OVER THE GERMAN LINES
"WE must have been born under a lucky star, Jock, to win the D.S.O.
as well as the thanks of the King, for that trifling little incident
which occurred yesterday," said Dastral as they sat down to a
substantial breakfast that morning, in the dainty little coffee-room
which looked out on to the English Channel.
"It was a stroke of luck, anyhow, to encounter that U boat just when
we did. We should have made a landfall in another five minutes, and
then we should have missed her altogether," replied his companion,
pausing for an instant in his attack on the coffee and hot rolls.
"And the hospital ship?" queried the pilot.
"Ah, the brutes! But we were one too many for them," replied Jock. "I
had the time of my life during that short fight. I'd just love a
scrap like that every day. Almost wish I'd joined the R.N.A.S. now.
What say you, old fellow? Besides, the odds were all on our side. The
Hun never so much as suspected our presence, else he wouldn't have
shown himself as he did."
"Just wait a few days, Jock, till we join our fellows down at the
Squadron, and you'll have all the excitement you want."
"You mean?" went on the observer, looking up into the pilot's face as
he helped himself to another portion of grilled ham and fried eggs.
"I mean," Dastral continued, without waiting for Jock to finish his
sentence, "I mean, wait till we get orders from the new Squadron
Commander to go over the German lines. The odds will not be so much
in our favour."
"H'm! I wonder what it's like to be over there with the shrapnel
bursting all around you, and miles and miles of trenches below you,
with the 'Archies' spitting at you all the time with continuous
bursts of fire, and the very heavens full of air-pockets."
"And half a dozen Fokkers coming up out of the horizon to scuttle
you, and give you a spinning nose-dive of ten thousand feet into No
Man's land, with your petrol tank blazing, and your engine missing,
eh? Go on, you veritable misanthrope!" and here both the young heroes
burst into a fit of laughter at the woeful, nerve-shattering picture
which they had both been drawing.
Thus they continued to talk about the future which lay immediately
before them. Yet all these things they were to see, and much more,
ere they were many months older. They were full of life and vigour,
and in action they were to prove daring and resourceful; yet they
were wise in this, that they did not under-estimate either the task
that lay before them, or the enemy they were to meet.
Their chief concern for the present, however, was centred on the
broken aeroplane, with which they had started from England on the
previous day for their first flight overseas. "I wonder what's become
of the hornet," said Dastral, a few moments later, as they sat by the
fireside, and settled down to a smoke.
"We shall hear shortly, as you have wired to the O.C. reporting the
incident. Besides, the destroyer is sure to have brought her in, even
if she is badly damaged."
Shortly after this the telephone bell in the corridor rang. A maid
appeared, and after a very pretty French curtsey, said:--
"Monsieur le Commandant Dastral, s'il vous plait?"
"Ah, oui, Mademoiselle, qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" asked Dastral,
rising to his feet, and returning the pretty maid's curtsey.
"C'est pour vous, ce message téléphonique."
"Merci, mam'selle," replied Dastral, as he hastened to the telephone
box.
"Hullo! Who is that?" asked a voice some twenty or thirty miles away.
"Lieutenant Dastral, of the Flying Corps. Who is that, please?"
"Major Bulford, Squadron Commander, speaking from the aerodrome at
St. Champau."
"Yes, sir!" replied Dastral smartly, springing unconsciously to
attention, although the voice was so far away from him.
"Good-morning, Dastral. Congratulations, my boy. I have heard all
about your adventures yesterday from my Adjutant. You've started
well! You're just the man we're wanting here. We're having warm work
with the Boches this week. You're a lucky dog to run into a German
submarine on your first trip over."
"Oh, it was my observer, sir. He spotted the blamed thing, and bombed
her. It was as easy as winking. Just a stroke of luck, sir, that's
all."
"Well, I hope your luck 'll keep in. We shall be glad to see you as
soon as you can come over. Are you both all right?"
"Yes, sir. Quite all right, 'cept for a slight chill through being in
the water for a few minutes."
"Well, better stay where you are a couple of days if you are
comfortable, and then come on here."
"Thank you, sir. Yes, we're quite comfortable here, and we'll report
at the aerodrome in a couple of days."
