STRAFING THE BABY-KILLERS
DASTRAL and Jock received a hearty welcome home that morning.
Although it was scarcely yet six o'clock, their day's work was
finished, and a good day's work it had been. Dastral's laconic report
was handed to the Squadron-Commander. Then, as soon as his slight
flesh wounds had been dressed by the genial "Number Nine," as Captain
Young, the medical officer for the squadron, was called, they went in
to early morning breakfast at the mess.
"So you've had a scrap with Himmelman, have you, Lieutenant?" asked
Number Nine at the breakfast table.
"Just a slight skirmish," replied Dastral.
"You're lucky to get away from him!"
"You think so?" queried the young pilot, pouring out another cup of
coffee, and pressing Jock, whose wound was giving him a good deal of
pain, to another slice of hot buttered toast.
"I do, decidedly. He's so deucedly clever that he's uncanny. We
haven't found the man who can match him yet on our side. But one of
these days we shall do it."
Dastral did not reply for some time. His mind was full of the details
of the recent encounter he had had with the unbeaten champion. He
wondered what Himmelman thought of his own tactics which had made the
air-fiend sheer off at the last moment. And he also determined that
should the opportunity ever come to fight with him on equal terms he
would not refuse the challenge. If it were possible the western front
should be rid of this champion, and the supremacy of the air wrested
from the Germans.
For the next few days Dastral and Jock remained on light duty,
nursing their wounds, and taking strolls about the aerodrome near
Contalmaison. The hornet had been so badly damaged that it was
necessary to send to England for new parts to be supplied before it
could be flown again.
At the end of a fortnight, however, they were both quite well again,
and the hornet had been brought to its pristine condition. Then they
took part in several reconnaissances over the enemy's lines, and in
more than one bombing raid, but nothing of unusual importance
happened for nearly a month, when the following incident occurred:
Dastral had just been made Flight-Commander, and so, in addition to
the hornet, three other active warplanes and three brilliant pilots
who were ready to follow him to the "Gulfs," wherever that might be,
had been placed under his command. This was the section of the Royal
Flying Corps called "B" Flight, which was to win much fame and glory
in the days of the near future. Already, Dastral, by his cool daring
and skilful manoeuvring, had won a great name amongst his fellows,
and some had even begun to talk of him as a possible competitor with
Himmelman.
Often, after one of his more than usually brilliant raids or
reconnaissances over the lines, his friends would remark of him in
his absence:
"Some day he will meet with Himmelman again, and then one of the two
will never return."
"What a fight that will be!" remarked Number Nine one day, as he lit
his cigar and leaned back in his comfortable fauteuil, to puff rings
of smoke into the air.
"And I hope I shall be there," said Mac, one of the pilots of "B"
Flight.
"And while Dastral fights with Himmelman, may I be there to fight
with Boelke," added Brum to his friend Steve, both pilots belonging
to "B" Flight.
Brum was short and sturdy, while Steve, or Inky as he was sometimes
called, was tall and thin and very dark, with piercing blue-grey
eyes, and they both considered Dastral the finest and fairest fighter
in the British Air Service.
One day, while the great fight on the Somme was in progress, and the
Allies, by their great pressure were winning village after village
from the enemy, there came a mysterious message to the Command
Headquarters of the ---- Division, stating that the enemy had
finished the construction of three huge Zeppelin sheds not far from
Brussels. Also that the same number of Zeppelins had just arrived
from Friedricshaven to take possession of the sheds, evidently
preparatory to a raid upon Paris or London.
The wires and despatch-riders were busy that day between the Command
Headquarters and the Aerodrome. Plans were drawn up to destroy at an
early date both the airships and the sheds. After some consideration,
it was decided that "B" Flight should have the honour of carrying out
the raid, and accordingly Dastral and Jock went to work at once with
their maps and charts to evolve a thoroughly sound plan of campaign.
Several days later, towards evening, another coded message from the
same secret service agent behind the lines came to hand by carrier
pigeon, which when decoded ran something as follows:
"Two Zeppelins just left Brussels' sheds, travelling west-nor'-west!"
"Send Flight-Commander Dastral to me at once," said the
Squadron-Commander, immediately the message was read to him.
