"I amoff to France to-day, lads," announced Desmond Blake on returning to the battleplane after the conclusion of the conference. "It's sharp work, but now these gentlemen have warmed up they are like high pressure blast-furnaces. I suggested handing the plane over to one of the Flying Corps camps and remaining until a military crew had been trained to its use. They weren't keen on that exactly, so they made me promise to fly the machine across to the Front. I have been given a commission as captain in the R.F.C., so the poor neglected inventor blossoms out into a warrior of the aerial blue. Well, lads, the best of friends must part——"
"No, fear," declared Dick stoutly, and Athol backed him up in his protest. "It's not fair."
"On the contrary, it is perfectly fair," said Blake. "You have rendered me great service, and I deeply appreciate it. But when the battleplane goes abroad our implied contract is automatically broken."
"I don't see it," objected Athol bluntly. "We agreed to bear a hand for a definite period. Locality didn't enter into the conditions. Haven't we been entirely satisfactory?"
"Entirely."
"Then why are we to be pushed out of it? We are frightfully keen on the job."
"That I don't doubt," replied Blake. "It isn't that I don't want to take you. It's the official regulations coupled with a desire on my part not to run you into danger. You were turned back from the Front once before, remember."
"Hardly," replied Dick. "We were all right out there. It was coming home that did us in as far as the Army was concerned. The rotten part about the whole business is that the authorities insist upon a cast iron rule concerning a fellow's age. The number of years that a fellow has lived surely ought to be no criterion. A fellow might be absolutely fit for active service at sixteen or seventeen; another a physical wreck at thirty. It's jolly hard lines."
"A youngster of sixteen or seventeen might think he's fit," remarked Blake. "His heart is in his work and all that sort of thing, but his constitution is not properly developed. He crumples up under the strain, and additional and preventable work is thrown upon the medical authorities. That's the Army view of the case, I believe, and it's a sound view to take."
"Yet we maintain that each individual case should be tried on its merits," declared Athol. "To put the question bluntly: have you any objection to our going?"
"None whatever," replied the inventor.
"Then let us make an application. If you back us up there'll be no difficulty. You have the whip hand over this battleplane business."
"I'll see," replied Blake, loth to commit himself. Secretly he was pleased at the lads' determination and patriotism. Already he knew that they were capable. Their previous record at the Front proved that they were physically fit; and they had been strongly recommended for commissions by the commanding officer of their regiment.
"All right," he continued. "Come with me."
Leaving a gang of men at work painting distinctive red, white and blue circles on various conspicuous parts of the battleplane, Blake set off to find Sir Henry. In the record time of less than half an hour, so strongly did he set forth the charms of his youthful assistants, Athol Hawke and Dick Tracey were gazetted second lieutenants in the finest corps of airmen in the world.
The next step was to undo the mischief Blake had practically been forced to do by giving a public display of the marvellous capabilities of the battleplane. Accordingly it was announced, with all semblance of a confidential secret, that the machine had developed serious defects, and had been rejected by the authorities. Experience proved that by giving out the news in this manner it would spread as quickly or even more rapidly than if it had been proclaimed from the house-tops. No doubt there were scores of German agents mingled with the throng on the Horse Guards Parade, and in spite of all precautions a fairly detailed description of the battleplane, and particulars of her destination, would speedily be transmitted to Berlin.
At two o'clock in the afternoon the battleplane started on her cross-Channel flight. She rose awkwardly, side-slipping and missing fire badly, thanks to Blake's elaborate deception, and heading in a nor'-westerly direction was soon lost to sight.
Still climbing Blake kept her on a course diametrically opposite to her next landing-place until the battleplane attained the dizzy height of sixteen thousand feet. At that altitude, favoured by a slight haze, she was totally invisible from the ground. Then swinging round she retraced her course, flying at a rate of one hundred and eighty miles an hour towards the French coast.
Forty minutes later the battleplane planed down. As she swooped down out of a bank of clouds the lads could see what appeared to be a comparatively narrow stretch of silvery plain that expanded almost indefinitely in either direction north-east and sou'-west. It was the English Channel in the neighbourhood of the Straits of Dover. Ahead were the chalky masses of Cape Grisnez, the frowning promontory "flattened" out of all recognition by reason of the immense altitude of the observers.
"Do you remember the first time we crossed Channel?" asked Dick of his chum. "Sixteen solid hours of physical discomfort between Southampton and Havre. We were jolly bad."
"A submarine alarm would not have spurred us to energy," agreed Athol. "Four hundred and fifty men who had been singing 'Rule Britannia' at the top of their voices were lying on their backs, and bewailing the fact that the lady with the trident didn't rule the waves straighter. And now we are crossing the ditch in absolute comfort."
"Put on your flying helmets, lads, and lower the wind-screens," ordered Blake. "Nothing like getting used to Service conditions. Be careful as you lower away."
