[Illustration: Cover art]
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
THE GREAT
ADVENTURE
SERIES
Percy F. Westerman:
THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS
THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE
Rowland Walker:
THE PHANTOM AIRMAN
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
DEVILLE McKEENE:
THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY
AIRMAN
BLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE
BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V 2
OSCAR DANBY, V.C.
S.W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDOND, W.I.
[Frontispiece: "DOWN, DOWN WENT THE BLAZING MASS FOR A COUPLE OF
THOUSAND FEET."]
DASTRAL OF THE
FLYING CORPS
BY
ROWLAND WALKER
AUTHOR OF "BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V2," "THE TREASURE
GALLEON," "OSCAR DANBY, V.C." ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: Publisher logo]
S.W. PARTRIDGE & Co.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.I.
MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published 1917_
_Frequently reprinted_
To
THE PILOTS,
OBSERVERS AND AIR-MECHANICS
OF
THE ROYAL FLYING CORPS,
THIS
STORY OF ADVENTURE AND PERIL
IS
Dedicated
PREFACE
THE GREAT WAR OF 1914 opened the floodgates of hatred between the
nations which took part and this stirring story, written when
feelings were at their highest, conveys a true impression of the
attitude adopted towards our enemies. No epithet was considered too
strong for a German and whilst the narrative thus conveys the real
atmosphere and conditions under which the tragic event was fought out
it should be borne in mind that the animosities engendered by war are
now happily a thing of the past. Therefore, the reader, whilst
enjoying to the full this thrilling tale, will do well to remember
that old enmities have passed away and that we are now reconciled to
the Central Powers who were opposed to us.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. DASTRAL WINS HIS PILOT'S BADGE
II. THE FERRY PILOT
III. OVER THE GERMAN LINES
IV. STRAFING THE BABY-KILLERS
V. A BOMBING RAID
VI. A ZEPPELIN NIGHT
VII. COWDIE, THE "SPARE PART"
VIII. THE RAID ON KRUPPS
IX. THE GIANT WAR-PLANE
X. HIMMELMAN'S LAST FIGHT
XI. "BLIGHTY"
DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
CHAPTER I
DASTRAL WINS HIS PILOT'S BADGE
"One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name."
--SCOTT.
AT the time of which I write, the smoke of battle still filled the
air. The freedom of men and nations, the heritage of the ages, hung
in the balance, so that even brave men were often filled with doubt
and despair.
The German guns were thundering at the gates of Verdun, seeking a new
pathway to Paris, for the ever-growing British army had barred the
northern route to the capital of France and the shores of the English
Channel. But even the attempt to hack a way through Verdun was doomed
to failure, and the first rift of blue in a clouded sky was soon to
appear.
Against that glittering wall of steel, where the heroic sons of
France lined the trenches against the tyrant, hundreds of thousands
of Prussians, Bavarians and Saxons were doomed to fall, and the best
blood of Germany was already flowing like rivers, for, though the
_poilus_ during times of great pressure slowly yielded the outer
forts inch by inch, yet the price which the enemy paid for their
advance was far too dear.
The future hung heavy with fate, and the civilised world looked on
amazed, as the western armies, locked in the grip of death, swayed to
and fro. The earth trembled with the shock of battle, and the very
air vibrated with the whir-r-r of the fierce birds of prey, the
wonderful product of the new age. Land and sea did not suffice as in
days gone by, for in the heavens the struggle for freedom must also
be fought. And many great men were beginning to say that the side
which gained the mastery of the air, would also gain the mastery of
Europe and the world.
In no country was this recognised more than in England, and at early
dawn even remote villages were often stirred, and the inhabitants
thrilled by the advent of the whirring 'planes and air-scouts, whose
daring pilots were preparing to wrest the mastery of the air from the
enemy.
The most daring of our English youths left the public schools and
universities, and strained every nerve, risking death a hundred
times, to gain the coveted brevet of a pilot's "wings" in the Royal
Flying Corps.
So it happened that, during one fine morning in the early summer of
1916, a group of men, some of them wearing on the left breast of
their service tunics the afore-mentioned brevet, were watching a
young pilot undergoing his final test in the air before gaining his
wings. The place where this occurred was over an aerodrome, somewhere
near London.
"Phew! there he goes again. Just look at that spiral!" cried one of
the onlookers.
"Ha! Now he's going to loop; watch him!" exclaimed another.
The daring aviator, who was flying a new two-seater fighting machine
with a twelve-cylindered engine, capable of giving over fourteen
hundred revolutions a minute, seemed perfectly oblivious of the
danger he was in, as seen by those below, for he careered through
space at a speed varying from eighty to nearly one hundred and twenty
miles an hour, and performed the most amazing spirals, twists, and
gymnastic gyrations imaginable.
The people below, even the pilots, watched him with bated breath, and
sometimes with thumping hearts. They felt somehow that he was
overdoing it, and sooner or later he would crash to earth and certain
death Several times even the experts, who were there to judge him,
and award him the coveted brevet, felt sure that the youth had lost
control of the 'plane, for she swerved so suddenly, and banked so
swiftly, as she came round, that one of them exclaimed:--
"Good heavens, he's going to crash!"
"Phew! Just look there, he's met an air-pocket, and it's all over
with the young devil," shouted a civilian, evidently a representative
of the New Air Board.
