HIMMELMAN S LAST FIGHT
IN the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, a
blue-eyed, dark-haired youth of about twenty-two stood with his back
to the fire. He was alone, for the others had not yet come in from
the marquees and sheds where the aeroplanes were being stored. On his
left breast he wore the double brevet of a fully-fledged pilot.
This was Flight-Commander Dastral of "B" Flight, of the --th
Squadron, --th Wing, Royal Flying Corps, known to the whole of the
British Expeditionary Force, and to the British public also, as
"Dastral of the Flying Corps."
Just under his pilot's brevet was a couple of inches of blue and
white ribbon, the insignia of the D.S.O. For, though but a lad, he
had fought with more Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands, and had more
thrilling exploits over the German lines, than any other youth of his
age.
To-night, however, the pilot seemed sad; there was a shadow of
disappointment over his fair, young face. There was also a dreamy,
far-away look in those usually piercing blue eyes. What was the
matter with the lad? He was generally gay and even frolicsome. More
than once the O.C. had found it necessary to take him to task for
some of his jovial pranks.
At his feet lay the previous day's issue of the _Times_, which he had
just been reading, and that which had made him sad was a paragraph
telegraphed to London by the Amsterdam correspondent of that paper,
which ran as follows:--
"Yesterday, at the German Headquarters behind the western front, the
Kaiser in person conferred upon Himmelman, the famous German air
scout, the insignia of the Iron Cross. It is claimed by the enemy
that this air-fiend has brought down more than forty British and
French machines, and that his equal in skill and daring does not
exist upon the battle-fields of Europe. Quite recently he fought with
and vanquished three British pilots single-handed in one day. This
famous pilot flies a new type of machine called the Fokker, and the
Germans claim for this machine that for climbing and rapid manoeuvre
there is no other aeroplane which can be compared to it."
Dastral picked up the paper and read the paragraph again. Then,
speaking half aloud, he said:
"So that's what happened to Benson's Flight the other day. I felt
sure he had encountered Himmelman. Ah, well! A pilot's life is only a
short one at the best, but there's one thing I beg of Dame Fortune,
and that is, that I may meet Himmelman before I go down."
Again he cast the paper from him, and as he did so, the door flew
open, and Fisker, his observer, accompanied by Graham of "A" Flight
and Wilson of "C" Flight entered the room.
"Hullo! What's the matter that you look so glum, Dastral?" exclaimed
Graham, as he caught sight of his friend. "Has the O.C. been giving
you another reprimand over that last rag, old fellow?"
"What rags?" laughed Dastral, regaining his usual cheerfulness with
an effort.
"Ho! ho!" laughed the others. "Of course you know nothing about it,
Dastral, gut all the fellows are laughing over it, and the whole
squadron puts it down to you, naturally," replied Wilson.
"Naturally?" echoed Dastral with raised eyebrows, and a query note in
his voice.
At this there was another burst of laughter. For this pretended
ignorance of Dastral, and above all, the intoned, sepulchral voice he
adopted for the occasion, reminded them of the "sky-pilot" as the
chaplain was called, who, on this occasion, had been the victim of
the rag.
"Tell you what," exclaimed Wilson. "If the O.C. hasn't yet heard of
it, you'd better go out and have another of your scraps with a whole
German flight, before he does. That would soften him a bit when
you're called for the 'high jump.'"
"Yes, better go out and have a look for Himmelman!" suggested Graham,
tossing, the stump of his cigar into the fire.
"Himmelman?" replied Dastral, becoming suddenly serious.
"Yes, Himmelman. Why not? I believe you'll be a match for him, if you
can only meet him at the same level, and with your drums full,"
replied the young commander of "C" Flight.
For answer Dastral picked up the paper again, and pointing to the
column about the air-fiend, said brusquely,
"Read that."
For the next two minutes the newcomers crowded around the paper, and
read, partly aloud, the paragraph above referred to.
At the time of which I write the supremacy of the air was still in
question. The daring exploits of Himmelman and his school had been
causing much anxiety to the Directorate of Air Organisation. Much
consternation had also been caused amongst the British public by the
manner in which certain sections of the press in Old Blighty had
talked of the merits of the Fokker, the new type of fast fighting
monoplane which the enemy had produced. But it was the bold and
daring tactics of Himmelman himself, and his few immediate followers,
which had given rise to this.
A new British School had come into existence, represented by Dastral
and his type. These were very often mere lads from the public
schools, full of the sporting instinct in which Englishmen excel.
They were soon to make their presence felt, and gain for Britain and
her Allies the complete mastery of the air.