The warning was most necessary, for when the struts supporting the wind-screens were removed, it took practically all the strength at the lads' command to resist the fearful pressure of the wind upon the transparent panes.
Speaking, save by means of the voice-tubes, was now an impossibility. The furious air-currents, whirling past the airmen's heads, sounded like the continual roar of a mountainous sea breaking upon a rock-bound shore. The keenness of the wind cut the lads' faces; its violence almost took their breath away. For the first time they fully realised the sensation of speed through space.
Suddenly Blake, leaning outwards, pointed at something almost immediately beneath the fuselage. Following the direction of his outstretched hand, the lads could see a small glistening speck seemingly but a few feet above the sea. It was a monoplane.
Bringing their glasses to bear upon the machine the lads could distinguish it clearly. It was a British aircraft also making for the French coast, although owing to the relative difference of speed it looked as if it were flying stern foremost in the opposite direction. It was staggering in the teeth of a strong north-easterly gale, the effect of which was hardly noticeable in the upper air. The use of the binoculars also revealed for the first time that there was quite a mountainous sea running, while a patch of swirling foam betokened the presence of the dreaded Goodwin Sands.
Blake raised his wind-screen. His companions followed his example with alacrity. Peace reigned within the body of the battleplane, and conversation could be resumed.
"Plucky fellow, that airman," remarked Blake. "It wants a bit of nerve to set out across Channel on a day like this. Yet it is an everyday occurrence, and mishaps are few and far between. Contrast what that flying mail has to encounter with the conditions under which Blériot flew from Grisnez to Dover. The Frenchman's achievement was the talk of the world; probably only half a dozen people know of that fellow's flight. Of course I don't want to detract anything from Blériot's splendid feat, but—hulloa! what's that?"
Instead of the rhythmical purr of the motors came the unmistakable "cough" that precedes the stoppage of the engines through carburation troubles. In a trice Dick slid from his seat and made a hasty examination. As he did so the motors ceased firing.
"We're out of petrol," he reported. "Nonsense!" exclaimed Blake incredulously. "The tanks were refilled when we started from London."
"They're empty now, at any rate," added Dick. "Yes, I see what it is, the pet-cock on the draining pipe is open."
"Some of our visitors must have knocked it accidentally," declared the inventor. "Be as sharp as you can, Dick. There are some spare tins in the after compartment. One will save her. We're volplaning rapidly and against the wind we won't be able to fetch the land."
With her wings rigidly extended the battleplane was descending at an angle of thirty degrees to the horizontal. In ordinary circumstances she ought to be able to cover a distance of ten or twelve miles—more than sufficient to land her in French territory—but owing to the force of the hard wind her relative speed over the "ground"—which happened to be a raging sea—would be less than a couple of miles.
While Athol unscrewed the cap of the tank Dick crawled for'ard with a two-gallon tin of spirit. Recklessly he poured in the precious fuel, "tickled" the still warm carburettor and swung the engine. Without hesitation the motors began purring in their normal and businesslike manner.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Blake. "You were just in time. We were only fifty feet up when she fired. Carry on with the other cans. There'll be just enough to get us home."
Dick was now painfully aware, as he carried can after can of petrol from the store compartment, that the battleplane was in the grip of the storm fiend. In her downward glide she had passed from the region of comparatively uniform wind pressure to a stratum in which vicious erratic currents assailed her on every side. In spite of the lad's utmost caution he was continually hurled violently against the side of the fuselage, while it was a matter of greatest difficulty to keep his footing upon the heavy floor of the steeply-inclined machine.
"Enough," ordered Blake. "Stand by. We're nearly there. I spot an aerodrome. It may be a British one. At any rate, we'll land."
Dimly wondering how the pilot would bring the huge battleplane to earth in that howling wind, the lads "stood by." Their confidence in Blake was unbounded.
Head to wind the machine planed earthwards. The whole expanse of the aerodrome seemed as if it were rising to greet the unique mechanical bird. Men, to whom the almost hourly arrival and return of flying machines caused little or no comment, emerged from their huts to witness the landing of the weirdest battleplane they had ever seen.
With almost an imperceptible jerk the landing wheels struck the sandy soil. Simultaneously Blake "switched off" the motors and thrust a lever hard down. The wings folding without a hitch no longer offered resistance to the wind, and the battleplane, pinned down to the earth by its own compact weight, rested firmly on the soil of France.
* * * * *
* * * * *
"So you have arrived," was the Wing Commander's greeting. "We were expecting you. Had a fair passage?"
"Fairly," replied Blake. "A slight mishap over the Channel well-nigh landed us into the ditch. It was blowing very hard at the time." "Seen anything of a monoplane on your way over?" enquired the flying officer. "We had information that one of our latest type of machine had left Newhaven a couple of hours ago."
