LOST IN A SEA OF CLOUDS
When Tom Raymond realized that he and Jack were really separated from
the rest of the squadron his first act was to throttle down his motor,
that it might be possible for him to speak to his companion. If they
were in actual danger it was better to share the responsibility, and
not try to shoulder it all himself.
“We’ve lost the rest of the boys, Jack!” he yelled out.
“Yes, I noticed that,” came the answer. “What can we do about it?”
“Only one thing that I can see. Have to go on by ourselves! But--” and
the pilot paused significantly.
“That means steering by the compass,” remarked the other.
“No other way, since I wouldn’t know the conformation of the ground
below, even if it were daylight and I could see fairly well. Why! what
under the sun can this mean?”
“What?” demanded Jack, showing signs of excitement now, as he realized
that his companion was turning this way and that in evident dismay.
“I’m afraid we’ve met with a loss! I only hope it won’t turn out to be
a calamity!”
“Loss of what?” cried the observer. “Gas tank sprung a leak?”
“Perhaps it has for all I know, with all that shrapnel flying around
us. But our compass is gone!”
“Gone!” shouted the astounded Jack.
“Just what it has!” Tom declared. “I don’t see how it could have
happened, for I had it as secure as ever it could be, right here where
I could watch it if the time came for steering by the needle.”
“Great guns! Look again! It may have been misplaced. And yet it was
there as we started. I tested it to make sure it was correct. But how
could we have lost our compass?”
“I can think of only one way. You remember when we found ourselves in
that pocket, with shells bursting all around us?”
“Yes, of course. When we had to start up in a hurry to get out of
range.”
“It must have happened then,” went on Tom disconsolately. “We were
tossed about like a ship caught in a storm at sea. I called out to you
to keep your seat firmly, though I don’t believe you heard me. In all
that turmoil the compass must have been dislodged and dropped.”
“There’s no use of crying over spilt milk,” his companion called out.
“The question to settle is what we ought to do now about steering.”
“I’ll do the best I can with the lumbering old plane,” said the pilot
bravely, not one to be utterly discouraged by conditions that promised
trouble.
For some little time the air service boys continued on through the
clouds which surrounded them like a milky envelope, and which prevented
their seeing even the moon above. Then there came a change, and once
more they found themselves in the open.
An hour had passed since they lost track of their companions. Tom
steered by reckoning alone. He kept the moon on his right whenever he
could see it through the masses of clouds drifting near.
Then came a sudden shock as he discovered moving objects ahead that
quickly took on the shape of cruising planes. There were three of them,
all fashioned alike; and even as seen in the deceptive light of the
declining moon Tom knew they could not be French machines.
In the first place, they were coming toward him, though possibly the
pilots had not yet discovered the presence of the heavy bombing
machine near by. Then again, these planes were of a lighter build, and
capable of much greater speed than the big two-seated Caudron.
Of course they were German Fokkers, sent up to intercept the returning
expedition.
“Looks as if we were in for it,” thought Tom. “Three of ’em, too!”
To fight those three experienced airmen at that dizzy height was
hopeless, although if it became the last resort Tom and Jack would
undoubtedly resort to the rapid-fire gun and try to stand them off.
It was a time for quick thinking and instant action; and no sooner had
Tom made his alarming discovery than he changed his course and headed
directly for a bank of clouds that chanced to be close by.
Once enveloped in the cloud, there was little chance of their running
into the enemy except through sheer accident. To avoid this Tom quickly
altered his course, suiting his action to the meager knowledge he
possessed of the dimensions of the cloud-belt into which he had so
recklessly plunged.
It would be much like searching a haystack for a lost needle, he
believed, and that the three Germans could only scatter, and grope
their way along. He hoped they might chance to collide in the cloud
pack, and have all possible trouble, even to spattering one another
with a hail of missiles from their mounted guns.
This was all very well, but Tom did not like the situation at all. He
could not tell which way he was heading, since all view was cut off,
and the loss of the compass badly felt.
Consequently they might be actually going back into the heart of the
hostile country for all they knew, with a pretty good chance of being
made prisoners of war.
More time passed. Unable to stand it any longer Tom decided to
drop down to a lower level, and try to get free from that stifling
enveloping cloud that wrapped them in its dense folds. True, other
perils might await them there, but it seemed the best move.
Both young aviators breathed easier when they finally left the cloud
above them, and were once more able to see something besides that
opaque mass around them. Far below they could catch faint glimpses
of lights, as though they were passing over some town, or perhaps a
railroad center where troops and supplies were being loaded for the
fighting front.
But where were they? Tom confessed to himself that he could not tell.
He again got the sinking moon on his right, so that he felt positive
they must be headed in a direction generally correct. Nevertheless,
since he could not have told the Mosel River from any other, even if
seen by daylight, there was a strong probability that although they
were lucky, and finally reached the French lines, they might land fifty
miles away from the aviation hangars of the Lafayette Escadrille.
Not that such a thing would give them much cause for anxiety, since
news of their safe arrival would be flashed to their headquarters, to
relieve the tension that was sure to result from their absence from the
squadron. And later on they could ascend again, and make the home port
easily enough.
It was while Tom was telling himself all this that he felt a movement
on the part of his chum. This he recognized as the signal, and knew
that Jack had something of importance to say, and wished him to ease up
the pounding motor so he might be heard.
“Something else gone wrong, Tom!” called Jack.
“You’ve been testing our supply of gas, have you?” shouted the pilot.
“Getting low, I suppose.”
“It’s been leaking in a trickling stream right along,” came from the
other in tones of deepest disgust. “I’ve found a tiny hole that must
have been made by a splinter from shrapnel or a bullet from that
German pilot’s gun. If only I’d thought to look before, we might have
fixed it and saved a couple of gallons.”
This was serious news indeed. With possibly fifty or seventy miles of
hostile territory to cover, and daybreak close at hand, they were in a
bad fix.
“How much have we still got?” asked Tom.
“Don’t know, exactly, but hardly a gallon at the best; and still oozing
out of that hole not as large as a shingle nail would make.”
Quickly Tom reviewed the desperate situation in his mind. He knew they
had no chance whatever of making the French lines unless in some way
they managed to renew their supply of gasolene or petrol. That, of
course, could only be done by landing, and commandeering a supply at
some house where, by accident, the owner had a spare gallon or two.
Meanwhile they could possibly plug up the hole in the tank, and if
through good luck they were enabled to rise again, finally get back of
the French lines.
“Can you reach that hole in the tank, and keep your finger on it, Jack,
so as to conserve our last gallon of fuel?” he called out.
“I guess I can. What are you going to do about it? One gallon won’t
take us all the way home.”
“I wish it would, but I know better,” was the reply. “Listen, Jack!
We must keep moving along until dawn comes. Then, if the coast seems
clear, we’ve got to drop down and make a landing.”
“Oh! If we do that it’s all up with us, and we’ll be bound for a German
prison camp on our first outing trip.”
“I hope not,” the pilot replied instantly. “My object is to try to run
across a supply of gasolene and commandeer it. It’s a toss-up whether
we can find any, with the country drained so well by the military
authorities. It’s also hit and miss whether we run smack into a bunch
of Boches as soon as we land. But there seems to be no other way.”
“Well, I haven’t any better suggestion to offer, so go ahead. Give your
orders, and I’ll obey.”