THE GIANT WAR-PLANE
FOR some days after the daring adventure recorded in our last chapter
things had been fairly quiet along that portion of the Somme front,
near the sector patrolled by the 'planes of the --th Squadron. There
had been the usual daily reconnaissances over the enemy's lines; the
usual spotting and registering for the artillery by the aeroplanes
and the kite balloons, but the dull, cloudy weather had restricted
the use of the 'planes to a great extent.
One incident that had occurred, however, caused no little excitement,
and awakened the professional curiosity of the pilots, observers and
air-mechanics of the squadron.
Late one afternoon a very small but swift aerial scout, in the shape
of a new type of baby-monoplane, suddenly appeared over the
aerodrome, and after circling round once or twice, made several rapid
spirals and descended on to the grounds. It was no enemy machine, for
the red, white and blue cocarde of the Allies was plainly visible
upon the underside of the wings, and also on the rudder.
No sooner had the ferry-pilot who had brought her over from England,
made a landing, and climbed out of his tiny nascelle, than every
pilot and observer who was about the place, and not on duty, gathered
round to welcome the newcomer with the usual greeting, and to flood
him with questions as to the new machine. Amongst the rest the
Flight-Commander of "B" Flight could be seen talking and arguing with
his friends.
"Gee-whiz! But isn't she a beauty, boys?" he was heard to exclaim,
as, with quite a boyish enthusiasm, he completed in less than two
minutes his first brief examination of the machine.
"By Jove, but she's a gem!" replied Mac, to whom the question had
been more particularly addressed.
"I've never seen anything like her," exclaimed another member of "B"
Flight. "I don't think the Huns have anything to equal her."
"Not even their Fokkers?" ventured one of the pilots, who was already
seated in the little cockpit, trying her controls, for he was just
longing to take her aloft. "And you came from London in an hour and a
quarter?" asked Dastral of the ferry-pilot, helping him out of his
thick leather coat.
"Yes, quite easily," replied the latter.
"And you never even pushed her?"
"I never opened the throttle to the full till I rushed the Channel,
half an hour ago."
"And then you let her rip?"
"Yes, I did then. She fairly seemed to leap over the English Channel.
She touched one hundred and sixty miles, and for a while she quite
frightened me."
"Phew! I should think so. What the deuce shall we get to next? One
hundred and sixty miles an hour! Great Scott! I'd give ten years of
my life to meet Himmelman on her, when I've fairly tried her," said
Dastral quietly.
There was a note of silence when the Flight-Commander spoke thus, for
he did not often express himself like that, though every one knew
that the ambition of his life was to meet the German air-fiend on
equal terms, and fate had decreed that before very long his wish
should be gratified.
After this, they all adjourned to the messroom, and, for that
evening, and the next, the ferry-pilot was their guest.
At dinner that evening, when John Bunny, the jovial, stout, stumpy,
chubby-faced waiter at the officers' mess, had cleared away, and
cigars were lighted, and chairs drawn to the fire-place, all the talk
was about the baby-monoplane. For the time being even the war faded
away, except so far as it hinged upon the coming deeds of the new
machine. They discussed its merits and its possibilities, its high
speed, its wonderful but powerful engine, capable of 200 horse-power
and nearly two thousand revolutions a minute.
Next morning, as soon as it was light, Dastral was seated in the
little nascelle, climbing into the azure. For an hour he tested it,
and came down delighted with his new plaything. Again and again he
tried it during the next two days, until he was thoroughly at home
with it, and could handle it just as well as any other machine he had
ever flown. Indeed, the ferry-pilot who watched him was amazed at the
antics which the Flight-Commander performed with the trippy little
thing.
On the third morning after the arrival of the new visitant, the
aerodrome was startled by renewed activity on the part of the enemy.
Just as dawn was breaking Lieutenant Grenfell, who was again on
orderly officer's duty at the aerodrome, was called suddenly to the
telephone by the Flight-sergeant in attendance saying:
"Advanced Headquarters Ginchy want to speak to you, sir."
An instant later he was holding the receiver, and heard Ginchy speak
plainly.
"Is that Advanced II.Q. Ginchy?" he asked.
"Yes. Is that the orderly officer, Contalmaison aerodrome?"
"Yes. Anything the matter?"
"Enemy 'planes crossing our lines, and coming in your direction,"
came the laconic answer. "Want you to take necessary action at once."
"Right, old fellow. Action shall be taken at once. But I say--hullo,
are you still there?"
"Yes."
"How many enemy 'planes were there?"
"Three have crossed over. A very big one, and two fast scouts. The
others have all been turned back by our A.A. guns, but they are
trying again, I think, as the guns are opening fire upon them once
more."