"Right. Good-bye. Oh, I say! Are you there?"
"Yes, sir."
"I was going to tell you that the machine arrived here about an hour
ago. It's some 'bus' and I like the look of her, except that she's
badly smashed, and will be in the hands of the riggers and mechanics
for four or five days before she can be used again."
"Oh, that's not so bad. I feared she would be useless after the crash
she got, sir. How did you get her there so quickly?"
"Oh, we received word from the harbourmaster that she had been
brought in by a destroyer, and we immediately sent down a couple of
tenders with trailers and brought her on here this morning. Good-bye.
The fellows here are all anxious to meet you."
"Good-bye, sir."
As soon as he had rung off Dastral rushed back into the room to tell
Jock all about his chat with the O.C. of the Squadron at St. Champau,
and especially about the two days' extra leave.
"Good!" ejaculated his friend. "Seems a decent sort of chap, eh?"
"Rather a sport, I should say, old man."
"Capital. That little affair of ours yesterday seems to have done us
no harm. It'll probably give us a good entree into the new mess. Hope
they're all decent fellows there."
So they spent half the morning resting after their exciting
adventures of the previous day, and reading the papers, some of which
gave censored accounts of the event. The two days passed all too
quickly, and on the third morning they were both awakened just before
dawn by the rep-r-r-r of a motor bicycle, which pulled up sharply
outside the hotel.
It was "Brat" the despatch rider of the -- Squadron, who had come post
haste from Major Bulford, with an urgent message which ran as
follows:--
"To Lieutenant Dastral, D.S.O.,
"Hotel de l'Europe,
"Boulogne-sur-Mer.
"Be prepared to join Squadron immediately.
Tender will call for you within an hour.
"JOHN BULFORD, _Major_."
Two hours later both the young officers were on their way to St.
Champau, where they arrived before noon.
They received a warm welcome at the mess and were congratulated upon
their recent adventure. They soon found that plenty of work and
adventure awaited them on the morrow. The incessant roar of the
British artillery, which was carrying out an intense bombardment of
the whole front, amazed and bewildered them, for preparations were
already in progress for the Somme "push."
Away to the eastward, the line of battle was clearly demarked. Shells
were bursting in mid-air, and during the afternoon a huge mine was
exploded under the enemy's trenches, which shook the earth for twenty
miles around, and hurled thousands of tons of timber, rocks, and clay
into the air, making a crater of huge diameter, towards which the
British advanced and later in the day captured and consolidated the
position.
About three o'clock in the afternoon, a flight of aeroplanes, which
had been over the German lines, returned. Two of them had been badly
hit and one of the observers had been seriously wounded. They
reported having encountered several flights of enemy 'planes, which,
however, had avoided them and made off eastward. They also reported
some unusual activity behind the enemy's lines, but, the weather
having become dull, and the sky overcast, they were unable to make a
full reconnaissance.
"H'm. There must be a further reconnaissance at dawn," the O.C. had
remarked, after receiving their report. Then, turning to Dastral, he
said:
"Lieutenant Dastral."
"Yes, sir," replied the young pilot, advancing towards his superior
officer, and saluting smartly.
"The mechanics and riggers have been working day and night on your
new machine since we received it. They will continue the work through
the night, and I want you to supervise it, so that it will be ready
before to-morrow. I want you to use it as soon as possible. We have
lost so many of our machines lately over there," and here the O.C.
made a gesture with his right hand towards that line of fire and
blood, where the British and French troops held back the enemy's
hordes.
"Nothing will give me greater pleasure, sir," replied the intrepid
youth, glowing with pride at the thought that he was to be made use
of so quickly.
"And--er--I want you to carefully study the map of the section in
which we are working. It will be absolutely necessary for you to know
every road, hamlet and village marked on that map, before you go
over. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then get to work at once, my dear fellow. I have great hopes of you,
and if you continue as you have begun, I can promise you it will not
be long before you are made a Flight-Commander."
Dastral blushed deeply at this compliment, for he was but a boy in
years, despite his courage and resource. Leaving the Commander's
presence, he went direct to the shed, where he found Jock, who was
not only a brilliant observer but a first-rate mechanic, and already
had the work in hand, having been drawn there by his affection for
the filmy thing that had already brought them across the seas, and
had served them so well during at least one great adventure.
