THE FERRY PILOT
IT was an hour before dawn, and the stars had not yet faded from the
skies, when a group of air mechanics at one of the aerodromes just
north of London were busy about the ailerons and fuselage of a new
machine, which was destined to fly across the Channel that day, and
to join one of the British Squadrons on the other side.
The secret of the machine had been well kept, and only a favoured few
had been permitted to see the "hornet," as she was called. Great
things were claimed for her when she joined one of the active
squadrons, now fighting in France for the supremacy of the air.
Just a few folk in Old Blighty had been scared by the advent of the
Fokker, the new German aeroplane which had recently come into
existence, and for which such wonderful things were being claimed
daily by the German "wireless."
"Double up there, you sleepy imps!" yelled Old Snorty, the aerodrome
sergeant-major, a short, stout, florid, shiver-my-timbers type of
disciplinarian. And another squad of sleepy air-mechanics, just out
from their blankets, doubled up smartly to give a hand.
In a few minutes the hornet in question was ready for her long flight
overseas. Every wire and strut had been carefully examined and
proved, for men's lives depended upon the testing, and oiling, and
straining. And now the silent, filmy thing was waiting only for the
pilot and observer.
A sound of footsteps upon the soft turf of the aerodrome was heard,
and voices carried lightly down the soft morning air.
"Halt! Who goes there?" called the sentry, standing near by, and at
the same instant a hand lamp was flashed in the direction of the
newcomers.
The sentry, however, appeared to recognise sonic important
personality approaching, like the mastiff who knows, as if by
instinct, the approach of his master, for, without waiting for an
answer to his challenge, he shouted:--
"Guard, turn out!"
And instantly, the men in the guard tent turned out in time to salute
the Commanding Officer of the Squadron, who came by with Dastral, the
pilot, and Fisker, the observer.
Simultaneously, the air mechanics sprang to attention, as they stood
about the hornet. Then, after a couple of minutes spent in chatting
with the adventurers, who were about to sail forth on the wings of
the morning, the O.C. and the pilot flung away their cigarettes and
gave a few apparently casual glances over the framework by the aid of
the hand-lamps.
"Better load up with a few twenty pound bombs, Dastral," laughed the
O.C. "You may have the chance of using one going over seas. You never
know your luck."
"Yes, sir," replied the youth.
A moment later the pilot and observer were seated in the biplane,
snugly wrapped in their thick leather coats, their hands encased in
huge gauntlets, and their helmets tightly drawn about their ears,
ready for the morning adventure.
Dastral gave a final glance around, his hand already on the controls,
then gave a nod to the chief of the ground staff.
"Swing the propellor!" came next, followed by "Stand clear!"
"Whiz-z-z!" went the huge blades, and, as the pilot switched on the
current, the engines--powerful 100 horse-power ones, capable of some
1400 or 1500 revolutions a minute--broke into their wonderful song,
and with a final word of parting from the Squadron Commander, the
machine taxied off rapidly over the level turf.
"Burr-r-r-r!"
The air seemed full of a mighty sound, and a terrible vibration
filled the heavens. It was the song of the aeroplane.
At a hundred yards, in response to a very slight movement of the
joy-stick, the winged creature leapt into the air, then circled
around once or twice, climbing rapidly up to a couple of thousand
feet, and made off south by south-east.
The first whisper of dawn came out of the east as the hornet headed
off towards the great city, for a filmy streak of grey, followed by a
saffron tint, appeared in the sky low down on their left hand. The
stars overhead began to fade and disappear, as though withdrawn into
the vaulted dome overhead. Then the saffron turned to crimson, and
soon the eastern horizon was aflame with light, for, as the machine
rose higher and higher, the horizon broadened, and the whole earth
seemed to lie at her feet.
Now they were over the city, and the pilot laughed joyously, for he
was exhilarated by the bracing air which rushed past him at a
tremendous rate.
"Look there, Jock," he cried, pointing down far below, where, through
the gloom which still enfolded the lower regions, a faint silvery
streak showed where the majestic Thames rolled down under its many
bridges to the sea.
