of sideslips that well-nigh
flung Kaye from his precarious perch, gave unpleasant warning that
even at a height of nine thousand feet there are dangers from the
ground. Ten, perhaps twelve, miles away a long-range naval gun was
busily engaged in shelling the Boche back-areas, and a fifteen-inch
shell approaching the zenith of its arc is no respecter of persons.
By the aid of his maps Derek succeeded in locating his position. He
was a good twelve miles to the south-east of the aerodrome, which,
considering the various side-shows connected with his patrol, was
hardly to be wondered at.
Then, with less than a gallon of petrol on board, EG 19, despite her
bullet-wounds and the weight of a passenger, made a good landing
almost at the entrance to the hangar.
"Feel a bit rotten," admitted Kaye, as ready hands assisted him to
the ground. "Not a bad stunt, was it? A sticky time, but----"
His voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur.
"Hang on to him, somebody," shouted Derek, leaping from his 'bus.
Supported by two other pilots Kaye was carried off, while Derek,
knowing that all that could be done for his chum would be done,
hastened to make his report to the Flight-Commander.
As soon as possible he made his way to the field-hospital where Kaye
had been carried. The pilot was still unconscious, suffering from no
less than three shrapnel-wounds, in addition to being severely burnt
by the flaming petrol and shaken by his involuntary crash.
"Wonder if it will be a Blighty business?" thought Derek. "He'll be
horribly sick about it if the war's over before he's out again. But,
by Jove! it looks like it. We've got Fritz cold."