"Well, how is she, Jock?" were his first words.
"Ripping!" replied the observer, handling the delicate creature as
though she were a lady. "I've already been round her. The engine and
propellor are quite sound now. The new petrol tank and feed are
already fitted, and in another couple of hours she'll be as perfect
as when she left England."
"Good!" exclaimed Dastral, who had the greatest confidence in the
lad's judgment in these matters, and was prepared to back him against
any expert in aerodynamics, or the mechanism of any aeroplane in
existence.
"What say you to a trip in her this evening? There'll be plenty of
time before dusk, old fellow."
"Yes, I'm quite agreed, even if it's only a joy-ride to try her, for
to-morrow we go over there," said the pilot, flinging away the stump
of his cigar, and jerking his thumb in the direction of his shoulder.
"Over where?" asked Jock, straightening himself from the stooping
position he had assumed, to examine the baffle-plates on the
propeller.
"Over the German lines," came the reply.
"Really! You mean it, and so soon?"
"Yes, to-morrow at dawn we go over on a reconnaissance; C.O.'s
orders."
"Good!" exclaimed the observer, throwing down a spanner which he
still held in his hand.
"And here's a map of the section in front of our lines. We must spend
the evening over it."
So that evening, after the machine had been got quite ready for her
next flight, they spent four hours over the map, scaling it out, and
committing to memory the names of villages, hamlets, rivers, canals,
roads and railway lines, so that when they retired to bed, the whole
of the map was actually photographed upon their minds.
Morning came at length, and at the first whisper of dawn, having
received their detailed orders from the Squadron-Commander, four or
five aeroplanes were wheeled out on to the aerodrome, then taxied off
quickly and disappeared in the dark. The last of the flight was the
hornet, with Dastral and Jock starting on their first real venture
over the enemy's lines.
After climbing rapidly, and circling round the aerodrome once or
twice, the machines made off, each to reconnoitre the section of the
line allotted to it.
The hornet carried two Lewis guns, with plenty of ammunition, for
when an aerial patrol sets out on a flight, one never knows what
duels he may have to engage in before he returns. The hornet had this
advantage over the other machines, which were of an older pattern:
she had a higher speed, was a better climber, and with her improved
controls she could manoeuvre more quickly than any other machine yet
made.
"Gee whiz!" cried Jock down the speaking tube, which ended close to
the pilot's ear, "but she's climbing."
"What is it?" yelled back the pilot, half turning his head so that
his mouth came near to the end of the tube.
"Three thousand feet," came the answer.
"Good! Then we'll make a bee-line and cross the trenches. Look out
for 'Archie'!"
The dawn had broken by now, and away in the east the gloom was
lifting, but down below it was still wrapped in mist and darkness. It
was the hour of standing-to. Down below thousands of eyes would be
straining through the obscurity to find that speck in the heavens
whence came that whir-r-ring sound.
But upward and onward went the hornet With a stern, strong beat of
power in her twelve-cylindered engine. Nearer and nearer she came to
that long line which stretched from the sand-dunes of Belgium away to
Switzerland. The observer was already keenly surveying the landscape
through his glasses as the light broadened, and the countryside
revealed itself.
A silvery streak lay beneath them; it was the River Ancre. Now a
broad white patch of roadway came into view. It was the main road
from Albert to Bapaume. As they came out of a bank of rolling mist
and fog, a few red roofs and a church tower next came into view,
standing just where four roads met.
"Contalmaison?" queried Dastral, and Jock, after a brief reference to
his waterproof map, called back:
"Yes, and Bazentin on the left."
They were now almost over the trenches, and far beneath they could
discern hundreds of tiny points of fires.
"What are they?" asked the pilot again, and the observer who had been
scanning those red sparks for a couple of minutes replied,
"Fires in the British trenches. Men cooking their morning rations.
Can't you smell the bacon?"
Dastral laughed and sniffed the keen morning air, as though in
reality he could make out the fragrant aroma of the morning dish,
about which those cold, wet, and shivering heroes of the trenches
were standing, ankle-deep in mud and clay.