Jock Fisker, his chum and observer, who was destined to see many an
adventure with Dastral in the near future, peered over the side of
the fuselage, and noted the river and the many spires of the great
city. He saw the thin spire of St. Bride's reaching up towards him,
St. Martin's, and St. Clement Danes'; and then, as the upper rim of
the sun appeared above the horizon, he saw the blue-grey dome of St.
Paul's Cathedral, and caught the flash of the sun upon the golden
cross above it.
"How glorious!" Dastral ejaculated, half turning his head every now
and then for Fisker to hear, as some impulse moved him but half the
words were lost, or carried on by the rushing air into infinitude.
Soon, they left the southern outskirts of London far behind, and, as
the daylight broadened, they looked upon the Surrey Downs, and the
wide heath of the rolling countryside. Village after village they
passed, with its red tiled roofs and church spire pointing
heavenwards, but onwards, always onwards, they sped towards the white
cliffs and the sea.
The slender, filmy thing had found herself this morning, for the
R.A.F. engines were working splendidly, doing already nearly fifteen
hundred revolutions a minute. Vibrating with an intensity that was
perfectly marvellous, considering her fragile build, with every
strut, bolt and wire in perfect unison, the hornet sailed
majestically along at over eighty miles an hour, as though on a
pleasure trip, instead of a life and death errand; for in reality she
was bound overseas to join the forces in their fight for freedom's
cause.
Now they were in Kent, the garden of England, and far below were the
cherry orchards and the hop-fields. With his glasses Jock could now
and then pick out a few farm labourers, already trudging along the
roads, or working in the fields.
"There is the railway, Dastral!" shouted the observer, as he picked
up the narrow thread of metals winding along towards Tunbridge.
"Yes, I see it now," replied his comrade, bringing his glasses to
bear on the object for which he had been keenly searching for some
minutes.
"Straight road now. Give her a few more points eastward."
Dastral altered the controls a little, and, banking slightly, the
hornet came round smartly upon her new course, which, for the rest of
the journey to the coast, was almost due east.
The continuous roar of the engines and the whir-r-r of the propeller
made conversation almost impossible, except for a few short, jerky
sentences, uttered in a loud, shrill voice, and accompanied by
corresponding gestures.
The world beneath them was waking up now, for the two aviators could
see the smoke ascending from the chimneys of a few scattered
farmhouses and cottages. The birds, too, were astir, and the larks,
mounting up towards the sun, made sweet music which was drowned in
the whir-r-r of that strange-looking bird of prey, which sailed
serenely above them. Instinct, however, made the songsters shrink and
flee away from that hawk-like menace with stretched-out wings, for
they evidently feared that it might swoop down upon and destroy them.
"Dover!" shouted the observer suddenly, as the Cinque Port came into
view.
"Yes, by Jove! So it is. I hope they won't turn the guns of the fort
upon us."
"No fear. They'll have been warned of our coming by now."
A minute later, they opened out the sea, the forts, and Shakespeare's
Cliff, and within another three minutes they had crossed the boundary
of sea and land, and at a tremendous altitude were gliding over the
Channel.
"Nine thousand!" yelled Dastral, turning his head towards Jock, after
casting a brief glance at his indicator.
"Now let her rip," cried the other, for in climbing to get the
required height to rush the Channel, the machine had lost speed.
"Right-o!" came the answer.
So, in order to get speed quickly, Dastral did a little nose dive of
about three hundred feet, then flattened out again, intending to rush
the Channel at one hundred and twenty miles an hour, lest they should
slip unconsciously into an air-pocket.
As he did so, he noticed a flash of fire followed by a puff of white
smoke down at the Castle.
"A signal!" shouted Jock, who had noticed the occurrence at the same
instant.
"Yes, they want to speak to us," and with a circling sweep the
machine came round as Dastral pulled the joy-stick hard over, and
swept back again until he hung right over Dover Castle.
"Can you make it out, old man?" asked the pilot.
"Yes, I have it," cried Fisker, whose eyes had been glued to a spot
on the Castle grounds just at the top of the hill overlooking the
naval harbour.
"What is it? Do they want us to go down?"
"No. The Commander of the fort says there are several enemy
submarines in the Channel, and requests us to keep a sharp look-out
for them as we cross over."