"Yes," was the reply. "We passed her about half-way across. She was flying low and apparently making slow progress against the gale."
"A tough task for a new hand," commented the Wing Commander. "The youngster took his certificate only a fortnight ago, and this is his first cross-Channel flight."
"He would have done better if he had kept eight or ten thousand feet up," hazarded Blake.
"Possibly," rejoined his new chief drily. "Only it happens that our new pilots are specially warned to fly low when making for the French coast."
"I had no such instructions," declared Blake.
"Therefore it would not have been a great surprise to me if you had carried on right over our lines and dropped gently on one of the Germans' aviation grounds. We have already had one or two cases like that. Our new pilots, not being sufficiently acquainted with the locality, have overshot the mark. Deplorable of course, but the fact remains."
"Here comes the expected monoplane, sir," reported a young flight-lieutenant.
Still flying low and rocking under the influence of the eddying air currents the monoplane battled towards the aerodrome. At that altitude there was no mistaking the nationality of the men awaiting the aviator's arrival. Two mechanics, detaching themselves from their comrades, made ready to steady the planes when the machine touched ground.
With admirable precision the airman "flattened out." So well timed was his descent that it was almost impossible to determine the precise moment when the monoplane was air-borne and when it was supported by its landing wheels.
Rolling over the ground for nearly fifty feet the monoplane stopped head to wind. The pilot descended, removed his goggles and flying helmet, revealing the boyish, clear-cut features of a man barely out of his teens.
Numbed by the cold he walked unsteadily, rubbing his hands as he did so in order to restore the circulation.
"A bit nippy," he remarked casually, after he had formally reported his arrival. "She did it jolly well, though. By the bye, I see you've got here ahead of me," he added, addressing Blake and nodding in the direction of the securely held battleplane.
"I didn't imagine that you saw us; we were ten thousand feet up when we overtook you," said Blake.
"Neither did I," admitted the flight-lieutenant.
"Then how——" began the battleplane's inventor, surprised at the confession and at a loss to understand why the pilot of the monoplane was able to report on the former's progress.
"I'll let you into a secret," rejoined the young lieutenant laughing. "Last Friday at a quarter to nine in the morning that weird-looking 'bus," and he nodded in the direction of the battleplane, "ascended from a shed at a spot roughly twelve miles south of Shrewsbury, and proceeded in a south-westerly direction. Quite a short flight, out and home. Now, am I not correct?"
Almost dumfounded, Blake had to admit that the airman's information was correct.
"How did you know that?" he asked.
"Simply that instead of your being ten thousand feet above me I was that height above you," was the astonishing reply. "The Intelligence Department is not so sleepy as some people would have it believe. We had orders to try to locate a mysterious battleplane that was propelled by means of movable wings. I happened to be the lucky one to spot you, so you see we are not exactly strangers."
"And let us hope," added Desmond Blake, extending his hand, "that we shall be pals."
Forthe next three days the crew of the battleplane were kept busily employed in getting ready for active service against the Huns. With the utmost expediency thousands of bullets made to Desmond Blake's specification had been turned out in one of the British ammunition factories and dispatched across to the aerodrome. Here they were taken in hand by mechanics attached to the R.F.C. and fitted into ordinary Service rifle cartridges for use with the automatic guns.
Both Athol and Dick had to undergo a brief but efficient machine gun course, and were instructed in the art of aiming at rapidly-moving targets from an equally mobile platform. Several branches of the flying officers' art they were not at present to touch. Blake's battleplane was to be used for purely offensive purposes, so that there was no occasion for the lads to be instructed in registering, observation and reconnaissance work. Nor was there time to study wireless. An apparatus had, however, been installed, and to work it a fourth member of the crew was appointed—Sergeant Michael O'Rafferty.
O'Rafferty was an Irishman by birth, name and characteristics. He was a light-weight of eight stone seven pounds, as agile in body as he was mercurial in temperament. Already he had two Hun biplanes to his credit, and was one of the most reckless flying men of that particular squadron.
Amongst other alterations to the battleplane on becoming a Service machine a regulation bomb-dropping device had been fitted in the floor of the fuselage. Eighteen powerful bombs were to be carried, and, when occasion arose, released by the application of the pilot's foot upon a pedal, while for offence against bodies of troops boxes of "flêches" or steel arrows were stowed on board.
The arrival from London of their uniforms completed the lads' preparations, and fully equipped they eagerly awaited an opportunity of meeting the Hun airmen.
The chance came sooner than they expected, for late one evening, when most of the reconnaissance machines had returned to their hangars, four enemy battleplanes were observed to be approaching. They were flying high to avoid the anti-aircraft guns in the rear of the third line of trenches.