"The poor devils!" added the pilot, altering his controls slightly,
and wheeling round to the south to pick up the enemy's lines more
clearly at a point where they made a sharp curve.
They could now clearly see both the British and the German trenches.
Three long, scarred and ragged lines of brown earth showed clearly
where the enemy's front-line, reserve and support trenches stood.
Long, twisting lines of similar demarcation showed where the
communication trenches ran.
Now they were over No Man's land, sailing along serenely, and the
artillery down below had already opened the morning concert on both
fronts, when--
"Biff, puff----!" came a time-fuse shrapnel and burst scarcely a
hundred feet in front of the machine. Then another and another as the
"Archies" below spotted the hornet, and tried to give her a packet.
Suddenly they were in a cloud of yellow smoke and half-poisonous
fumes, which made them gasp and sputter. Then, owing to the bursting
of the shells and the heavy concussions they found themselves in a
succession of air-pockets.
"Look out, Jock!" cried Dastral, as the machine rocked and swayed,
banking over once or twice as though she had been hit.
For several minutes they ran the gauntlet of this heavy fire from the
German A.A. guns, but the terrific speed at which they were
travelling--now nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour--soon
carried them beyond the range of the enemy's guns.
Then it was that the day's work really began. Their orders were to
reconnoitre behind the enemy's lines and to report by wireless code
any occurrence, such as the threat of a massed attack by infantry,
the moving of transport columns, or the locating of heavy artillery.
It was also necessary, above all, to watch the skies for the
appearance of hostile aircraft.
The other 'planes which started with the hornet that morning are seen
low down on the horizon, to the north and the south. They also are
searching all the terrain for any signs of activity on the part of
the Boche.
Spurts of flame, like jets of fire, are seen in many places. These
are the German fieldguns firing upon the British trenches. The
observer does not make any particular note of these; he is out for
bigger game.
Suddenly, the observer steadies his glasses, resting his arm for a
moment on the side of the fuselage. The loop line of the
Combles-Ginchy railway is just ahead of them and slightly on their
right. Though it is very early yet, Jock notices that the line about
Ginchy is crowded with traffic.
"Ahoy there, Dastral!" he calls down the speaking tube.
"Yes," comes back the laconic answer.
"Railway line blocked with traffic. Troops detraining, I think. Put
her over a bit."
"Right-o!"
Dastral jams over the rudder bar with his foot and, responding to her
huge tail rudder the hornet comes round in a swift circle, banking a
little as the joy-stick is also put over. Then Jock takes another
view, exclaiming, as he does so,
"Yes, by Jove, there must be a whole division of them. Here goes!"
And dropping the glasses into the pocket prepared for them, he
rapidly uncoils the long pendant wire, and begins to tap the keys of
his instrument.
"Caught them on the nap, Jock, eh? Stroke of luck. Case of the early
bird. Tell the heavies to give 'em hell, old man," shouted Dastral,
but the conversation was carried away into the morning breeze, for
jock was already sending the message which would shortly bring the
thunder.
"Zip-zip-zip, zur-r-r-r, zip!" went the brief coded message, back
over Longueval and Ginchy; over Contalmaison and the trenches to
where the British heavy batteries were waiting.
Behind the Ancre, in a little dug-out, an expert operator catches up
the message. He has been waiting for it impatiently since dawn. The
brief tapping which his receiver picks up, tells him exactly the spot
on the terrain behind the enemy's lines where the thunder is needed.
The whole map is scaled out into tiny sections and sub-sections, each
with a number or letter to indicate the point where the concentrated
fire is needed.
"Quick!" cries the operator to the little exchange. "Give me H.Q.
Heavy Batteries." Then as the reply comes through he gives:
"A-2-3. Concentrated fire!"
Within four minutes, while the hornet still circles over the luckless
Germans, now alive to their danger and rushing over each other in
their haste to finish the detrainment of the column, flashes of fire
are seen away to the west, and through the air comes a heavy
explosive shell. It is followed by another and yet another. As they
explode, the observer sees the earth blotted out from view for a few
seconds. He notes how near the first shots fall to the target. Then
he taps his keys once more.
"Zur, zip-zip!" cries the machine, and the next shell falls into the
midst of the column, destroying nearly a whole train. And so for
another ten minutes the airmen remain, altering the range until at
least a dozen direct hits are scored, and the damage done to the
railway, the trains, and the division or so of men is tremendous.