"All right. Good bye!"
Then, turning to the Flight-Sergeant, the officer said:
"Quick, sergeant! Sound the alarm to call up the men, and get the
machines out of the hangars ready for action. There is no time to
lose. If they are fast machines they will be here in less than five
minutes."
"Yes, sir," and the sergeant saluted and departed upon his errand,
calling out the guard and giving the orderly sergeant instructions to
rouse all the men at once, while he himself returned to the orderly
officer, and assisted in calling the pilots from their bunks by
telephone.
Rapidly as everything was carried out, before all the machines could
be got ready, or the pilots prepared, the enemy had arrived and had
begun to bomb the aerodrome.
"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m-m!" came the first bomb, which was quickly
followed by others.
It was only just light enough to make out the machines, but Dastral,
who was one of the first pilots on the spot, was already in his
baby-monoplane, ready for the propeller to be swung, when the first
bomb fell, not thirty yards away. His attention, however, for the
past few seconds while the drums of ammunition were being brought,
had been fixed upon the raiders.
He was amazed at what he saw. There were two small machines,
evidently fast scouts and single-seaters, each fitted with a
single-fixed gun, but the other visitor was a huge warplane, so big
that for the moment he was astounded.
"Look, Jock!" he shouted. "Egad, but she's a tri-plane, a giant, with
a double fuselage, two engines, and a protected or armoured car in
the centre--at least, so it seems to me. And she's got two gunners at
least. Great Scott! where are those drums? I must get off at once, or
they will blow the place to bits. They've already hit No. 3 shed, and
probably damaged half a dozen machines."
"Here is your ammunition, sir!" cried Corporal Yap, running up at
that moment with the drums and placing them in the cockpit.
"Right. Stand clear there!"
"Rap-rap-rap! Whir-r-r!" came the sound of the engine and the
whirring blades of the monoplane, for it could be distinctly heard
above the roar of the anti-aircraft guns which were now furiously
shelling the invaders. And while some confusion reigned for the
moment at the aerodrome, the little hornet taxied off, and leapt up
into the air.
Dastral was the first to mount up, but the Dwarf being a
single-seater, he was compelled to leave Jock behind for the nonce.
Higher and higher he climbed, for the monoplane had the power to rise
rapidly, and when at full speed to sit on her tail for a short
period, that is, to climb nearly perpendicularly. She was so small,
too, that she was difficult to perceive even from a short distance.
Thus she was more fortunate than the others, which, on rising shortly
afterwards, received the concentrated fire and bombs of all the three
raiders.
Even Munroe had to land again, with his machine blazing, for one of
the bombs had shattered his petrol tank, and set the machine on fire,
so that the pilot himself was rescued with difficulty from the
wreckage. Two other machines were also compelled to descend, for the
enemy, having the weather-gage and being directly above them, had the
advantage.
The Flight-Commander by this time was well away, and was careering
round, climbing more rapidly than he had ever done before, and
looking forward to the coming combat. He could see his own target,
but, relying upon the small target that the Dwarf offered, he kept
just sufficiently away to render his own machine invisible to the
Huns, who were having the time of their lives.
Dastral was in a fighting mood; he felt ready to fight all the Boche
airmen in the world, if he could only get at them. Higher and higher
he rose, and marked the little register as it clicked out the
altitude:--
"Three thousand--four thousand feet."
Its quiet voice was drowned in the roar of the engine and the
whir-r-r of the propellers, but its face seemed to smile at the pilot
and beckon him to victory.
He had got well over towards the enemy's lines, in his circling
sweep, for he was determined to keep well between the enemy and his
base. Besides, it was good strategy, for the day was breaking and
already, up there, he could see the rim of the sun showing over the
edge of the eastern horizon.
"I shall have the sun behind my back when the fight begins, and the
Huns will have it in their eyes!" he told himself.
At six thousand feet he banked and swept round towards the enemy,
still climbing rapidly, for the Boches were at about seven thousand
feet. Again and again he made the whizzing Dwarf almost to sit upon
her tail, so eager was he to reach seven thousand five hundred.
He felt perfectly happy, and braced for the conflict. His only
anxiety was to get to business at once.
"Five thousand--five thousand five hundred feet," said the little
dial, and Dastral laughed riotously.
"Seven thousand," came at last, though it seemed an age to the eager
pilot.
Glancing down and away to the west, he could see his comrades
climbing up to his assistance, for he had left them far behind. The
Boches had seen them too, and were diving to attack them, dropping
bombs and firing incendiary bullets.
"Capital!" shouted Dastral in high glee, as he saw the enemy make
several rapid dives, giving him exactly what he wanted, the
weather-gage.