As soon as Dastral appeared the O.C., who had been pacing about his
little room, turned abruptly upon the pilot, and said,
"See this, Dastral?"
"Yes, sir," replied the youth, scanning the brief message, which told
him so much.
"You know what it means?"
"It evidently means that a raid on London is imminent, and is being
carried out to-night, I fancy, sir."
"Exactly!" snapped the O.C., who at such times became easily
fractious and irritated.
At this moment the telephone in the C.O.'s office suddenly burst out,
"Ting-a-ling-ling!"
"Yes, who's there?" asked the Major sharply.
"Advanced Headquarters, Fourth Army. Are you the R.F.C.?"
"Yes--Squadron-Commander speaking from No. 10 Aerodrome."
"Right. News is just to hand by field telephone that three Zeppelins
have passed overhead making for the Channel. We have wired the coast
stations and the R N.A.S. to look after them, and if possible to
bring them down. There is evidently a raid in progress. What do you
think you can do in the matter?" asked the officer at the other end.
"Hold on just a few seconds, sir!" replied the Major. Then, turning
round to Dastral, he repeated the conversation briefly, and said,
"What do you suggest?"
"Just this, sir," replied the pilot. "Our plan to destroy the sheds
is well forward, and we hoped to carry it out in three or four days.
We know exactly where the place is----"
"Yes, yes, go on. The staff officer is waiting at the other end of
the line," blurted out the C.O.
"Well, sir, if you will detail me to take my flight over there, so as
to be on the spot at dawn, when the airships return, we may be able
to strafe the lot. At any rate, we can destroy the sheds, and a
Zeppelin would be useless without its cradle, and would soon come to
grief."
"Good! Prepare your flight at once for the venture, and we must leave
the other Squadrons and the R.N.A.S. and coast batteries to try and
stop the raid."
"Yes, sir," replied the pilot, saluting smartly and departing on his
errand.
So while the C.O. concluded his conversation with Headquarters over
the 'phone, Dastral got to work at once with his flight.
While Snorty, the Aerodrome Sergeant-Major, and Yap, the rag-time
"Corporal," and a squad of experienced air-mechanics prepared the
machines for action, the Flight-Commander got together his pilots,
Mac, Steve, and Brum, with their observers, and explained every
detail of the proposed campaign. Distances were carefully worked out,
a prearranged code of signals agreed upon, maps and charts examined
and committed as far as possible to memory, and a score of necessary
details worked up, so that there should be no confusion in the method
of attack.
Having spent an hour thus discussing the matter and threshing out
every aspect of the question that arose, Dastral said,
"Now then for a rendezvous, lads, for we must go singly, and come
together smartly, at the precise moment, just as the dawn is
breaking, which will be no easy matter."
"Let it be the Lion Mound on the battlefield at Waterloo," suggested
Mac.
"Well, yes, that will do," said the Flight-Commander. "It is only
about two miles away from the sheds, which are close by the village
of Braine l'Alleud."
"Agreed," they all cried. "It will be a landmark we shall easily
find."
"Then understand, all of you, that you must be there exactly as the
dawn breaks, and, as soon as we pick each other up, we shall fall
into regular flight formation, make a bee line for the sheds, and
drop the squibs before the enemy can get to work with their Archies,"
said Dastral.
"And the cargo, Dastral? What shall we load up with?"
"Six twenty-pound bombs each, with ten drums of the new machine-gun
ammunition. I think that will be all we can safely take without
reducing speed."
"Right, sir!"
"And understand, boys," the leader went on. "There must be no
fighting on the way there, even if attacked, unless it is absolutely
necessary to prevent a crash. I quite expect we may have to fight an
airship or two, and possibly a patrol of Fokkers or Aviatiks, for the
Zeps are sure to be escorted on their way back, if they get wind of
our little game."
"Agreed, sir."
"And now, gentlemen, to bed, all of you. It is imperative that you
should each have a good night's rest, for if any man's nerves are run
down in the morning, I shall put him off," said Dastral seriously,
and they knew he meant it, for he could be serious at times, despite
his laughing blue eyes, and his apparently gay and reckless manner.