Enemy air-raids had been few of late. The Hun aviators for the most part contented themselves by merely patrolling behind their lines on swift Fokkers, swooping down upon the equally daring but under-powered aeroplanes employed by the British for observation purposes. On this occasion it was evident that a raid upon the aerodrome was in contemplation.
Instantly there was a rush to man the British aircraft. Three got away before Desmond Blake could collect his crew and drag the battleplane from her shed; but once the huge mechanical bird drew clear of the ground her marked superiority in climbing became apparent.
Athol stood by the foremost quickfirer; O'Rafferty was at the after one; Dick had perforce to tend to the motors since the slightest hitch might result in victory to their opponents. Blake, cool and collected, though it was the first time that he was opposed to a hostile airman's fire, piloted the swift battleplane, manoeuvring to gain the equivalent to the old time "weather-gage"—a superior altitude.
Observing the novel type of aircraft rising to meet them, two of the Fokkers circled and prepared to dart down upon their opponent. Either they misjudged the speed and power of the British battleplane or else they deprecated the skill of her crew until it was too late.
With her engines all out the battleplane darted across and far beneath the downward course of the two German aircraft. A sharp burst of machine gun fire from the Huns was futile, for under-estimating the speed of their antagonist they made insufficient allowance in their aim. Harmlessly a sheaf of several hundred bullets whizzed astern of the secret battleplane.
Round swung the Fokkers in pursuit. For the first time they realised that in a climbing contest they were hopelessly beaten. In twenty seconds Blake had secured an undisputable gain. He was nearly a thousand feet above his opponents, and almost immediately overhead.
In that position the British battleplane was immune from her opponent's fire. The machine guns of the Fokkers were mounted so that they could fire ahead between the blades of the swiftly-moving propellers—less than five per cent. of the bullets being deflected in their path through the arc of revolution. The guns could also be swung round to fire on either side, but training of the weapons in a vertical plane was considerably restricted. It was impossible to fire at any target that was anything like overhead; a contingency that the Huns had not provided for, since their hitherto superior speed enabled them to decide their own conditions of fighting.
"Stand by, Athol!" shouted Blake.
Considering that Athol had been "standing by" during the whole of the flight the order seemed unnecessary until the lad grasped the significance of his superior officer's bidding.
Like a kestrel the battleplane dived towards the nearmost of her opponents. The pilot of the Fokker saw the danger. Discharging a large smoke-bomb he strove to escape under cover of the dense pall of vapour. For a few seconds it seemed as if the manoeuvre would prove successful, until Blake turned his craft and brought her on a parallel course to the escaping Hun.
The Fokker could now use her machine guns, although aiming was a matter of extreme difficulty. A hail of bullets clipping neat little holes in the tips of the battleplane's wings showed how close the shots were to securing telling hits.
Athol and Sergeant O'Rafferty opened fire simultaneously, since both machine guns could be brought to bear upon the German aircraft. Caught by the stinging hail of bullets the Fokker's struts and tension wires seemed to fly into fragments. Her shattered planes tilted upwards as she commenced to fall earthwards. Then, bursting into flames, the Hun machine crashed to the ground two thousand feet below.
A peculiar and disconcerting ping close to Athol's head warned him that the fight was not yet over. The second Fokker, finding that the mysterious aeroplane was directing its attention upon Hun No 1, had manoeuvred for its favourite position, and owing to the battleplane describing a circle the relative distance was now considerably decreased.
In a trice Blake banked steeply. As he did so O'Rafferty let loose a couple of dozen rounds. The Hun, hit more than once, turned and fled.
Giving a hasty glance round Blake took in the situation. The remaining Fokkers had been disposed of by the British biplanes, but not before one of the latter had to make an involuntary landing with its petrol tank perforated like a sieve and its observer badly wounded. There was now a fair chance of matching Blake's battleplane against the vaunted and possibly overrated Fokker.
The latter, with clouds of smoke pouring from her exhaust, was making off towards her own lines. Before gaining shelter she would have to pass over the British trenches less than thirty miles from the encounter, even if she were successful in throwing off pursuit.
Blake was equally determined to smash his opponent long before the latter came within sight of the German trenches. It was essential that in this early stage the secret battleplane should not show herself to the Huns over their own lines. The systematic disappearance of the "star" enemy airmen, without any hint of the nature of their destruction, would have a telling effect upon themoraleof their flying men. It was a parallel case to the steady and unannounced decrease in the number of German submarines, scores of which left port never to return, and leaving no record of their disappearance save that known and jealously guarded by the British Admiralty.
"Now see what you can do, Athol," exclaimed Blake, as the battleplane, gaining upon her antagonist hand over fist, was in a favourable position to open fire.
Glancing along the sights Athol pressed the thumbpiece of the firing-mechanism. Some of the shots took effect, for the Fokker, in spite of the frantic efforts of the pilot to keep it under control, began to dive.