Very quickly, however, the men are scattered and placed out of
danger, hiding in the woods, and under hedges and trees where they
cannot be seen.
The Germans, aware of that dangerous pest overhead, have rushed up
anti-aircraft guns to deal with it, and have also telephoned to the
nearest aerodromes for their beloved Fokkers. So shortly after,
having done as much damage as possible in a short space of time, the
hornet moves off to reconnoitre further afield.
"Watch for their verdomt Fokkers, Jock," cries the pilot. "They may
appear at any minute. Himmelman himself may be in the neighbourhood."
"Himmelman?" queries Jock, more to himself than to his comrade, as he
looks round uneasily, for on the previous day he had heard some tall
tales of the doings of this crack German flyer.
Then as they move off and open out the engine to gain speed, Jock
sweeps the horizon for a sight of enemy 'planes, for a strange
curiosity grips him at the thought of Himmelman, and he wonders half
aloud whether it will ever be his fate to meet this renowned airman,
who was said to have brought down more machines than any other man
living.
But there is little time for soliloquy in the life of an airman in
war time. He must ever be on the _qui vive_. And so for another half
an hour, seeing no enemy 'planes to engage and remembering that he is
out first of all for a reconnaissance, he watches the ground more and
more closely.
They have moved south some distance by this time, and have crossed
the railway near Cléry. Below them they see the narrow waters of the
Somme, glistening in the sunshine, for by now the sun is up, and
there is the promise of a brilliant day. Jock is keenly watching the
white road that leads from Peronne to Albert.
"Ah! Ah!" He gasps. "What is that dark object that breaks the white,
sunlit road, as though some dark shadow has fallen across it?"
He points it out to the pilot, with a few gestures, and Dastral
spirals round, and makes off towards the place at a rapid rate.
As they approach the spot Jock scrutinises it yet more closely, for
it looks suspicious. Then suddenly putting aside his glasses once
more, he calls out,
"Enemy column on the march!"
"The deuce it is?" queries the pilot.
"Yes, ammunition column, I think, but we'll soon find out."
Then the tapping begins again, and the message is flung across the
battle-ground and is picked up. With a swift mental calculation the
observer has reckoned up when the head of the column will reach a
certain point in the road, where a bridge carries the road over a
tributary of the Somme.
"Swis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m-m!" comes the first heavy fifteen-inch shell.
It is a little short and another message on the keys is necessary.
This time the shell falls plump right into the middle of the column,
for so accurately are the guns trained, that, though they cannot see
the object they are firing at, if the message sent only gives the
exact position on the map, a direct hit is soon gained.
The consternation of the Germans can be better imagined than
described. Thinking themselves in comparative security so far behind
the lines, a huge shell without the slightest warning explodes near
by, and the next lands clean in the middle of the column.
The object hit was a motor lorry conveying ammunition up to the guns.
The first explosion is followed by another, more terrific than the
first, for a couple of hundred shells are exploded, and when the
smoke and dust have cleared away the observer and his pilot look
down, and there is a huge gap in the column, for two of the lorries
are blazing, several have been overturned, and one has disappeared
entirely from view.
Not only so but the road is blocked for the next six or seven hours
for all traffic, and not only will guns go short of ammunition but
more than one battalion of the German army will go short of food for
the next twenty-four hours.
For half an hour the guns continue to shell the rest of the column,
which by that time has managed to get the undamaged motors away, by
dashing blindly down any side turning that leads to anywhere, out of
that terrible inferno.
For a little while longer the observer continues to send cryptic
messages back to headquarters, which have the immediate effect of
altering and adjusting the range of the heavy batteries, until the
whole convoy has dispersed sufficiently to prevent the waste of
further ammunition.
Modern warfare is like a game of chess, with move and countermove,
and this applies just as much to war in the air as to warfare on
land. Evidently this morning, however, the enemy have been caught
napping. His air patrols have not yet been sighted. Surely he has had
time to deal with the offender up there in the skies, who has been
reading the secret of his lines, and the movements in his rear, or
can it be that he is laying a trap for the unwary?