What it cost in life and limb to gain this mastery over a wily and
efficient foe will be known some day, when circumstances permit the
veil of silence to be drawn aside. England will then know what she
owes to her daring airmen, and every pilot's grave in France and
Flanders--and they are legion--will be honoured and decked with the
imperishable flowers of a nation's love.
When the trio in the officers' mess had finished reading the
paragraph, it was Graham who spoke first.
"Dastral," he said, in quiet tones, "there will be no peace, and no
victory, till Himmelman goes down. Nothing else matters, it seems to
me; neither bombing raids, registering targets, nor spotting, till
this air-fiend gets his _coup-de-grace_. What say you?"
For full twenty seconds Dastral waited before he replied. Again there
was that faraway look in his blue eyes as though he could see
Himmelman on his fast monoplane, coming up out of the mists of the
eastern horizon beyond the German lines. Then, recalling himself with
an effort he replied calmly:
"You are right, Graham. Twice already I have encountered him. Once
when my drums were empty, and the second time when my controls were
damaged, and I had to make a forced descent just behind our lines. I
have felt myself a coward ever since. But fight him I will, before
sundown to-morrow, if he is anywhere in the heavens within fifty
miles of Contalmaison. And not a shot will I fire, even if attacked
by half a dozen Taubes, till I meet my man. I know his tactics now,
and am better prepared to fight him than ever I have been."
"Better not tell the O.C., for you know our orders are to fight every
and any enemy 'plane we see, while we have a round in the drums,"
replied his comrade.
"I know, Graham; that's the trouble. When your drums are empty or
your gun has jammed, then this wary old Boche comes down from a small
cloud where he has been hiding at twelve thousand feet, and comes
hurtling down through space at a hundred and fifty miles an hour,
spraying your fuselage from end to end with his machine gun. All the
same, he is brave and courageous, and something of a sport--far away
the best man they've got. But my belief is that if once he is sent
down in a crash, the spell will be broken, and we shall have things
all our own way," said Dastral.
Then, turning to Fisker, his observer, who had not yet had his
twentieth birthday, though he had been with Dastral since they first
left England, and thoroughly understood his method and tactics, he
said:
"What do you say, old fellow? Do you think we're a match for this
high falutin' Prussian?"
"Dastral!" replied his chum. "I repeat what I said to you only the
other day. If you'll only get the O.C. to give you a perfectly free
hand, and then lay a nice little trap for the Boche, you're more than
a match for him. There's more room for strategy in the air than
either in trench warfare on land, or in a naval fight, when the sea
is strewn with mine-beds. And if you'll only try that new fast S.E.
that you had out the other day, with the Lewis gun mounted for'ard,
you'll do the trick, and it wouldn't be merely the D.S.O. that the
King and a grateful country would confer on you, for ridding the
western front of a nuisance, but you'd get the V.C. and a C.B. as
well."
"Yes, I'd probably get the C.B. all right, Fisker, but not the V.C.,"
laughed the pilot, for in the army the letters C.B. have a double
meaning.
"I don't mean _Confined to Barracks_, old fellow. You'll get that
when you make a forced landing behind the German lines one of these
days, if you will drop down to within a hundred feet of their
batteries, just to put one of their 'Archies' out of action, and kill
a few of their gunners. I mean the other C.B. which is usually given
from Buckingham Palace."
"You're a sport, Fisker. I never had an observer or aerial gunner who
served me so well as you do. The credit is yours for the majority of
the enemy's machines we've brought down this last six months. But, as
you're game, and you've got far more brains than I have, we'll just
spend the night inventing such a trap for the wily old Prussian as
you've mentioned, and to-morrow, if we don't get the weather-gage of
the Boche, then we'll never put our heads inside this old mess again.
Are you agreed?" said Dastral.
"Agreed!" replied Fisker, grasping the extended hard held out to
clasp his, and to seal the bargain.
"And here's to your success, Dastral!" exclaimed Wilson, who had just
poured out for himself a glass of _vin rouge_.
At this moment the mess sergeant appeared to announce that dinner was
laid in the pilots' mess, and away they all went, laughing and
joking, as though they had been discussing nothing more or less than
a county cricket match.
That night, however, as soon as the meal was over, instead of the
usual rubber of whist, or game of chess, Dastral and Fisker went into
the little bunk where they slept, and, locking the door, they brought
out maps, sketches, and diagrams, and, until midnight, they were hard
at work, by the kindly flicker of a little shaded lamp, evolving
scheme after scheme, until at length they agreed upon a little plan,
which they decided to put into operation on the morrow. Then they
turned in, and slept for four or five hours, having given strict
orders to the mess attendant to call theirs before reveille.