So to bed they went, for they were all tired out, and not even the
promise of the morrow's venture could keep them awake, for these
daring airmen had learnt the happy knack of taking sleep whenever
they could get it, as soon as duty was done, and of forgetting all
about their machines as well as their own wonderful exploits.
Next morning, long before dawn, Corporal Yap, humming one of his
rag-time songs, went round the bunks of the officers' mess and gently
called the pilots and observers one by one. Within an hour they had
breakfasted and were out on the aerodrome watching the machines being
wheeled out, by the aid of the hand-lamps and electric torches.
After a brief but careful final examination of every strut and wire,
the machines were quite ready, all loaded up, with the machine-guns
shipped, compasses aboard, etc.
"All ready, sir!" reported Snorty, as he came up and saluted.
"Tumble aboard, lads!" called Dastral, and within two minutes the
pilots and observers were in their seats, and the air mechanics
standing ready to swing the propellors.
"Swish!" went the whirling blades.
"Stand clear!" came next in a shrill voice.
Then away into the darkness sped the four machines. In a few seconds
they were lost to sight as they taxied across the aerodrome. Then one
after another they leapt into the air, and began their upward climb,
leaving their friends and well-wishers behind them, craning their
necks to get a last view of them as they tried to locate them in the
upper regions, by the hum of the gnome engines, and the loud
whir-r-r-r of the propellors.
After rising rapidly to seven thousand feet the 'planes made off in
the direction of the enemy's trenches, which they crossed at
different points, for they had already separated in accordance with
their plans. As they crossed the lines a dozen milk-white arms
stretched up to reach them. These were the German searchlights, for
the alarm had been raised and messages about.
"English aeroplanes crossing our lines!" had been flashed from the
trenches to the Archies and the German searchlights.
"Boom-m! Boom-m!" went the anti-aircraft guns in a mad effort to find
the raiders. But their efforts were futile, for the raiders looked
down upon the little spurts of flame far beneath, and laughed as they
quickly passed out of range.
The distance to be covered was nearly a hundred miles, before they
arrived at the appointed rendezvous, but that did not trouble the
daring aviators. Steering by compass, and watching the eastern sky
right ahead for the first faint tinge of dawn, onwards they sped over
Cambrai and the ruined fortress of Mauberge. Then they crossed into
Belgian territory, that land of wretchedness and suffering, where a
brave little people were enduring torment under the heel of the hated
Prussian.
They were rapidly nearing the neighbourhood of the rendezvous when
Jock called to Dastral, and shouted,
"Look, there comes Aurora, the Daughter of the Morn!"
The pilot looked in the direction indicated by his observer, and away
to the eastward, over the far horizon, he saw the first grey streak
which heralded the coming day.
He watched it as it grew and rapidly diffused itself over the sky.
From grey it turned to a pale yellow, then as they still sped on,
crimson flashes shot out over the firmament, as though the door of
heaven had literally been unbarred, and the dark curtain of night had
been rolled westward.
"Keep a good look-out for the other machines, Jock!" cried Dastral,
for he had no time now to dwell in rhapsody over the beauty of the
dawn. Danger was at hand, and he had a stern duty to fulfil.
The observer, however, did not need to be reminded; he was already
peering through his glasses, searching the skies in the faint light
for signs of the other 'planes.
"Can you make out any landmarks?" asked Dastral through the speaking
tube, becoming not a little alarmed, and fearing that in the darkness
they had overshot the mark and sailed past the rendezvous.
"Yes. Look, we are over a big city. I can see a dozen spires peeping
up already through the gloom," replied the observer, after peering
down towards the earth for another minute.
"Good!" ejaculated the pilot, bringing over the controls, and banking
swiftly to come back on his course. "We must be over Brussels. We
have come too far."
The next minute they were speeding away South-west towards the
appointed rendezvous. Opening out the engine, they were soon going
full pelt, before the enemy's guns could find them.
"Aircraft in sight to the northward," came next, for Jock had picked
up a tiny speck away on their right.
And now for a moment there was intense excitement, for they knew not
as yet whether the newcomer might prove to be an enemy, and they were
anxious to avoid being entangled in a fight until their work was
done.
"Can you pick up the Lion Mound yet?" asked Dastral. "It cannot be
far away now."