So far the daring young adventurers have had it all their own way,
but a surprise is in store for them. Meanwhile, however, they
continue to circle around, noting half a dozen little things which
Jock briefly enters on his memoranda sheet. A few photographs are
also taken with the telescopic camera, for in reconnoitring the
observer has noted some new lines of brown coloured earth showing up
plainly against the green. Becoming suspicious he pointed them out to
Dastral.
Holding the joy stick between his legs, Dastral takes the glasses for
a minute, then cries out,
"New trenches, I believe!"
"I think so, but we must make sure. I want a snapshot. Reserve
trenches probably. Perhaps the enemy are thinking of falling back the
next time they are attacked in force."
"If so, we've got his secret. It's important; we must go down and
see. Hold tight!"
At that moment while the couple were intent upon the line of new
trenches below, they failed to notice a little cloud that was coming
up out of the eastern horizon. Till now it had been bright and clear,
as it often is at the break of dawn, but the first little cloud, no
bigger than a man's hand, had arisen. And it was in that cloud that
the danger lay.
Heedless, however, of this little thing, and willing to take some
deadly risks to get the precious photograph, which might prove to be
the final link in some theory held at headquarters as to the position
on the enemy's front, they ignored the coming danger.
Putting forward the controlling gear the hornet dipped her head, and
made a graceful nose-dive at a terrific speed, losing in fifteen
seconds that which she would shortly very badly need, namely, her
altitude.
The long, downward glide is finished at last. They are within a
thousand feet of the newly-dug trenches when they flatten out, and
the camera is released and a series of short, sharp snaps are taken,
as the instrument click-clicks. To-morrow, when these are developed,
they will tell the divisional commander much that he wants to know,
and may explain something which has puzzled him for days past.
At the moment, however, when they flatten out, half a dozen Archies,
artfully concealed under a clump of bushes, suddenly open fire upon
the intruder.
"Whis-s-s! Bang!" comes one of the shells and bursts within fifty
feet of the 'plane.
For a few seconds they are blinded and stunned by the explosion, the
flying metal and the deadly fumes. They gasp for their breath, and
the aeroplane rocks wildly, but the terrific speed given them by the
nose-dive carries them through the maelstrom once more.
"Are you hurt, Dastral?" shouts the observer, as soon as he himself
regains the power of speech.
The pilot turns round just for half a second, and shakes his head,
but Jock sees for himself that though he evidently does not know it,
Dastral is wounded, for the visible part of his face is covered with
blood. Jock, himself, feels that his left arm is useless, and he
clenches it tightly with the other.
There is no time to waste in words, however, for another peril is at
hand. They are soon out of range of the Archies, which, nevertheless,
have riddled the planes with jagged holes. No vital part has been
hit, however, and the two adventurers are not severely wounded.
"Is the engine all right?" shouts Jock, as he sees Dastral peer into
the mechanism once or twice.
"She's 'pukka' (all right)," comes back the answer.
"Then we'd better make for home. Breakfast will be ready. It's nearly
six o'clock, and we've been out an hour and a half."
Dastral nods, and heads the machine for home, altering the controls
again in order to get a good altitude ready for crossing the
trenches.
As he does so he happens to look away to the eastward, as the machine
banks.
"Great Scott, look there!"
Jock did look, and in a cloud, not a couple of miles away, he saw two
specks racing for them with twice the speed of an express train.
Seizing his glasses he fixed them for one second upon the objects, to
discover, if possible, the rounded marks of the Allies upon the
newcomers. Instead, he saw the black cross in a white rounded field,
showing distinctly upon both machines.
"Enemy 'planes!" he shouted to the pilot.
"Himmelman?" suggested Dastral in a half bantering tone. "We're up
against it this time, old man. He's the 'star turn' of the enemy's
corps, and he fights like the deuce. I would like to have met him
upon even terms. As it is, if we cannot leave him and get back with
this information, we must fight him."
"Open the engine out, Dastral, and I'll bring the machine gun to
bear."
Fortunately, the hornet had not been hit in any vital part, and her
engine was running splendidly. But she had lost her altitude to get
the precious photograph, having dropped nearly six thousand feet,
and, in fighting, altitude counts a great deal, for it is much the
same as the "weather gage" for which our sea-dogs used to contend in
the olden days.