Athol ceased firing. The hostile aircraft was done for. Humanity urged him to let the Hun crew save themselves if it were possible to avoid being dashed to pieces upon the ground.
Erratically swaying, lurching and side-slipping, with one of the wings twisted like a broken reed, the German aircraft fell through a thousand feet of space before the pilot was able to check its descent. For ten seconds it seemed on the point of recovering itself, then the headlong flight was resumed.
Well in its wake followed the British battleplane. Blake was resolved to watch developments. He was curious to know the fate of the Hun crew.
Retarding the battleplane's flight the pilot kept her well under control, circling around the path of his defeated antagonist. Just as the Fokker was on the point of landing with an appalling crash the machine tilted acutely, then making a tail-dive alighted heavily upon the ground, throwing both pilot and observer from their seats.
In an instant the redoubtable Hun pilot regained his feet. Although fully expectant to be greeted by a discharge from the battleplane's machine-gun he staggered towards the wreckage and dragged his unconscious comrade further from the pile of tangled and twisted metal and canvas. Then striking a match and igniting his celluloid map he threw the blazing fabric into the petrol-soaked wreckage.
Bringing the battleplane to earth within twenty-five yards to windward of the burning aeroplane Blake descended, followed by Athol and the sergeant.
The Hun, revolver in hand, stood on the defensive, although no escape was possible, for already soldiers were hurrying up from their billets in a neighbouring hamlet. The Hun, not knowing what treatment he would be accorded, was evidently under the impression that no quarter would be given.
"Hands up!" ordered Blake.
"You no shoot, me no shoot," replied the German aviator, still brandishing his pistol. "Spare my life and surrender I will make."
"We respect a brave foe," exclaimed Blake. "But you are our prisoner."
The German dropped his revolver and folded his arms. Blake advanced with outstretched hands to compliment his opponent on his bravery, but as he did so the aviator reeled and fell senseless to the ground.
"They'll both pull through, I should imagine," declared an army doctor who with others had hurried to the spot. "They look a pair of tough birds. But, by Jove! what type of aircraft have you here?"
"Just an experiment," replied Blake modestly. "We haven't done so badly for a first attempt. Hop in, Athol, night's coming on apace, and I'd rather tackle half a dozen Huns than risk a landing in the dark."
"Mornin', Blake," remarked the Wing Commander. "Feel like an out-and-home flight? Thought so. Well, give a glance at this map."
Three weeks had elapsed since the secret battleplane had worsted the two Fokkers—three weeks of strenuous activity. The battleplane bore many honourable scars, souvenirs of aerial combats. But as yet her rôle had been a purely defensive one; she had never gone over the German trenches, hostile anti-aircraft had not as yet sent their shrapnel shells bursting all around her. Already the Huns had learnt of the presence of a super-powerful aircraft of unique design, and with feelings akin to dismay they realised that risky as it had been to fly over the British lines it was no longer practicable anywhere within the radius of action of the mysterious mechanical bird.
"Look here," continued the Wing Commander, placing a long, slender finger on the unfolded map that lay on the trestle table, "that's Olhelt, a village or rather hamlet not far from Hasselt, and within ten miles of the Netherland Frontier.
"We've received information that the Bosches have a secret Zeppelin base there, and that their new airships that are to be employed solely for raids over England are finally tested there before passing to active service. The place is strongly protected by Archibalds, and there are a dozen planes constantly on duty. Now, I want you to make a reconnaissance. If possible, bomb the Zeppelins to blazes. Would you prefer to undertake the job alone or shall I send a supporting squadron of swift battleplanes?"
"We'll tackle it alone, sir, I think," replied Blake. "Our silent motors are a decided factor in our favour, which would be thrown away if we were accompanied by any biplanes."
"So I thought, but I felt that I ought to give you the option," rejoined the Wing Commander. "Now, there is another point. We have a Belgian officer here, a man furnished with the highest credentials from the Belgian headquarters. He's a Limburger, and knows the district around Olhelt remarkably well. His name, let me see,"—the officer referred to a docket—"yes, his name is Etienne Fauvart, a lieutenant of the 21st Regiment of the Line. This man, for patriotic and personal motives—it was he who first reported the Zeppelin base; had the information from a relative living near Hasselt—wishes particularly to take part in the raid. According to his story he has a heavy account to settle with the Bosches near his home. It occurred to me that he might be useful for pointing out the various landmarks. From all accounts the place is rather puzzling for a strange airman to find."
"Whether he is to come with us or otherwise is for you to decide, sir," said Blake.
"Personally I am inclined to favour the suggestion," continued the Wing Commander. "Since you are so good as to leave the matter in my hands, I think you'd better take Lieutenant Fauvart. I'll have him brought in."
He touched a bell. An orderly appeared in the doorway.