But, strange to say, all their prophecies were wrong, for, recovering
himself, the daring young flyer, Dastral as he was called, had the
machine under perfect control, and was just as easy and comfortable
up there at three thousand feet--and far happier--than if he had been
in an arm-chair in the officers' mess at the aerodrome.
"There's a nose dive for you!" cried the major who commanded the
Squadron at the aerodrome, and who had done more than any one to
encourage the lad, and bring him out. As he spoke, the youth was
speeding to earth in a thrilling nose-dive which must have been at
the rate of anything approaching a hundred and fifty miles an hour.
For an instant it seemed as if the prediction of one of the gloomy
prophets would now be fulfilled and the aviator would crash; but no,
after a dive of a thousand feet Dastral, as cool as a cucumber,
jammed over the controls, flattened out for a few seconds, looped
three times in succession, then spiralling and banking with wonderful
and mathematical precision, shut off the engine, and volplaned down
to the ground, touching the earth lightly at the rate of some fifty
miles an hour, taxied across the level turf, and brought up within
ten yards of the astonished spectators.
"Humph! He's won his wings, major," exclaimed one of the small crowd.
"So he has," cried another. "He knows all the tricks of the air."
"Yes," exclaimed a third; "if he keeps on like that, he will prove a
match for Himmelman himself, some day, should he ever chance to meet
with him."
Now Himmelman was the crack German flyer--the Air-Fiend of the
western front--the man who had made the German Flying Corps what it
was, and had earned for it the great traditions it had already won.
A moment later, the youth leapt lightly from the cockpit, gave his
hand to his observer to help him down, and, stepping lightly up to
his Commanding Officer, saluted smartly.
"Capital, Dastral! You shall have your wings to-morrow. If anybody
has ever won them you have," exclaimed the major, grasping the lad's
hand, and greeting him warmly.
"Thank you, sir. It's very kind of you to say so," replied Dastral.
"Not at all. You've won them yourself, my boy, and I congratulate
you. But, I say, you played the very devil up there. There are very
few of our fellows who can do those monkey-tricks without crashing.
It's a mercy you're alive, boy."
"Oh, it was only an extra turn or two, sir, just for the spectators.
But, Jock, here, sir, my observer, is he all right for his brevet
also?"
"Yes, he shall be gazetted and granted an observer's wing. I will get
them through orders at once."
Once more Dastral thanked his chief, and, followed by Jock Fisker,
his chum, who had entered the air service with him, and who was
destined to accompany him through many an exciting air duel in the
future, they returned to the machine, which was already being keenly
examined by a group of the privileged onlookers, before the
air-mechanics returned it to the shed.
Shortly afterwards, as Dastral and Jock were preparing to leave the
aerodrome, the major came by, and, seeing that the young pilot wanted
to speak to him, he said:--
"Well, what is it, Dastral?"
"Sir, now that I have gained my wings, I should like to be posted
overseas as soon as possible, so as to join some active squadron with
the Expeditionary Force in France. Would it be possible for you to
push my request forward?"
"Humph! Rather early yet, isn't it, my boy?"
"Perhaps it is rather early, sir," replied the youth, blushing like a
girl as he faced the C.O. "But I should like to take part in an
air-fight before the scrapping finishes."
"We've a long way to go yet, Dastral, before it is finished. Still,
as you are so keen, I will see what I can do. But it will take at
least another fortnight to get the thing through. At any rate I will
communicate with Wing Headquarters, and through them with the War
Office. Perhaps General Henderson will accede to your request," added
the major, for he well understood the lad's eagerness. He had felt it
himself, and had already seen a good deal of that air-fighting of
which the youth spoke, as the ribbons below his wings indicated, for
he was the winner of the D.S.O. and also the Military Cross.
"Thank you, sir," and the pilot saluted again, but cast a sidelong
glance at Jock, who stood a few paces away, and was already fretting
in his soul lest Dastral should be sent away without him.
The major caught the glance and understood, for he turned sharply
round after a few steps, and said:--
"And Jock, what about him?" smiling blandly at the lads.
"He is of age, sir, he can speak for himself," replied Dastral. "But
I should like him to go overseas with me. We have done most of our
training together, and we thoroughly understand each other, and I
know that he's just dying to go with me, sir."
"Is that so, Jock?" asked the major, looking at the Scotch laddie,
who had scarcely finished his course at Glasgow University when the
war called him from his studies.
"Oh, yes, sir, I'd give all I possess to go overseas with Dastral."
And the youth's eyes shone with joy at the very possibility of the
event coming off, for he had feared that they were now to be
separated.
"Very well. Don't expect too much, but possess your souls in patience
for another fortnight or so. Goodbye!"
"Good-bye, sir!" and once more after the customary salute, the youths
went their way, wondering how soon they would be in France, within
sound of the guns.
For the next fortnight they were busy every day at the aerodrome,
trying new machines, testing, carrying out imaginary reconnaissances
over the German lines, bombing raids, studying war maps and plans,
night flying and a score of other things that would prove useful when
they found themselves in France.
One morning, about two weeks later, a telegram was delivered to
Dastral at his rooms. It came from the War Office, and ran as
follows:--
"Second Lieutenant Dastral and his observer to proceed overseas
forthwith, on one of the new fighting 'planes, and to report his
arrival at -- Squadron, British Expeditionary Force, France."
After the customary interview with the C.O., it was arranged that
early next morning the two aviators were to make their first attempt
at flying the Channel.