The hornet mounted two guns, but in a stern chase like this she could
use only the rear weapon. If he could only cripple one of their
pursuers by getting the first shot in Jock knew that they would then
be on more even terms, despite the fact that the enemy 'planes,
having caught them unawares, had got the advantage of them.
"What are they, Jock?" asked the pilot.
"Fighting scouts, I fancy." Then half a minute later he added:
"Yes, Fokkers, both of them, single seaters with the gun forward."
"Are they gaining much?"
"Yes, they're creeping up rapidly. Now they're nose-diving to gain
speed. Shall I open fire?"
"Not yet. Wait till they're within six hundred feet before you open.
Cripple the leader if you can."
"Here they come. They're about to open on us."
"Biff, ping, ping, rap, rap!" and the Hornet was sprayed from wing to
wing with machine gun bullets.
"Good heavens, the machine's like a sieve! She'll not last much
longer at this rate," cried Dastral, as he looked round and surveyed
the damage done. Then, turning round towards the observer, who was
sighting his gun, he shouted wildly:
"Give it him, Jock!"
Then it was that Jock let fly, a full drum of ammunition clean at the
fuselage of the leading enemy 'plane. Thus it was that nerve told.
Not for nothing had Jock gained the highest honours in the School of
Aerial Gunnery before putting his brevet up.
"Got him!" he cried exultantly, and the first machine went down in a
spinning nose-dive under that withering fire, for the pilot at the
controls was stone dead, shot through the head.
The next instant, however, the master-pilot of all the German airmen
was upon them. While his companion had attacked from the level, he
had kept his gage, and now, at the critical moment, he had appeared
as it were from the clouds above their heads, firing from his bow gun
as he did a thrilling nose-dive.
It was ever Himmelman's game to pounce upon his opponent and to beat
him nearer and nearer to the ground, until he was forced to crash or
make a landing in enemy territory. Once again he was about to
triumph, so he thought, for never before had he caught his man so
neatly.
But Dastral was no ordinary aviator, and though his machine was raked
again from end to end, yet the engine still ran, and to Himmelman's
surprise his quarry proved much more elusive than he thought. With
his superior speed, owing to his downward drive, the German air-fiend
swept round and round the hornet, firing all the while, but Dastral,
his blood thoroughly up now, found an answering manoeuvre each time.
The end was near, however, for the English machine could not hold out
much longer. Not only were the planes riddled, but several stays and
struts were gone, and several times the engine had missed. To make
matters worse, after the second drum the machine gun had jammed, and
things seemed hopeless.
"Confound the gun! He's coming on again, Dastral," shouted the
observer, clenching his fist, and forgetting all about the bullet in
his arm.
"Look out, then, I'm going to ram him. If I've got to go down, he's
going down with me."
The two machines were almost on a level now, and when the German came
on, Dastral just put the joy-stick over, and made straight for his
opponent.
"Donner and blitz!" yelled the irate Boche, for he did not understand
such tactics. For one aeroplane to ram another in mid air at two
thousand feet seemed incredible, but here was this mad Britisher
coming straight for him.
"Mein Gott, no!" gasped Himmelman, and by a skilful manoeuvre he
sheered off, though thousands of his fellow-countrymen were watching
him from below, for they were now almost over the trenches.
"Bravo, Dastral!" yelled Jock, though but an instant before his heart
seemed to be in his mouth, as the pilot made his almost fatal dash
for his opponent.
Seeing that Himmelman had failed in his move, the anti-aircraft guns
opened fire again from below, but the hornet sailed on over the
trenches, and Himmelman did not follow, for out of the west three
British fighters were coming to the rescue.
"Will she hold out, Dastral?" the observer asked a moment later, as
they passed the British trenches, out of the range of the German
Archies.
"I think so. Can you spot the aerodrome?"
"Yes, there it is, a little to the right."
"Thanks, I see it now," came the softened reply, for Dastral was
rolling a little in his seat, as though he held the joy-stick with
difficulty.
Jock bent over to help him, and the next minute they landed safely on
the level turf. And Jock remembered hearing a voice say:
"Come along now. We're waiting breakfast for you in the mess."