"Bring the Belgian officer here," ordered the Wing Commander.
Lieutenant Etienne Fauvart was a loose-limbed man of about thirty. He was of average height, broad of shoulder and dark-featured. Although he clicked his heels as he saluted he lacked the alertness of the typical British officer.
"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir," he said in English with a good accent when Desmond Blake and he were introduced. "Also I esteem it an honour to go with you in your magnificent invention. I hope that we are able to blow the Zeppelins to pieces. Ciel! I look to the hour."
"Certainly an enthusiast," thought Blake as the Belgian discussed with his British confrères the plan of attack.
It was eventually decided that the secret battleplane was to leave the flying ground at an hour before sunset, soar to a great altitude and arrive over her objective shortly after sunset. Elaborate arrangements were made for her return, the aerodrome to be brilliantly lighted on receipt of a wireless message from the returning battleplane. In view of the possibility of a failure of the wireless a red and a blue star rockets were to be fired by the airmen.
The Belgian officer formed a supernumerary member of the crew, since Blake was loth to leave either of his three airmen behind. Accordingly Fauvart was placed at the post usually occupied by Dick when his duty with the motors had for the time been accomplished. Young Tracey accepted the situation with the utmost good-nature. Although reluctant to miss the visual part of the fun he realised that it was "some" luck to be able to participate in the great raid.
For the rest of the day the airmen were busily engaged in overhauling the mechanism, studying maps and otherwise preparing for the task. Etienne Fauvart, evincing great interest in the battleplane, had taken a deep fancy to Dick, and followed him with keen zest, asking innumerable questions.
"The fellow bores me stiff," soliloquised the lad. "He seems a decent sort, but he does ask awkward questions. He looks too cute to be stuffed, and I don't like choking him off. The only thing I can suggest is to refer him to Blake."
The Belgian took the hint quite good-naturedly. He refrained from asking any further technical questions, but Dick noticed that he made no attempt to "freeze on" to the imperturbable inventor.
At length, at the appointed hour, the battleplane started on her adventurous flight, her crew being sent-off with the hearty good wishes of their brother airmen—wishes for the most part expressed in that bantering, happy-go-lucky style that characterises men who have more than a nodding acquaintance with death.
The thin air literally shook under the concussion of hundreds of heavy guns as the battleplane swung high over the opposing lines. A big "affair" was in progress—one of those furious exchanges of strafing that are airily referred to in the official reports as "an activity of some magnitude." Two mines had just been sprung, their positions marked by huge clouds of smoke and dust. But of the actual fighting none was visible to the crew of the battleplane. A dense haze hid the khaki and grey fighting men from view, although rifle firing and the rattle of machine-guns could be distinctly heard as the see-saw struggle for the possession of the newly-made craters continued with the utmost desperation.
So intense were the undulations of the atmosphere over the terrific cannonade that the battleplane rocked violently. Her wings, beating the disturbed air with tremendous speed, seemed hardly able to support the main fabric. While the flight over the scene of the fighting lasted the mechanical bird was plunging and banking like a ship in a heavy following gale. So severe was the strain that had any of the metal-work been the least defective the weakness would have shown itself with dire results. Even Blake gave vent to an exclamation of relief as the machine drew safely away from the disturbed area.
"The spires of Hasselt," declared Lieutenant Fauvart, when, half an hour later, one of many of the numerous Belgian towns appeared in view, showing up clearly in the slanting rays of the setting sun. "You see those forests to the north? Beyond them lies Olhelt. It is in a valley, with trees all around. Already the valley is in shadow. The time for vengeance is at hand."
Evidently vengeance was the uppermost thought in the man's mind. Both lads had been curious to know the reason for the Belgian's oft reiterated words, but with their typical English reticence had refrained from asking him for enlightenment.
"I am cold," exclaimed Fauvart a moment later. "A man who is cold cannot do his work well. I go and get my heavy coat."
"And he wouldn't take my advice before we started," thought Athol, as the Belgian slipped from his seat and disappeared within the fuselage.
"We are in sight of Olhelt," announced Fauvart to Dick, who was sitting on the floor by the side of the motors.
"Are we?" replied the lad. "Think I'll have a look out."
He made his way to the Belgian's vacated post, and, leaning over, took in the expanse of country far beneath. Blake was circling the battleplane, since it was yet too early to volplane to the work of destruction. At that immense height, and thanks to the almost total absence of sound, the battleplane was safe from observation from the earth.
"I feel like a stoker in a naval engagement," thought Dick as he returned to his post. "Nothing to see, and all up if anything goes wrong. Another ten minutes will see the job through."
It seemed an interminable time before an acceleration of the motors announced that Blake had disconnected the wing mechanism and had locked the wings for a spiral volplane.