"Cheery-o, Jock! That's good news. I'm going to drop down a bit,
then. There's a D.S.O. for you if you spot one. Here goes!" And with
that, Dastral jammed over the controls again, and did a neat nose
dive of two thousand feet, looping the loop once or twice just to
express his joy, and give vent to his feelings.
Jock had picked up this information from a few white strips of
calico, which had been stretched out in a curious fashion within the
Castle grounds. To a trained observer like Fisker, it was mere
child's play to read a code signal like that.
And now the daring joy-riders, keenly watched by hundreds of eyes far
down below, left the shore once again, and the naval harbour with its
shipping, and headed for the French coast, watching the surface of
the sea as though they would read its secret.
"East-south-east, Dastral! That's the course till we sight the
opposite shore," shouted Jock to his comrade, who, he thought, in his
excitement and eagerness to spot a submarine lurking in the depths,
might miss his way, as many a brave aviator before him had done.
"Right-o!" came the answer to this reminder, for the French coast was
hid as yet in the morning mist. Then the course was altered slightly
once again, in order to make a proper landfall on the other side.
They were flying low now, much lower than the usual regulations
permitted, for it is necessary to keep a good altitude in crossing
the Channel, not only because of the chance of running into a stray
air-pocket, but to enable one to 'plane to safety should anything go
wrong with the engines, for only a seaplane can ride the waves like a
ship; and this was no seaplane they were riding to-day.
Far down below them they could see the patrol boats hunting for their
prey. They could also see the mine-sweepers at work, clearing the
fairway from those foul nests of floating mines which the crafty foe
had been busy laying with their submarines. Once or twice they
thought they could make out some dark-grey object like a mine or
sunken vessel beneath the surface of the water.
A string of mine-sweepers were stretched out below them now. They
could see them distinctly, could see even the long nets that trailed
between them, for the sun was gaining power and the morning mists
were rolling away. The grey expanse of water took on another hue,
changing from a dull grey to a greenish tint, with patches here and
there of deep blue, where the water deepened, or the surface of the
mirror reflected a corresponding patch of the azure above.
Keenly now they searched the face of the deep for any dark speck,
for, from an aeroplane, it is possible to look far down, often even
to the bed of the sea; but as yet they saw nothing, save an
occasional piece of wreckage, which had probably detached itself and
floated from the treacherous Goodwins, away to the eastward and the
northward--those treacherous shoals which hold the remains of so many
gallant barques and vessels, from the Roman galley to the modern
liner.
They had not long left the mine-sweepers on their port quarter when
Jock, through his glasses, noted something like a string of
porpoises, which, owing to the motion of the waves, appeared to be
travelling along. They seemed so regular and orderly in their
movement, however, that he was about to pass them over. Thinking,
however, that he would like to call Dastral's attention to them, he
shouted:--
"Starboard bow, Dastral! Look at 'em! What are they? Not mines,
surely. Look like porpoises, only they're not dark enough, and they
don't tumble about much."
Dastral peered over the side of the cockpit and looked down.
"Can't say," he ejaculated.
"Let's go down a bit lower, old man," said Fisker.
"Aye, aye. Hold tight!" cried the pilot, for he noticed that Jock was
standing up and leaning over, unstrapped.
"Right away! I'm all right," replied the observer, squatting down,
and pressing his knees against the knee-board, which is the life-line
of the aeroplane.
And down they went in a graceful nose-dive till they were within five
hundred feet of the surface of the water, with the engines shut off.
Then, as they flattened out, both men peered over the side again, and
Dastral was the first to exclaim:--
"Porpoises be hanged! They're German mines. A whole string of them
floating about in the fairway, ready for the first ship that comes
along. The dirty Huns!"
"Snakes alive! So they are. Now I can make them out quite plainly; I
can even see the horns and contacts through my glasses. Phew!
There'll be a deuce of a mess shortly unless they're cleared up."
"Look alive, old man, or there'll be trouble!" shouted the pilot.
"How so?"
"See that ocean tramp coming up Channel. She's a seven thousand
tonner, and her cargo's worth a couple of hundred thousand. She'll be
right on the string of mines directly, and then--gee whiz!--there'll
be fireworks, and another valuable cargo will have gone to Davy
Jones' locker."