Half an hour before reveille Dastral was down in the hangar, where
his new aeroplane was sheltered. Though it had been carefully
examined overnight by the air-mechanics, yet he could trust no one
but himself to finally inspect the machine. He examined every strut
and wire, every nut and bolt, oiling and testing the engine,
controls, and half a hundred other little things that make up the
delicate mechanism of a modern aeroplane.
At length he was satisfied, and lit a cigarette, while Fisker shipped
the Lewis gun, packed the drums of ammunition, fixed the baby
wireless, saw to the bomb carriers, maps, charts, and everything else
that concerned him.
Soon, they were ready, and, having snatched a hurried breakfast, they
wrapped themselves in their warm leathern coats, and were helped into
their pilot's boots by one of the air-mechanics, whose duty it was to
guard the machines. They drew their leathern helmets tightly about
their cars, and encased their hands in thick gloves, then climbed
into the 'plane.
Half a dozen air-mechanics wheeled the "wasp" out into the open,
where the level ground of the aerodrome offered a good "take-off."
Then they waited for a moment, while the O.C. himself came down, and
handed to Dastral an envelope containing his special permit to leave
his flight, and to act as a free lance for that day; the matter
having been arranged between them.
"Good-bye, Dastral, and a good day's sport to you, my lad!" said the
major, who stood on tiptoe to shake hands with the pilot and
observer.
"Good-bye, sir," replied Dastral, his hand already on the joy-stick.
"Start the propeller," came the order from the cock-pit.
"Yes, sir," cried an air-mechanic, who sprang forward and swung the
propeller once or twice.
"Zip-p-p-p--Zip--Whir-r-r-r!" came the sound, as Dastral started the
engine, and the air seemed to vibrate with the song of the aeroplane,
which has a music all its own.
"Stand clear!" came the final order, and as the mechanics leapt back,
and withdrew the wooden chocks, the buzzing, waspish little thing
taxied swiftly across the level stretch of grass, then leapt into the
air.
Higher and higher it rose by swift spirals, sometimes banking over so
rapidly as it turned in its circuit that those who stood watching it
from below feared it had touched an air pocket. But never did fiery
steed answer the touch of the huntsman's rein so quickly, and never
did gallant ship, as she rode the combing waves, answer her helm more
readily than did the air-wasp respond to the slightest movement of
her controls this morning, as she mounted up into the dawn. For the
daring and brilliant youth who held the joystick was a master-pilot,
who understood every whim and fancy of his machine.
And now for a while let us leave Dastral climbing up into the azure,
then traversing a dozen miles behind the British lines, so as to
disappear from the enemy's view until the moment came for him to
hunt his prey.
Soon after he had disappeared from view Major Bulford gave the order.
"Squadron, prepare for action!" for this was to be a day of great
things, and the Squadron-Commander himself, having now recovered from
his recent injuries, was going to lead the whole of the three
Flights, which composed the squadron under his command, over the
enemy's lines.
Within an incredibly short space of time all the machines were ready
on the level stretch of grass. The bomb carriers were filled and
drums of fresh ammunition were shipped. And within half an hour of
the departure of the air-wasp, the squadron started off in regular
formation, and crossed over the enemy's lines.
The secret had been well kept. Only the pilots themselves, after they
had taken their seats behind the propellers, received the whispered
orders for the day. A great bombing raid was to be carried out behind
the German lines with the express purpose of drawing out Himmelman
and his crowd to counter-attack, while Dastral, hidden away in the
clouds at 12,000 feet, was to enter the fight at the critical moment.
Then the most daring air-fiends on the battle-fields of Europe were
to meet in single-combat, and decide for ever to which side the
supremacy of the air should be given.
The whole squadron crossed the lines at 7,000 feet, and received a
baptism of fire from the anti-aircraft batteries, while thousands of
combatants in the trenches far below stayed their fighting for a
moment to watch the stinging hornets sail calmly by, as though
utterly oblivious of the hail of bursting shrapnel, which made little
jets of fire and cirrus-clouds of white smoke all about them.
One or two Taubes and Aviatiks which had been out on a reconnaissance
and for a few photographs, rapidly retired before the hornets and
fled to find shelter somewhere beyond. Meanwhile, the telephones in
the German lines were busy and the presence of the raiders was
quickly reported to the various commands, and from thence to half a
dozen aerodromes. Machines were rapidly run out, and got ready to
mount up and meet the invaders, for it was evident that the
perfidious Britishers had resolved to carry out another great bombing
raid on railway communications, billets, and ammunition dumps.