"Yes, I have it now. A little further away to the right. Can you make
it out?"
"Yes, I see it. We'll be there in a minute. Keep your eyes well
skinned for the others. I think that must be Mac. away on our right,
though he seems to be hanging back a bit; he evidently mistakes us
for an enemy machine as we have come from the direction of Brussels.
Can you make out his marks yet?"
"Not yet. It isn't light enough, and he's keeping too far away."
They were now right over the Lion Mound on the famous field of
battle. The village of Waterloo was just behind them, standing almost
exactly as it stood on that memorable day, Sunday, June 18, 1815. In
the morning mist the old chateau of Hougumont lay sleepily ensconced
in the hollow, while on the left the smoke was already rising up from
the farmhouse of La Haye Saint.
"Another 'plane coming up on the south, making a bee line for us,"
shouted the observer.
"Splendid! That must be Steve," exclaimed Dastral, warming up a
little as he saw that two of his three birds had reached the spot
safely.
"But where the deuce is Brum? He should be here by now. It's getting
quite light," said Jock, peering in every direction for the missing
aviator.
"Ho! ho! here he comes."
"Where away? I can't see him."
"Right behind us. He must have over-shot the mark also, and he's
coming back on our trail from Brussels."
The next instant, Dastral did a rapid swerve, and a steep nose-dive,
in accordance with the pre-arranged code made before starting.
This was quite sufficient, for the strangers had been stalling their
machines, and circling around, waiting for the signal. Now they
opened out their engines and came on at top speed to meet their
leader.
As they came up Jock could see the observers waving their hands in
recognition. Yes, they were all here. The first part of the business
was over. They had all come safely through and gained the rendezvous.
"Now we must get to work, for there's trouble brewing somewhere for
us, and the sooner we get through the affair the better," shouted the
pilot through the speaking tube.
As the machines came up, they wheeled smartly round, and each took up
its appointed place in the formation. To an observer down below it
must have appeared that they were great birds wheeling about to
order, just like a platoon of infantry on parade.
"Prepare for action," was the next signal given, as they sped off,
led by Dastral.
"Braine l'Alleud next," called Dastral.
"Yes, a little further to the right, just below the dip in the hill.
We should see the Zeppelin sheds shortly," responded Jock, who was
ready for the query, and had one finger already on the waterproof
map.
"Shall I follow the road?" asked Dastral.
"Yes, till I pick up the hangars."
A moment later, the huge sheds came into view, and Jock, putting down
his glasses, shouted with glee:
"There they are--three of them, and quite a crowd of people round
about them. A little more to the left."
"Yes, I see them--why, there are hundreds of people there. What on
earth can they be doing there?" asked Dastral.
"German soldiers waiting for the return of the Zeppelins that raided
England last night, I expect."
"Phew! Our luck's in this time."
"They think we're friendly machines too, I believe," cried Jock,
fingering the bomb release, ready to let go the first twenty-pound
bomb on to the hangar. "Evidently, they can't make out our marks yet
in the morning mist."
"They'll soon think differently," replied the pilot, as, coming up at
full speed, followed by the rest of the flight, he did a rapid
nose-dive of two thousand feet. Then, flattening out to get a better
control over his machine, he swept on again till nearly exactly over
the first huge shed, and did another rapid nose-dive, the speed of
which must have approximated one hundred and fifty miles an hour.
"Look to it, Jock. Let go, man!" he yelled.
Jock pulled the clutch of the bomb release, and the first missile
fell almost into the middle of the huge building. He could not fail
to hit it, for the target was so large, and Dastral had dropped to
within three hundred feet of the high roof.
"Swis-s-s-h----Boom-m-m-m----!"
The explosion was terrific, and the huge roof of the building
crumpled in with a crash.
Scarcely fifteen seconds later Mac. dropped a petrol bomb into the
half ruined building, and before the third plane could come into
action, huge flames were bursting out everywhere.
Then it was that the German anti-aircraft guns, discovering their
mistake, turned their concentrated fire upon the first machine, which
by this time was passing the second hangar, and about to repeat the
process.
