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 aresomepilot, as you English say."
"And she issomemachine, 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.
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 theTimes, 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 hiscoup-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 meanConfined 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 ofvin 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:--