"The beasts haven't seen me, or they wouldn't do that!" Dastral told
himself, and he was right, for the enemy had not even suspected his
presence yet, or, if they had seen him leave the ground, they had
lost sight of him, owing to the tactics he had adopted. They were
soon to have a knowledge of his presence, however.
"Now for it," said Dastral between his teeth, as, having reached
seven thousand feet, he whizzed away to the attack of the nearest
'plane, one of the enemy's fighting scouts which had accompanied the
huge warplane.
"Whir-r-r-r!" went the hornet, as Dastral opened the engine throttle
to the full.
The speed of the hornet was terrific, and the sound of the wind
rushing past him sounded to the pilot as loud as the noise of the
engine.
"One hundred and sixty!" laughed the speedometer.
"They can't beat that," replied Dastral, as though the little
dial-face understood. He felt that he must talk, though he had no
observer this morning.
Now he was over the fighting scout, and she saw him for the first
time. She was the highest of the three, but she was a thousand feet
below him, and, relying on her speed, she banked, turned swiftly, and
tried to escape, actually leaving the warplane to look after herself.
Dastral pulled over the controls, and down, down he went in a
thrilling nose-dive as though he would crash her to the earth with
his own fuselage, but that was not his intention. At five hundred
feet he opened fire, and gave her three drums in rapid succession,
and never was sound more agreeable to his ears than that
"rap--rap--rap--rap--rap!" of his machine-gun as he sprayed the enemy
from end to end of his fuselage with incendiary bullets.
Before the third drum was exhausted he noticed the flames leap from
the doomed German, for Dastral had sent three flaming-bullets through
his reserve petrol-tank, and in that moment he knew he had only two
enemies left to fight, for the first enemy 'plane went down blazing
in a plunging dip, which ended in a spinning nose-dive and a terrible
crash, right over the eastern end of the aerodrome.
Dastral looked down, his eyes gleaming with victory, glad he had
finished number one, but sincerely hoping in his heart that his
comrades on the ground would be able to save the pilot from the
burning wreckage, for of all deaths that the daring aviator dreads,
to be burnt is the worst of all, and few English pilots, having sent
the enemy down, wish him such an end.
There was no time for sentiment, however, this morning, for the next
moment Dastral was startled by the sound of a machine-gun behind him:
"Rat--tat--tat!"
Yes, one of his own friends was already attacking the warplane. It
sounded like Mac, and the tactics seemed suspiciously his, for he had
been creeping up behind Dastral, following his leader, as he had so
often done before, and he was now engaged in a battle royal with the
monster, wilst another 'plane was tackling the second scout, though
at a disadvantage.
For a second Dastral was halting which way to turn, but pilots have
to make rapid decisions every day, and when he saw Mac's danger, for
the enemy would assuredly send him down in a few minutes unless help
came, the Flight-Commander banked quickly, and, still having the
advantage of nearly a thousand feet in altitude, he swept on to help
his man.
It was well he did, for though Mac fought bravely, as Dastral had
taught him to do a score of times, he was no match for the huge
German, with her armoured car, and two machine-gunners in addition to
the pilot.
As Dastral swept back to his comrade, he saw the two machines raking
each other, but though Mac got in several shots at the fuselage and
the engines, he hit no vital part.
"Ye gods, what a huge brute she is!" ejaculated the Flight-Commander
as he drew near, and sailed over the top of the monster, just seeking
for some weak spot.
Before he could clamp in his drums he saw Mac's machine reel, and
spin round once or twice, as though the controls had been broken by
some questing bullets. The German continued to fire, however, and the
next instant Dastral saw the reason of it all, for he saw Mac's
observer stretching over towards the pilot.
"Heavens! The poor chap's hit!" he exclaimed. Then shouting almost
fiercely, as though he fancied Mac could hear him, he cried:
"Never mind, they shall pay for it, Mac!"
Again Dastral jammed the controls hard over, and though he knew he
was fighting a different creature altogether this time, he tried his
old tactics. He swept down as though to collide with the enemy and
crash with him to earth, for he knew this was the best method of
unnerving the Hun. With his feet on the rudder bar, and the joy-stick
between his knees, and his hands clear for his gun, he fired two
drums, but seeing no immediate effect, he flattened out suddenly,
when only fifty feet from the Bosche, and pulling the switch of his
bomb release, he dropped a twenty-pound bomb fairly on to the central
armoured car of the monster.
Scarcely had he swept past his adversary when the thing exploded at
close quarters, causing him almost unconsciously to loop the loop
twice in rapid succession, for the very atmosphere seemed to be blown
away from his propeller blades, and the air was so full of
air-pockets that for a moment this daring aviator was in imminent
danger of a side-slip and a fearful crash to the earth.