"Spit! bang! boom!" And now the calm morning air was alive with
bursting bombs and tearing shrapnel, while down below the distracted
German soldiery, who had been waiting to house the returning
Zeppelins, were rushing hither and thither, bewildered, whilst their
officers were cursing those verdomt Englanders, who were always up to
some new devilment.
"Gott in Himmel! Gott strafe England!" came from many a mouth, and
curses and cries of anger, coupled with shouts of defiance, rent the
air.
"Are you ready, Jock?" yelled Dastral, as they whirled through a
screen of bursting shrapnel.
"Yes, aye, ready!" came the response from the observer, whose eyes
were lit with the light of battle.
"Then let go!"
"Boom-m-m!" went another bomb on to the second hangar, and so with
the third and last.
Within three minutes the whole of the structures of the three huge
sheds were blazing fiercely, and, as the 'planes sped away, and
climbed out of the line of immediate fire, they noted with joy that
the flames from the third shed were larger and fiercer than those
from the others.
Huge forks of fire leapt three hundred feet into the air, and the
heat was so fierce within a hundred feet that everybody within that
zone of fire was scorched and fell fainting or dead.
"Some blaze that, Jock!" cried Dastral as soon as they had left the
fire curtain of shrapnel behind them, and could observe the burning
mass properly.
"Yes, there's a Zeppelin in there, I'll swear to it. Else it would
never blaze like that." Scarcely had he spoken, when a terrific
explosion rent the air, fifty times as loud and terrible as that
caused by the bursting of the twenty-pound bombs. At the same
instant, a huge column of smoke, flame and debris shot up into the
sky, making the very aeroplanes tremble with the tremendous
vibration.
"Great Scott, you're right, Jock! We've done it this time. It must
have been a Zeppelin. There is nothing left of the shed now. It has
been clean lifted away."
The destruction wrought down below had been terrible. The casualties
caused by the bombs had been as nothing compared to the terrible
death-roll amongst the German soldiery by the explosion of a million
cubic feet of gas and the wreckage of the huge hangar. The burning,
blazing missiles of bent, twisted iron, steel, timber and aluminium
came down from the skies, and wrought death and havoc amongst the
labour battalions which must always be on duty near a Zeppelin
hangar.
Once they were out of range of the enemy's guns Dastral looked round
upon his companions. So far they had come through pretty well. No
vital hit had been made, but every machine had received its quota of
shrapnel. Not a 'plane amongst them but had its fifty or sixty jagged
tears through the planes. Mac's propeller had also been hit, but as
it was only slightly splintered, it still enabled the pilot to carry
on.
However, as he wheeled round his flight, Dastral saw that it would
take his brave followers all their time to get back nearly a hundred
miles to safety. He gave the signal, therefore, for every pilot to
make a bee line for the English trenches, and thus get home before
the Aviatiks, Rolands and Fokkers came, which he knew would be
climbing up already to attack them, from the aerodromes in the
vicinity of Brussels.
Two of the observers had also been wounded, though slightly, and
signalled accordingly, so that Dastral became uneasy, lest, after
all, their return to safety should be hindered. Most of all did he
fear that it might be necessary to leave one of his machines behind,
for, if an aeroplane is forced to land in enemy territory, there is
small chance of escape, either for man or machine.
The whole flight, therefore, had fallen into position for return,
with Dastral leading, for he had signalled his men to keep together,
as far as possible, till they were about to cross the lines.
Suddenly, however, when they had proceeded some eight or nine miles
on their way, Jock, who had been scanning the north-western horizon,
called out:
"A Zeppelin! A Zeppelin!"
"Good heavens, where?" shouted Dastral.
"Away over there on the right, low down on the horizon."
"Phew! So it is. One of their lame ducks coming home to roost, after
raiding some English village, I expect."
"The devils. I say, Dastral?"
"Yes?"
"Let's strafe the baby-killer!" shouted Jock.
Dastral turned round once more to look at his battered flight. Could
he do it? Where were the German Fokkers? he asked himself. And for
once he hesitated. It was only for a moment, however, and it was not
for any thought of himself that he hesitated, but the knowledge that
he would be attacked shortly by enemy 'planes, and that some of his
machines would be lost, for they were not in any fit state at present
to engage with enemy warplanes. Jock, always an eager fighter, was
edging him on, however.