The mine-sweepers were about a couple of miles away by this time, but
the Commodore of the little fleet had seen the rapid nose-dive of the
hornet, and knew that something unusual was happening.
He had already strung out the signal for a boat to detach its nets
and proceed at full steam to the spot, for he thought that the
machine was coming down with engine trouble.
It was his duty, therefore, to save the men, and, if possible, salve
the aeroplane also. Dastral saw the signal through his glasses, and
watched the vessel cast off her nets to come up. His immediate
concern, therefore, was for the tramp steamer surging up Channel, and
nearing the end of her long voyage from Valparaiso to London. At all
costs to the aeroplane, she must be saved from the deadly mines
towards which she was now heading directly. The tide was with her,
and she was coming up rapidly. In another five minutes she would be
in the cunningly laid trap.
For the moment, Dastral continued to circle over the mine bed, hoping
thereby to warn off the tramp. Of this she appeared to take no
notice, though undoubtedly a score of eyes were watching his
gymnastic gyrations from the deck and bridge of the vessel.
"Try the gun, Jock. Quick!"
"Rip-r-r-r-r-r!" went the Lewis gun, as Jock pressed the button and
fired off half a drum of ammunition.
Even yet, the tramp steamer did not seem to understand, for her
captain did not charge her course.
"Is she fitted with wireless?" yelled Dastral.
"Yes," answered the observer, putting down his glasses into the
socket for an instant.
"Then give her a message on the international code. It's her last
chance. She'll be on the infernal things in another two minutes."
"Right-o! Here goes!" and, uncoiling the long aerial wire, he tapped
out just one word on the sending key:--
"M I N E S!!!"
"Good. If that fails, the ship's done for!" ejaculated Fisker, as he
watched eagerly for the ship to change her course.
On came the vessel, quite oblivious of the danger. She was less than
a cable's length from the string of mines, and still steaming fast,
when Dastral noted some movement about the deck, where a dozen or so
of the crew stood just for'ard of the bridge, in the waist, gazing
intently at the 'plane.
"Heavens! It's too late!" gasped the pilot, as he saw the steamer's
bows running dead on towards the very centre of the floating mines.
"No, she may just do it," he ventured to his observer, as he saw the
sudden commotion on board.
Suddenly, out of the wireless room, the operator, evidently carrying
the message, dashed up the companion way to the bridge, flourishing a
piece of paper in his hand, and shouted:--
"Mines in the vicinity, sir!"
Then it was that the captain realised the danger he was in, for the
mine-sweeper coming up on the starboard bow was also flying the
signal for her to heave to.
Dashing to the wheelhouse door, a few paces away from where he had
been standing, the captain shouted to the man at the helm,
"Hard-a-starboard!"
And though the tide was with her, the good ship swung round smartly,
only in the very nick of time, for, as she turned, one of the deadly
mines was within two feet of her stern, and the wash from her screw
and the rapid movement of her rudder as she came round, caused the
nearest mine to come into contact with a piece of wreckage, at which
there was a terrific roar, and a huge column of water was lifted up
and hurled some two hundred feet into the air.
Then followed a more terrible spectacle, for one after another the
whole string of mines went off, as though they had been countermined.
It was just as if there had been a sub-aqueous earthquake, for a
prolonged roar of thunder, earsplitting and nerve-racking,
immediately followed, while the sea for hundreds of yards around rose
up like a huge waterspout, and for some minutes the whole surface of
the water, hitherto placid, broke into tumultuous waves.
The tramp steamer received fifty tons of water upon her decks, but
save for a slight starting of the plates in her stern, she was
untouched. Nevertheless, she had to keep the pumps constantly in use
for the remainder of her voyage.
After circling round the spot for another few minutes to speak with
the Commodore of the fleet of mine-sweepers, Dastral turned the
hornet's head once again towards the enemy's coast, and the captain
of the tramp steamer dipped his pennant and gave a long blast on the
siren, as a token of gratitude for the service rendered.
The aviators were well pleased with themselves for the part they had
taken in the little adventure, which had not been without its
thrills, and a spice of danger.