It was over in a minute, however, and the "Boom-m-m-m!" of the
explosion and the smother of gas, smoke and flame being past, he
looked round him, and saw the German three hundred feet below him,
with half his central armoured car blown away, and with both gunners
apparently lifeless, and the pilot, bleeding, still sticking it
grimly, trying to volplane his machine to the ground.
The Flight-Commander looked down, and sweeping round till he had
gained his old position, he was about to drop a second bomb to finish
the warplane, but he withdrew his hand from the bomb release, saying:
"Poor bounder! He's bound to go down. He cannot get her over the
lines. I'll let him alone."
Then, looking around for the third machine, he was just in time to
see her disappear eastward towards her own lines, and saw two English
'planes, which seemed to have come from nowhere, following her.
"Ah, well, I'll go down and receive that chap's surrender--that is,
if he can manage to get down without a crash."
There is, apparently, more honour in aerial fighting in these days
than in any other field of warfare, and, when a pilot has brought his
man down, should he fall, say, into the conqueror's lines, very often
the victor will descend and receive the surrender of the vanquished.
Dastral's professional curiosity also urged him to do this. The huge
machine was of a new type, for in all his experience he had seen
nothing like it, and he was eager to examine it.
Keeping his eye, therefore, on the descending German, who was trying
with the utmost care to navigate the aerial monster to the ground,
Dastral banked, then spiralled, and after one or two rapid
nose-dives, planed swiftly down to within a few score of yards of the
place where the monster must ultimately descend; and three minutes
later, having landed, he waited calmly on the ground for mein herr to
complete his landing.
Down, down she came, lobbing first one way and then another,
finishing up with a bump which completed the wreckage of one of her
huge outstretched planes, and hurling the lifeless form of an
observer-gunner to the earth.
"My word, what a size she is!" cried some one from the group of
officers and men standing by.
She was a mass of wreckage, and how the wounded pilot had managed to
bring her down so calmly was a miracle.
"Where are you hurt, Captain?" asked Dastral, helping the wounded man
from the wrecked car.
"Here and here, Flight-Commander!" replied the German in good
English, leaning heavily on the pilot, who a few minutes before had
been his deadly enemy.
"Fetch Captain Young, the M.O., at once!" ordered Dastral, and
immediately one of the air-mechanics ran off to find Number Nine.
"You were a marvel to bring her down without a crash!" said Dastral.
"I'm sure I could never have done it."
The German smiled. He was a fair-haired Prussian, not at all of the
Hun type, and there was moisture in his blue eyes as he replied,
"I thank you for the compliment, Flight-Commander. You also are
_some_ pilot, as you English say."
"And she is _some_ machine, too!" urged Dastral, trying to keep up
the man's spirit until the medical officer arrived.
"Ah, my poor machine, and my poor gunners! They were brave fellows
and they died for the Fatherland. And the machine?--yes, she was a
beauty, and it was her first trip. Now she is a ruin, and I must
surrender her to you, but you will never be able to use her. See!"
Dastral turned round to look, and noticed that the German warplane
was in flames, for the pilot, mortally wounded as he was, knew his
duty, which was, if he could not bring his machine back, to destroy
it. And his last act, which had been unnoticed, ere he left the
machine, was to set her quietly on fire, only waiting to make sure
that the second gunner was really dead.
"Ah! My poor machine, but you English--will--never--use--her!"
As he uttered these words slowly, gasping and clutching at his heart,
the German turned ghastly pale, and, staggering, fell into the arms
of Dastral just as the medical officer came running up.
For a moment Dastral held him, but the blood began to gush from his
mouth and nostrils, and then his head fell back, for he was dead.
"You are too late, doctor," said the Flight-Commander sadly, as he
laid the dead captain down on the grass, and looked at his pale face
and wide open eyes, still staring up at the azure blue of the opening
day, as though even in death the skies were calling him up there, as
they did in life; for he had been one of the most brilliant of the
German aviators, second only to Himmelman, who indeed had been his
teacher.
"Too late, doctor! There was no chance for him from the beginning. He
was mortally wounded."
"Yes, poor fellow, he has fought his last battle!" replied the M.O.
"Poor fellow! I wish he could have lived," muttered Dastral, and a
feeling of unutterable sadness came over him, and he cursed the war
which had made him this man's enemy.
Again he looked at the Prussian's face, and, stooping down, closed
the man's eyes in their last long sleep. Then, turning to an
air-mechanic, he said:
"Bring a German flag, and wrap it round him," and so he strode away
towards his bunk, depressed by a feeling of profound melancholy.