"What say you, Flight-Commander? The others seems eager to fight.
We've plenty of bombs left yet, and haven't touched the drums. Let's
bring the blighter down, so that it can't kill any more babies in
their cots."
"Right-o, Jock! Throw out the signal-Zeppelin."
And the next moment a couple of smoke bombs were thrown out by the
observer, which gave the order, "Prepare to attack."
"Whir-r-r!" went the four 'planes on their new tack, as the
controlling wires went over, and each machine banked suddenly and
came round head on towards the enemy.
"By Jove, she's seen us and she's heading off too!" shouted Jock
through the tube.
"Yes, so I see. Bet she's using her wireless some to call for the
Fokkers. We haven't much time to lose."
In less than three minutes they were within machine-gun fire of the
huge gas-bag, which was flying as low as three thousand feet, and
seemed incapable of lifting herself much, either through shortage of
gas or damaged machinery.
"Look out! She's opening fire! See there!" Short sharp jets of fire
spat out from the gondolas of the Zeppelin in half a dozen different
places, and the bullets began to whistle and ping-ping about the ears
of the aviators.
"Reserve your fire, boys!" ordered Dastral, for he knew that they
would all be anxious to fire. Then he threw out another order, which
meant, "Attack from above."
This they all understood immediately, and followed Dastral as he made
his machine almost sit upon her tail, as she climbed and manoeuvred
to get above the huge lumbering mass, which was already levering away
to leeward on account of some defective machinery, and the fresh
breeze which had sprung up from the south-east.
Two minutes later they were almost directly above the Zeppelin, and,
except for two machine-guns which were mounted above the envelope,
they were immune from fire, for the other guns down below were
screened by the huge looming mass above them.
Even the gunners on the top were practically useless, for the terrors
of the past night and the impending death now awaiting them had
shattered their nerves, and they were firing wildly, so that the
daring aviators had them at their mercy, for the hornets were about
to attack.
Dastral gave one more look round at his flight, and saw them coming
boldly on behind him. Then he shouted to Jock:
"All ready there?"
"Aye, ready," came the response.
"Then in mercy's name fire!" A short, sharp nose-dive of two hundred
feet, and they were within a hundred feet of the leviathan, and
immediately above her. So near were they that they could see the
affrighted machine-gunners on the top of the gas-bag leave their
posts and try to escape down the escalier, but they had left it too
long. They were now about to pay the price for the toll they had
wantonly taken of innocent lives during the long dark hours of the
past night. And, like all cowards who wreak their vengeance upon
helpless folk, they feared the dread spectre when it came close to
themselves.
"Whis-s-sh! Boom-m-m!" went the first bomb; a time fuse fixed for two
seconds. The explosion rent the envelope, and allowed vast quantities
of gas to escape from two of the ballonets, so that the huge mass
crumpled in at the head, and began to sink slowly at the nose.
Another bomb was dropped, and the second and third machines coming
up, dropped petrol and phosphorus bombs, which blazed away, igniting
the escaping gas.
She was well alight now, and in the fore part she was burning
fiercely, but as yet she did not explode. Dastral saw that she was
done for, however, and knowing that the enemy craft could not be far
away after all this time, made off and signalled his men to follow.
Down, down went the blazing mass for a couple of thousand feet, then
rolling over, it literally fell asunder into several parts, and each
part, still burning, carried its helpless inmates down to
destruction.
Once more Dastral looked round, and as he did so, he gasped out the
words:
"Great Scott! The whole place is alive with Fokkers, Rolands and
Aviatiks!"
Then followed a fierce running fight, in which the English were
outnumbered three to one. The enemy were all around them, for they
had been called by wireless from every direction. Dastral headed his
men into the thick of the combat. Three German 'planes were brought
down, and not till every round of ammunition was fired, and every
drum empty did the Commander call off his Flight again, or rather
what was left of it.
Brum, fighting bravely to the last, had gone down in a whirling
spiral after first sending down an Aviatik. Steve followed him a
little later, with his machine blazing, for his petrol tank had been
plugged time after time. Dastral alone, with Mac, both their machines
damaged beyond repair and both their observers wounded, staggered
through the curtain fire at the trenches later in the morning, and
came to earth just behind the British first line.