In the Interests of the State
It did not take Derek long to accustom himself to the peculiarities
of the sea-plane. Had it been one of the flying-boats that the
Lieutenant had been called upon to pilot across the seas the task
would have been an awkward and difficult one. Once fairly up, there
is very little difference between an aeroplane and a sea-plane, but
there are wide distinctions between the latter and the huge
flying-boats which, devoid of floats, rely upon their hulls for
buoyancy when on the water.
Derek elected to fly fairly high, maintaining a height of five
thousand feet. This gave him a chance, in the event of making a
blunder with the unaccustomed system of controls, while at the same
time there was less chance of coming across an air-pocket.
Quickly he discovered that his hand had not lost its cunning.
Although it was months--it seemed like years--since Derek had had
control of joy-stick and rudder-bar, the old skill still remained.
And the exhilaration of it! To be once more rushing through space,
soaring high above the waves!
"This is some stunt," thought the reinstated pilot. "Wonder what's
taking the old Brass Hat to Spain? Joy-ride, or what? After all, it's
all in a day's work."
Applying the automatic steering device Derek turned to consult the
charts. A hasty examination showed that his predecessor had
faithfully recorded the course almost up to the time of the
triplane's involuntary descent. The red-inked line and
rough-pencilled notations were of considerable service. They enabled
Derek to set a compass-course corrected for air leeway and ordinary
magnetic deviation. Provided the force and direction of the wind
remained fairly constant, the task of piloting the seaplane would be
a fairly simple matter.
It was aviation _de luxe_. The pilot's house, with windows of triplex
glass affording an all-round view, was warm and free from buffeting
draughts. With the glass in position the roar of the powerful engines
was reduced to a barely perceptible purr.
Thirty miles to the nor'ard the rugged uplands of Dartmoor could be
clearly discerned, while ahead, and slightly on the starboard bow,
could be seen the indented outlines of the Cornish coast, for Derek
was purposely keeping within easy distance of shore until well over
the Scillies. Then it was his intention to strike a bee-line for his
destination. Occasionally altering the automatic course-director,
Derek found that he had plenty of time at his disposal. After a while
things became tedious. Cooped up in a glass box he missed the actual
sensation of flying through the air. It was more like sitting in a
carriage of an express train than being absolutely in control of an
air-craft. Compared with the lift and heave of the ocean the motion
seemed a very tame affair.
"By Jove! the Pater was right after all," soliloquized Derek.
"Flying's all very well; but it's the sea that scores--scores every
time. There's nothing to equal a life afloat."
He let down one of the sliding glass panels. The rush of air acted
like a tonic. The suggestion of actual aerial speed reasserted
itself. There was something indescribably joyous in the sensation. He
could almost imagine himself back in his old 'bus circling over the
Hun lines.
He missed the airman's flying-helmet, goggles, and leather coat. It
was bitterly cold. The wind buffeted his face until his eyes smarted
and his ears throbbed and tingled, yet it was better, in his opinion,
than being cooped up in a glass box.
Just then the door opened and one of the crew entered. Vainly the man
tried to make himself understood, and it was not until the glass
slide had been replaced that Derek was able to engage in
conversation.
"The actuating wire of the starboard aileron of the lower plane's
carried away, sir," reported the man in quite a matter-of-fact tone.
A housewife on discovering that a cat had stolen the morning's milk
would have shown much more concern. "I'll just nip along and make a
temporary repair."
"Very good!" replied Derek, cutting out the automatic control, and
grasping the joy-stick. "Carry on!"
The airman withdrew. Presently Derek saw him cautiously making his
way along outside the covered fuselage; then, throwing himself flat
upon the plane and grasping the forward edge, the man began to work
his way outwards. Only his hold upon the sharp edge of the cambered
wing prevented him being swept away like a piece of paper by the
two-hundred-mile-per-hour wind.
Hanging on like a limpet, and keeping his head well down, the
dauntless airman at length reached the spot where the wire had
parted--a distance of about six feet from the extremity of the plane.
In spite of the man's weight the triplane evinced no tendency to
tilt, although it required a slight alteration of helm of the
horizontal rudder to counteract the additional resistance set up by
his body. In this hazardous position, holding on with one hand, and
keeping his legs planted firmly against a vertical strut, the airman
set to work to make good the damage.
First the ends of the severed wire had to be secured in a bowline
made in each. Through these loops the clips of a bottle-screw were
placed, and the wires drawn up to their original tension.