They were now almost in mid-Channel, and could see both shores. There
were the white cliffs of Old Albion behind them, while in front, a
little on their left, Cape Grisnez rose out of the water. Below them
several liners, transports and colliers, could be seen making either
up or down Channel, or for one of the ports on the English or French
coasts. Turning round to Fisker, the pilot shouted through the
speaking tube:--
"Sorry it wasn't a German submarine, old fellow. There'll be no
D.S.O. for us for picking up a string of floating mines."
"Ah, well. Better luck next time," called back the observer.
"The place is too well patrolled now for the Huns' submarines to show
themselves about here. Gemini! but I'd give my brevet and six months'
pay to spot one this journey. It would be some find."
The observer did not reply immediately. He was keenly searching the
opposite shore to find the breakwater at the entrance to Boulogne
harbour.
"Can you see it yet?" called the pilot, noting an anxious look on
Jock's face. "Yes," replied the latter. "Better give her another two
points south, and then we shall just about hit the canal below the
town. Our instructions were to follow it to the main aerodrome."
"Aye, aye," answered the pilot, altering the controls slightly, and
bringing her head round upon a more southerly course.
Shortly after this, the town and harbour of Boulogne came into full
view to the naked eye. Their intention was to leave it a little on
their left, and, then making a landfall of a certain railhead and
canal, take a short cross-country flight to the big aerodrome behind
the British lines. They now began to regard themselves as nearly at
the end of their journey, and had no expectation of a still greater
adventure before them--an adventure which would prevent them reaching
their destination, at any rate, that day.
Only some five or six miles of sea now lay between them and the land,
and they were right over the track of the transports, which made a
continuous line of traffic between the two shores, when Fisker, who
had taken up his glasses again in order to watch a batch of
troopships, escorted by a couple of destroyers, suddenly turned them
on to a large four tunnelled hospital ship, which, coming out of the
harbour, crowded with wounded and war-worn men, was ploughing its
solitary way towards Old Blighty, without any other escort or
protector than the Red Cross flag.
Suddenly, as he watched the stately vessel moving along at
twenty-five knots, with the huge combers falling away from her bow,
and a long milk-white trail from her stern, he started suddenly, and
lowered his glasses, almost shrieking at the top of his voice:--
"See there, Dastral! Quick!"
"Where away?" cried the pilot, turning round sharply, and catching a
glimpse of Fisker's horrified face.
"There!" exclaimed the observer, laconically, pointing with his hand
in the direction of the hospital ship.
Dastral looked in the direction indicated.
"The brutes!" he gasped. "Not if I can prevent it."
That which had called forth these horrified expressions was nothing
more or less than a lurking German submarine, hidden beneath the
water, but with a few inches of periscope above the surface,
manoeuvring to bring the huge hospital ship within its range. It had
evidently watched the procession of transports pass by, but, fearing
that it might be rammed by one of the destroyers if it revealed its
presence, it had waited for some other tasty morsel to come along.
Unfortunately, there was nothing she could touch but this hospital
ship.
With any other nation, a vessel flying the sacred emblem of humanity,
which floated from the masthead of the ship, would have been immune
from attack. But to the Hun no code of morals seems to hold good. Nor
was any crime to be regarded as such if only some damage could be
inflicted upon the enemy.
"Ach, wohl, mein herr!" the German ober-lieutenant in the submarine
was remarking to his superior officer at that moment. "The verdomt
transports are gone, and there's nothing but a big 'hospital ship
steaming by. Shall we loose a leetle tin fish at her? You can't trust
these English; they're probably transporting materials of war. There
are sure to be some staff officers on her decks anyhow. What say you,
mein herr?"
"Sink the blamed hooker, Fritz! We can say that she tried to ram us,
when we make out our report. No one will be any the wiser, for dead
men can't tell tales. He, he! Ho, ho!"
And already the commander's hand was upon the lever in the
conning-tower which controlled the torpedo tubes in the bow.
Hesitating just for a second, as though battling with the last shreds
of a lingering conscience, he pulled the lever.
"Swiss-s-s-h!" came the sound as the deadly missile left the tube and
entered the water.