Dick promptly throttled down, and stood ready at the first sign to open the motors all out. As he did so he became aware of a peculiar smell. It was something like but not the same as that of burning oil. Then with disconcerting suddenness the motors ceased firing.
"Engine failure," reported the lad.
"Hang it all!" ejaculated Blake. "Couldn't have occurred at a worse time."
The Belgian started and whipped out a revolver.
"For me there is no surrender," he exclaimed dramatically. "I shoot myself rather than be a prisoner of war to the Bosches."
"Stop it!" exclaimed Blake, releasing his hold of the controls and gripping the Belgian's arm. "We are not done in yet. Far from it. Put that thing away and be reasonable. Look out and see if you recognise a good landing-place."
Fauvart, rallied by Blake's manner, did as he was told. By this time the battleplane was less than two thousand feet up. Somewhat to the airmen's surprise no shells came from the invisible anti-aircraft guns known to be somewhere in the vicinity.
"There!" exclaimed the Belgian, indicating a clearing in the woods, where even in the twilight the grass showed distinctly against the darker green of the treetops. "It may be safe to land there. If the Bosches have not already seen us we may escape detection."
"Any luck yet, Dick?" called out the pilot anxiously.
"No, sir," replied the lad, still deftly juggling with the magnetos, where apparently the fault lay.
With his customary skill Desmond Blake brought the battleplane to earth in the clearing pointed out by the Belgian lieutenant. His first act after landing was to fix a detonator and time fuse in position. Rather than allow the machine to fall into the hands of the enemy Blake had resolved to blow her to fragments.
"Be ready to slip it when I give you warning," he cautioned. "Stick it, Dick, but don't stop a moment after I give the word."
Some minutes passed but there was no sign of outside interruption. Athol, Sergeant O'Rafferty and the Belgian alighted, leaving Blake in the pilot's seat and Dick toiling at the motors, since the lad preferred to work alone in the confined space between the engines. The Belgian, having seemingly recovered his self-composure, began to stroll towards the edge of the clearing, carrying a large can.
"Where are you off to, Monsieur Fauvart?" asked Athol.
The lieutenant half turned his head and put his finger to his lips. Then signing to the lad to follow, he hastened his footsteps, although treading as softly as before.
O'Rafferty was about to accompany Athol when Blake called him back to bear a hand at slewing the battleplane round head to wind.
"They've gone to get some water for the radiator," said the pilot reassuringly. "Fauvart knows of a spring close handy. Getting on all right, Dick?"
"I'm doing my best," answered the lad guardedly.
The sergeant, lighting a cigarette, paced to and fro, with eyes and ears alert to catch the first sight or sound of anything of a suspicious nature.
Suddenly, to Blake's intense satisfaction, the motors began to purr smoothly.
"You've found out what was wrong, then," he said, at the same time motioning to the sergeant to take his place on board. "What was it?"
Before Dick could reply a revolver shot rang out. Then came the sounds of several men crashing through the brushwood. An instant later twenty or more grey-coated figures appeared in sight, led by the supposed Belgian officer.
"Surrender instantly!" he shouted. "Lieutenant Hawke is our prisoner. Do further damage to the battleplane and no quarter will be given. Hands up and you will receive honourable treatment."
"Allout, Dick," shouted Blake, at the same time coupling up the wing mechanism. Sergeant O'Rafferty, springing to the after machine-gun, swung the weapon upon the nearmost of the German troops. As he did so a ragged volley greeted him, the bullets either passing through the aluminium covering of the chassis or else whizzing harmlessly overhead.
With her wings beating the air with tremendous force the battleplane drew clear of Mother Earth. Four or five Germans, rushing forward, clung desperately to the framework of the landing wheels, amongst them the Hun who had so successfully posed as a Belgian officer.
Unfortunately for them they had totally under-estimated the lifting power of the mechanical bird. Blinded by the cloud of dust thrown up by the flapping of the huge wings and deafened by the roar of the exhaust—for Dick had opened the cut-out in order to give the motors full play—the Germans were unable to realise that their efforts to keep the battleplane pinned to the ground were unavailing.
Although the machine rose rapidly it lacked the speed that it usually attained. Powerfully engined as she was the battleplane could not ignore the additional weight of five burly Brandenburgers.
"Motors running well, Dick?" asked Blake, shouting to make himself heard above the terrific din.
"Splendidly now," replied the lad.
"Then see what's dragging her," continued the pilot, whose whole attention had to be centred upon the steering of the machine.
Dick made his way to the still open hatchway in the floor of the fuselage. He was hardly prepared for the sight that met his gaze.
Three Germans were astraddle of the horizontal girders supporting the legs of the landing-wheels. Another had thrown arms and legs round an upright and was bellowing lustily. The treacherous Hun who, under the name of Etienne Fauvart, had all but succeeded in capturing the secret battleplane, was clambering up the lattice work, with his revolver hanging from his teeth by means of the lanyard. Dick promptly shut the sliding hatch and made his way to his superior officer.