Within an incredibly short space of time, Himmelman himself had
started to meet the the enemy. But the raiding party swept on, beyond
Bazentin, Ginchy and Longueval, bombing, as they passed, Combles and
the Peronne railway. Soon, they sighted the aerodromes at Scilly and
Etricourt, and bombarded them, receiving another crackle of fire from
the A.A. guns posted to defend the hangars and sheds. Then, wheeling
north they scattered a large transport column which was proceeding
slowly along the main road from Le Transloy to Bapaume.
Shortly afterwards, a swift circling movement and a smoke bomb from
the leading 'plane gave the signal:
"Enemy 'planes approaching!"
All this had been accomplished within half an hour of crossing the
enemy's lines, and the Germans had been caught fairly on the nap. But
now Himmelman had got his machines in motion, and a fight in mid-air
could not be much longer delayed.
The English pilots looked down, and far below they could see from
half a dozen places Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands creeping up to the
attack. By this time all the heavy missiles had been dropped, and the
machines, with their engines running superbly, had gained something
in buoyancy from the release of the half dozen 20-pounder bombs, with
which each aeroplane had started.
Guns were now cocked and loaded, and the discs were clapped into
place, while extra drums were placed where they would be most handy,
for when the fight commenced, a delay of five seconds might prove
fatal. Then a bold attempt was made to get the weather-gage, and to
use their advantage in altitude to place the sun behind their backs,
so that the enemy would have it in his face.
Every type of aeroplane approaching was carefully scrutinised, and,
with sundry circling dips, short nose-dives and smoke bombs, the
Squadron-Commander told off various machines to fight them, for every
type of machine has its own special capabilities and limitations. At
the same time the heavens were eagerly scanned for a sight of the
hated Fokker.
"Where is Himmelman? Where is Dastral?" every keen-eyed pilot was
asking himself. And every little cloud above and beyond was searched,
but no sight of the air-fiends was vouchsafed. Ah, well, they must
fight without Dastral if he had not yet picked them up.
This manoeuvring for position continued for some minutes, but all the
while the combatants were drawing nearer and nearer. The enemy had
evidently received strict orders to fight at all costs. Certain
advantages were his. The chosen battle-ground was in his favour, as
every British 'plane hit and compelled to make a forced landing,
owing to damaged engine, petrol tank, or deranged controls, would be
captured with its crew, while only the German 'planes which crashed
would be lost.
At last the time had come for action, for the air seemed full of
specks, both small and large. Nearly three whole squadrons had
climbed to the attack of the British, who, however, had by this time
gained the weather gage.
"Engage the enemy closely!" came the signal, as three more
smoke-bombs were hurled from the commander's machine. Only one more
order was given, which was:
"Reserve your fire till within two hundred yards!"
The rattle of the machine-gun fire had already commenced, for the
enemy had begun to fire as usual at 1000 yards, but the British,
reserving their fire, followed their leader's tactics, for
immediately he had flung out his last signal, he dived down upon his
nearest opponent, a big fat yellow 'plane with black crosses upon the
doping.
"Spit--spit-t-t--spit-t-t-t!!" went the C.O.'s machine gun, as he
pumped a whole drum of ammunition into his opponent, raking his
fuselage, engine, and petrol tank from end to end. The next instant,
the huge German machine, which mounted two guns, went down with
blazing petrol tank, and crashed from 8,000 feet.
And now commenced an indescribable scene; a terrible fight in
mid-air, which would have been deemed to be impossible but a few
short years ago. The sky, to those watching far below, must have
seemed full of wild, swooping and circling birds of prey, spitting
fire and smoke, while every now and then a machine went down blazing,
or wildly zig-zagging to destruction. No less than four enemy 'planes
had thus gone down, when No. 2 machine of "C" Flight, with crumpled
wing, went down with a fatal nose-dive in a terrific crash.
But still the fight went on, until more than half the British
machines had gone under, taking down with them at least twice their
number, and yet neither Himmelman nor Dastral had appeared. Numbers
were telling upon the English, and those machines which were left had
nearly consumed their ammunition, when, suddenly out of a little
cluster of clouds at 12,000 feet a dark speck appeared.
The little speck at first appeared like a tiny bird, but the aviators
knew only too well what it meant. Whistling through the air in a
terrific nose-dive which reached the rate of 150 miles an hour, the
dreaded Fokker appeared to strike his chief opponent. Straight for
the Squadron-Commander's machine he came, like a fierce bird of prey.