Working at a height of five thousand feet, while travelling at a
speed of one hundred and sixty miles an hour--for Derek had ordered
the motors to be throttled slightly--the gallant airman completed his
task in twenty minutes; then, benumbed with the cold and with lying
in a decidedly awkward position, he made his way back to the shelter
of the enclosed fuselage.
By this time the Scillies, looking like a scattered heap of pebbles
showing above a large sheet of tranquil water, were left astern.
Ahead great masses of indigo-coloured clouds, tinged with vivid
coppery hues, betokened the presence of a storm-centre. Ragged wisps
of dark-grey vapour were scurrying over the sky, interrupting at
frequent intervals the hitherto continuous blaze of sunlight.
Derek realized that there was no escape except by a tremendously long
detour. Since time was a decided object, such a course was
impracticable, for there would be the risk of being carried away a
long distance from the objective. It was a case of carrying on at
full speed, and taking one's chance with the approaching storm.
"What do you make of that?" enquired a voice, as Derek again closed
the window of the pilot's house.
Turning, the Lieutenant found the exalted passenger--the
Brigadier-General--standing behind him.
"Atmospheric disturbance of some magnitude, sir," replied Daventry.
"There is no cause for anxiety," he added.
"Isn't there? by Jove!" ejaculated the Brigadier-General grimly.
"Hope you're right, young man. What's up with your meteorological
experts at the Air Ministry, I should like to know? Their forecast is
'light variable breezes; conditions fit for cross-country flights
with all types of machines'. Someone adrift somewhere, I should
imagine."
In his mind Derek was obliged to admit the impeachment.
"But that refers to the British Isles, sir," he remarked
diplomatically. "Already we are approaching the Bay of Biscay."
"Let's hope we don't have to swim for it," growled the
Brigadier-General. "I'm trusting to you. I'll stay here, if you don't
mind."
"You'd do better in your cabin, sir," Derek reminded him. "We may be
in for a bit of a dusting, and you'll be all right lying on your
bunk."
"Lying on my bunk!" exclaimed the Staff Officer loudly. "By Gad, sir!
I've never yet faced danger lying down. _J'y suis; j'y reste_ is my
motto."
Before Derek could say anything further the triplane entered the
storm-zone. The first blast of disturbed air tilted the giant machine
until the planes assumed an angle of seventy degrees to the
horizontal. Then, staggering and plunging, the triplane was literally
hurled in the opposite direction, until it seemed to be standing on
the tips of the starboard wing.
It was now almost as dark as the blackest night. Unable to read the
clinometer, Derek strove by sense of touch to keep the machine, as
far as possible, on an even keel. More than once his feet slipped
violently, as if someone had knocked them from under him. It was only
by hanging on to the sensitive joy-stick that the pilot saved himself
from being hurled bodily against the panelling of the cabin. At one
moment literally standing on its tail, at another diving almost
vertically, the while lurching from side to side, the triplane
battled with the storm. Hail-stones rattled like machine-gun fire
against the redoubtable triplex glass. The whole fabric groaned and
creaked under the unusual stresses and strains, the disconcerting
roar of the storm completely outvoicing the noise of the motors.
Whether the engines were still running or not Derek had no means of
determining. Literally penned in the enclosed space, he could merely
hold on, hoping for the best.
This state of things, nerve-racking and appalling in their vehemence,
and rendered still more so by reason of the utter darkness, continued
for a seemingly endless space of time. Then, almost without warning,
the badly-buffeted triplane emerged from the dense pall of the
storm-cloud into dazzling sunshine.
The first thing that Derek did was to assure himself that the
sea-plane was under control. Fortunately such was the case, although
there were ominous rents in certain parts of the enormous
wing-spread. The triplex glass of the pilot's room still held,
although the stout substance was "starred" in many places, as if hit
by a bullet. The altimeter registered a height of only one thousand
five hundred feet, while a glance at the clock showed that the
seemingly interminable passage through the storm had occupied only
eleven minutes.
Something plucking at Derek's sea-boots attracted his attention. He
had forgotten his companion, the Brigadier-General. The latter was
lying on his back along the starboard side of the compartment,
purple-faced and wellnigh breathless with the unmerciful buffeting he
had received. In one of the opposite corners reclined his gold-leafed
cap, presenting an appearance hardly compatible with that of a
Brigadier-General's head-gear.
"That's the stuff to give 'em," thought Derek grimly, as he
contemplated the recumbent figure. "I wonder if he's wishing he'd
taken my advice."