"We've a fine crew of Huns hanging on," he reported. "Five of them, and that skunk Fauvart in addition. I'd like to get hold of him and find out what's happened to Athol."
"In that case we should have to make a prisoner of him," replied Blake grimly. "No; he'll pay for his treachery now. I don't believe in prolonging the agony. Pass the word to Sergeant O'Rafferty to hold on tightly. And, please, muffle the exhaust. We'll alarm every Bosch within ten miles of us."
Directly the motors were silenced a deafening concussion was heard close to the underside of the chassis. A shrapnell shell, one of many, had just exploded. Some of the bullets perforated the wings or pinged harmlessly against the armoured plating of the fuselage. Two of the Huns, struck by flying fragments of metal, relaxed their grip and fell through space on their long journey to the ground three thousand feet below.
"All ready?" shouted Blake warningly.
The battleplane tilted abruptly and made a complete loop. In five seconds she had regained her normal flying trim, but without the treacherous German and his compatriots. They, unable to retain their hold under the sudden change of direction, were hurtling earthwards, their despairing screams still ringing in the ears of the horrified Dick.
But other work was on hand to distract the lad's mind from the act of retribution. Desmond Blake's searching glance had discerned the roofs of four large sheds almost hidden between the trees, the roofs being mottled so as to resemble as closely as possible the characteristics of the surrounding verdure.
Rising to such a height that there was little danger from a direct hit from the "Archibalds," the battleplane hovered over her objective, spiralling in sharp curves so that the limit of her flight brought her well within the perpendicular distance of her quarry.
At the order Sergeant O'Rafferty dropped two bombs in quick succession. The first, striking the ground close to the edge of the clearing, exploded with terrific violence, felling huge trees like ninepins and literally pulverising the nearmost shed. Almost simultaneously the second bomb alighted fairly in the centre of another Zeppelin house. A stupendous explosion followed, a blast of lurid flame leaping skywards, and rending the gloom of twilight like the concentrated flash of a dozen fifteen-inch guns. The roar of the detonation was appalling. The battleplane, under the influence of the far-reaching up-blast, shook like an aspen leaf, and fell vertically through a distance of nearly five hundred feet before the resistance of the wings restored her equilibrium.
The appalling nature of the work of destruction so overwhelmed the men at the anti-aircraft guns that they ceased firing. Undisturbed the battleplane continued circling, although at a much lower altitude, her crew examining the results of the bombs with studied leisure.
When most of the smoke had cleared away, although portions of the wreckage still burned furiously, it was seen that there was no necessity to drop more bombs. Not a single shed was left standing. Gaunt skeletons of destroyed Zeppelins reared their bent and twisted aluminium ribs betwixt the gaping metal sheets that a few minutes previously had concealed some of the latest types of the Kaiser's air-raiders.
"Shall we give them another, just for luck, sir?" asked Sergeant O'Rafferty.
"Not necessary," replied Blake, as he turned the battleplane in the direction of a faint yellowish path of light upon the horizon—the last vestige of declining day. "Lock the bomb-dropping gear, sergeant."
O'Rafferty hastened to obey, but by pure accident his foot slipped and came in contact with the disengaging pedal. Eleven seconds later came the crash of the exploding bomb.
"Sorry, sir," exclaimed the sergeant apologetically.
"Let's hope it isn't wasted," rejoined Blake, ordering the motors to be run "all out."
In the darkness the battleplane passed high above the opposing lines of trenches, their outlines rendered distinctly visible by the flashes of rapid rifle and machine gun fire, and the occasional glare of star-shells, punctuated by the high-explosive projectiles.
"Give them a call up, sergeant," ordered the pilot.
O'Rafferty brought the wireless into use, unwinding eighty feet of "aerial" that trailed behind the swiftly-moving battleplane. In answer to the message a blaze of electric arc lamps appeared upon the flying-ground.
Almost before the sergeant had wound in the aerial the battleplane was ready for her earthward glide. Flattening out to a nicety she landed within twenty feet of the door of the hangar, and was immediately surrounded by a throng of eager flying men.
"Instructions have been carried out, sir," reported Blake to the Wing Commander. "Three, possibly four, Zepps have been destroyed."
"Any casualties?" asked the commander.
"Mr. Hawke missing, and believed a prisoner, sir. We had to make an involuntary landing, and were rushed by a German patrol. In the circumstances no attempt at rescue was possible."
"And where is Lieutenant Fauvart?" continued the Wing Commander.
Desmond Blake smiled grimly.
"You palmed off a dud on us, sir," he reported, "so we dropped him. I don't think he crashed more than a couple of thousand feet, but it was quite enough to cause the German Intelligence Staff to lose one of their pet stars."