For an instant the fight slackened, and the enemy machines even drew
off a little space, to leave a clear path for the air-fiend, who had
never been known to fail in his desperate strokes. A thrill of
intense excitement held the combatants, as the Major made a daring
counter move, and jammed his last drum of ammunition into place.
"Spit! Bang! Spit! Bang!
"Whir-r-r-r!" Himmelman had opened fire while nose-diving at terrific
speed. Already the victim seemed to be in his clutch, when, just as
suddenly, from the same cloud in which the German air-fiend himself
had found ambush, another speck appeared, swooping like a hawk with
its talons ready to strike. It was Dastral, who had waited and
waited, in the biting cold and the clinging moisture of the wet
cloud; waited at 12,000 feet near the edge of the cloud.
He had seen Himmelman coming, had watched him like a tiny speck
seeking shelter in the same misty vapour. How Himmelman had failed to
discover his enemy was a mystery. They were both invisible to the
combatants, it is true, and Dastral had used a dozen devices to keep
himself out of sight of the Boche, though ready at any moment to
fight with him.
There can be little doubt, however, that Himmelman had been watching
the fight so closely that he had never even dreamt of finding his
chief enemy so close at hand. Besides, no one had ever dared to
imitate his tactics before, and his first intimation of Dastral's
presence was when, during his wild swoop, having half emptied his
first drum at the Squadron-Commander, he suddenly heard machine-gun
bullets whizzing about his own ears, and felt a stinging sensation in
his right arm. Looking round, he saw that the dark cloud in which he
had been hiding had given birth to another air-fiend, and in that
moment Himmelman knew that he was no longer the Master-Pilot of the
Skies.
"Gott in Himmel!" he gasped, and made one last effort to manoeuvre.
With his hand upon the gun, and his feet upon the rudder bar, he
flattened out, and tried to fight his enemy from below, leaving his
last victim to limp away to safety.
But Dastral was too quick, for he had time to give the Fokker two
full drums before he also flattened out just above the monoplane. He
knew the Fokker had its gun fixed forward, rigidly fixed, so that it
could only fire ahead through the propeller. All this he had coolly
calculated beforehand. Unless, therefore, Himmelman could manoeuvre
to get his enemy directly ahead, he could do nothing. Still, though
wounded, the German fought on. Round and round spun the machines,
over and under they went, like a shoal of porpoises, each trying to
get the advantage.
Up there at 9,000 feet they performed the most amazing gymnastic
gyrations and contortions. Once the German got the advantage, and was
about to open a new drum of fire, when Dastral, pulling over the
joy-stick, and with clenched teeth, muttered:
"No, you don't! By all the saints, no!"
And, with that, he dived under the air-fiend, and emptied his seventh
and last drum into him from beneath.
It, was the end of the great fight, for with his fuselage ablaze from
end to end--for his petrol tanks had been pierced--and with a bullet
through his brain, Himmelman went down in a spinning nose-dive to the
earth.
Even then the chief of the air nearly took down his opponent with his
wreckage, for Dastral being underneath, only just slithered, rather
than banked, in time to let the blazing mass hurtle by. Another dozen
feet, and the heroes would have gone down together.
The next moment the daring young pilot gazed almost ruefully down
upon the tangled wreckage far below. He was amazed at his own work,
riding up there alone, for he was now the Master-Pilot of the Skies.
Even so, somehow, his chivalrous young heart was sad, for a brave man
never finds pleasure in the death of another brave man, and your true
hero has always a gentle soul.
Then touched by a gust of sudden pity, he circled down to within
three hundred feet of the burning mass in which the remains of the
brave pilot lay, and, heedless of the risk he ran, he detached from
its place, where he had secured it that morning, unknown to all but
himself and Jock, a wreath of laurel, with these words attached to
it, penned in his own hand:--
"_To Himmelman--the bravest of the brave--_
_the Pilot of the Western Skies. A tribute of_
_respect from his Conqueror._
Dastral of the Flying Corps."
Then he climbed back again, joined the remnant of his squadron, which
with broken struts and wires, and bearing strong evidence of the
great fight in every part of their delicate frames, struggled back to
the aerodrome near Contalmaison.
Thus did Himmelman meet his end, going down bravely, and, with
Himmelman, the Germans lost the mastery of the air.
But Dastral himself was wounded in that last fight, and his machine,
the new "wasp," was so badly damaged that even his wonderful skill
could not save her, and she crashed behind the British lines, quite
close to Contalmaison.