"Good heavens! She's fired!" exclaimed both the aviators, as, in the
very middle of a dangerous nose dive they saw what had transpired,
and followed for an instant, even in that downward dive, the wake of
the deadly torpedo.
Fortunately, at that very moment the captain of the _Galicia_, the
big four-funnelled boat, having had his attention attracted to the
spot by the nose-dive of the warplane, saw the periscope of the
enemy's submarine, and, starboarding his helm, swung the huge vessel
just sufficiently to port for the first torpedo to miss his stern by
a few feet.
Then commenced a stern chase, for the _Galicia_, seeing the imminent
danger that she was in, sought refuge in flight. Placing her stern
towards the oncoming submarine, she fled down Channel, hoping thereby
to save her precious cargo of wounded heroes.
"Donner and blitz!" exclaimed the commander to his lieutenant. "We
have missed her. That will never do. We must sink her now at any
cost, or the American cables will be full of the affair, and the
anger of the neutral world will be turned against us once more."
"What shall we do, mein herr?" asked the lieutenant of the submarine.
"She can do twenty-five knots and we can only do seventeen while we
are submerged."
"We must run her awash, and give her three-inch shells with the deck
guns. The transports and patrols are some distance off now."
"She will be calling back the destroyers by now with her wireless,
mein herr."
"Gott in Himmel! but we must risk it. There may just be time. I wish
we had let the blamed hooker go by."
Then, with a few round oaths, he switched down the periscope, pulled
over the lever that drove the water out of the ballast tanks, and, as
the boat came to the surface, he had the hatch unshipped, and ordered
his gun crew to stations, calling them dachshunds, and a few more
vile names.
As soon as the submarine came to the surface, the electric motors
were stopped, and the surface engines started so that every knot
could be got out of them.
"All clear!" had been reported to him by the lieutenant, and as
regards the narrow horizon which can be surveyed from the periscope
of a submerged vessel, all was indeed clear, for they had not seen
the hornet which was buzzing overhead, silently dipping and
nose-diving with her engines shut off, and rapidly manoeuvring like
an angry wasp, waiting but an opportunity to get at its victim.
So intent was the submarine commander upon his prey, with one eye on
the hospital ship and another on the horizon, watching for the patrol
boats, which he knew would be sure to return, that he had even got
his deck-gun to work, and was firing rapidly at the _Galicia_, when
to his dismay he heard, just over his head, the whir-r-r-r-r of the
aeroplane, as Dastral started his engine again.
"Mein Gott, was ist das?" he cried.
"Ach, Himmel, but we are lost!" came the cry from the gunners and the
ober-lieutenant.
"Dachshunds!--you verdomt fools, turn the gun on the aeroplane!"
yelled the irate commander, but he realised that he had lost the
game.
Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, with its angry buzz, till
but a hundred feet above the broad, whale-like back of the submarine,
for Dastral, having but the two twenty-pound bombs in his carrier,
determined not to miss his chance.
"Be careful, Jock!" he shouted. "Drop it right on her conning-tower.
Take no risks."
"Right-o, old fellow!" Jock had replied, his hand on the bomb
release. "She's giving us shrapnel, though. Look out!"
"Spit . . . Bang! Spit . . . Bang!" came the bursting shrapnel from
the quick-firing gun on the deck of the submarine, and a shot hitting
the left aileron of the warplane, just as the observer was releasing
the first bomb, caused her to roll and bank so much that the bomb
fell into the sea, just a few inches from the starboard beam of the
boat.
"Great heavens, you've missed him!" shouted Dastral, as the bomb,
which was fitted with a contact fuse, sank down harmlessly into the
sea.
Jock bit his lips, which were white with anger at his failure, and
placed his hand once more on the bomb release. It was his last bomb.
If they failed this time they were done, for already they had lost
several struts and wires, and the planes had been holed in a score of
places.
Even Dastral's face was pale, though not with fear, as he jammed the
rudder bar over with his feet, and using the joy-stick as well, came
round swiftly once more, dropping down to within fifty feet of his
enemy.
"Great Scott! She's preparing to submerge, Jock. For heaven's sake
don't miss her this time!"