To assist the unfortunate Staff Officer was out of the question, for
all Derek's attention had to be devoted to keeping the triplane under
control. Although clear of the storm-cloud, the machine was still
rocking in the wind-eddies in the wake of the violent gale.
Presently the Brigadier-General sat up and groped for his displaced
head-gear.
"By Jove, young man," he exclaimed, "that was a twister! Thought we
were done in this time. Wish I'd taken your advice."
"It certainly was a bit thick, sir," replied Derek, ignoring the
latter part of the Brigadier's remarks, which so closely coincided
with his own unspoken thoughts. "But it's all over now. Everything
points to a good passage for the rest of the run."
The remainder of the flight turned out as Daventry had predicted. In
a clear sky, and in the full blaze of the sunshine, the triplane,
pelting along as fast as the skilled engineer knew how to make her
go, was rapidly decreasing the distance between her and the rugged
hills of northern Spain.
"Land right ahead!"
[Illustration: IT WAS A CASE OF TAKING ONE'S CHANCE WITH THE
APPROACHING STORM]
This announcement, coming from the lips of one of the crew, roused
Derek's failing energies, for, unprepared for the journey, and
desperately hungry, he was beginning to feel the effects of mental
and physical strain.
Low down to the south'ard he could discern a serrated range of hills,
looming up dark-blue against the pale azure sky. Away to the westward
the land terminated abruptly, although Derek thought he could
distinguish more high ground beyond.
"Must be Cape Ortegal; and the other land is Cape Finisterre," he
decided. "I'm only between ten to twenty miles out in my reckoning.
Not bad for a first attempt."
Altering helm, Daventry made straight for the land that he supposed
to be Cape Ortegal. Flying at two hundred miles an hour does not give
a pilot much time to make up his mind. He must decide quickly and
definitely.
A few minutes later the Staff Officer, who had retired for repairs
and refreshment, entered the pilot's cabin.
"You're doing well," he remarked. "I know this part of Spain
intimately, and we are heading straight for Corunna. You'll see the
harbour in a few minutes. But you look a bit done up. Try a drop of
this."
And he handed Derek a flask.
The pilot accepted the liquid gratefully. It acted as a stimulus,
although he drank sparingly.
"There you are!" continued the Brigadier-General, as an apparently
narrow slip of water appeared in view between the enclosing high
ground. "That's Corunna Harbour. I'll tell you when to--er--alight. I
was almost on the point of saying 'land'."
"Quite a professional term in the R.A.F., sir," rejoined Derek.
"Without being guilty of perpetrating an Irish bull, one may
correctly apply the term 'land' to flying-boats and sea-planes
alighting on the water. What space do I want? Two hundred yards will
be ample, sir, and the harbour doesn't seem to be crowded."
Descending to five hundred feet Derek brought the triplane head to
wind, and then, "choosing his pitch", made a creditable landing
within fifty yards of a quay. Then, taxi-ing to a buoy, the giant
sea-plane was secured, but not before she was surrounded by a small
fleet of motor-launches and rowing-boats.
"I'll be back in two hours," said the Brigadier-General, as he
boarded a Customs launch. He spoke as casually as if he were ordering
his chauffeur to wait outside his club. "In the meanwhile, I expect
that you will make all necessary preparations for the return
journey--petrol and all that sort of thing."
Punctually to time the British Staff Officer returned in a Spanish
Government launch, and attended by a bevy of brightly-uniformed
grandees and naval and military officers. His bronzed face was
wreathed in smiles. He looked like a schoolboy granted an unexpected
half-holiday.
"I'm afraid I cannot let you into state secrets, Mr. Daventry," he
remarked, when safely on board the triplane; "but, without divulging
anything of a strictly confidential nature, I can tell you that my
mission has been entirely successful. The result of my conference
with certain Spanish authorities means the death-blow to Bolshevism
in Spain, for, as you possibly know, there has been for months past a
dangerous tendency in that direction amongst a certain section of the
Iberian populace. Certain measures had to be taken instantly, and you
have contributed in no slight way to their success. I congratulate
you. And now concerning the return journey. How long will it take?"
Derek glanced at his watch.
"Where do you wish to make for, sir?" he enquired.
"Anywhere you jolly well like!" rejoined the Brigadier-General
boisterously. "S'long as it's Blighty the rest doesn't matter much.
You're used to night flying?"
"Yes, sir," replied Derek. "All being well, I hope to set you ashore
at Sableridge depot at or about eight o'clock to-morrow morning."