Jock did not reply, but taking true aim just as they were directly
over the boat, he dropped his second and last bomb fairly and
squarely on the conning-tower.
"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m!" came the sound as the bomb descended swiftly
and exploded right amidships, splitting the conning tower open, just
as it was being closed ready for the boat to descend.
A blinding sheet of flame shot up into the sky, scorching both the
pilot and the observer, and a crashing noise followed the explosion,
as the submarine, her deck split open and rent in twain, opened out,
then sank like a stone, carrying down with her the twenty-two men who
manned her.
A few minutes afterwards the only trace of the pirates was an
ever-extending patch of oil which floated on the surface of the
water, punctured here and there by the air bubbles which forced their
way through the patch.
So suddenly did she disappear from view that even the airmen,
scorched and bruised and bleeding from slight shrapnel wounds, were
amazed at the work of their hands. Dastral was the first to recover
speech, however.
"Well done, Jock!" he cried. "Thus may all pirates perish who fire on
the Red Cross flag."
The observer did not reply, however, for he had fallen forward in a
dead faint, from sheer excitement and loss of blood; perhaps most of
all from sheer fear of failure with his last bomb. And now his head
was resting against the wind screen just in front of the cockpit.
"Jock! Jock! What's the matter?" Dastral called to him.
The observer made an effort to rouse himself, for he had only
momentarily lost consciousness. He lifted up his head, tugged at his
leather helmet, and managed at last to pull it off.
"Great Scott! You're wounded!" exclaimed Dastral as he saw the blood
streaming from his companion's face.
"It's all right now. I feel better, Dastral. Carry on! The petrol
tank overhead here is leaking, and we're about run out. But I've sent
a message to the destroyers on the wireless and here they come."
Dastral turned sharply, and looked in the direction which Jock had
indicated by slightly raising his hand.
"Yes. Hurrah! Here they come!" he cried.
And indeed there was no mistaking that long trail of black smoke just
a couple of miles away, nor the white trail of foam as the combers
broke and fell away from the two snake-like boats, which were coming
up full pelt, for they had been drawn to the spot by the sound of the
firing even before they had picked up Jock's message.
Nor did they come a moment too soon, for the aeroplane was wounded as
well as her crew. Her work was done, at any rate for the next few
days, until she had been overhauled by the smart air-mechanics,
fitters and riggers of the Royal Flying Corps. The engine was missing
too, very badly, for the petrol tank was pierced in several places,
and the supply had almost run out. The planes and struts were damaged
and in parts shot away, so much so, that, as Dastral jammed over the
controls and banked to bring her round, with her head towards the
rapidly approaching patrols, one of the wings collapsed, and she
slithered down, slipping sideways into the sea, now only some thirty
feet below her.
"Jump, Jock! Jump!" cried Dastral. And both the aviators, having
managed to free themselves, leapt out as the singed and broken
air-wasp lightly struck the waves.
Fortunately the life-saving jackets, which all the ferry pilots are
compelled to wear when crossing the Channel, ensured their safety,
once they managed to disentangle themselves from the wreckage of the
'plane.
"This way, Jock. Let us keep together. Here come the destroyers!"
shouted the pilot. And the next instant, they heard a strong voice
shout out--
"Hard-a-starboard there! Jam her over, man!"
And immediately after the same voice shouted to the man at the engine
room telegraph--
"Full speed astern!"
Two minutes later both the aviators were safe on board the destroyer.
A signal from her slender masthead caused the other boat to sweep
round, pick up the wrecked warplane, which was already settling down,
and to tow her into port.
So ended the adventure of the ferry-pilot and his companion. And next
morning, after a good night's rest at the Hotel de l'Europe in
Boulogne, a short message in a pink envelope, which was placed on the
breakfast tray, informed the youthful and daring heroes that--
"His Majesty, King George the Fifth, desires to congratulate and to
thank Lieutenants Dastral and Fisker, of the Royal Flying Corps, for,
when on active service, their gallantry and courage in attacking and
sinking the enemy submarine U41, and to confer upon them the
COMPANIONSHIP OF THE DISTINGUISHED SERVICE ORDER."