"Thegale must have backed to the south'ard," explained Desmond Blake. "It has carried us well northward of our proper course. There's a large vessel almost immediately beneath us, Athol. Get your binoculars and see if you can make out her nationality, and, what is equally important, the direction of the wind."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Athol, after a brief investigation. "It is not a vessel—it's a Zepp. She's not so very far above the surface; I can tell that by the position of her shadow on the waves."
"Here, take the helm," said Blake, handing over the steering wheel to the lad. "Let her volplane in spirals. I must see what this game is."
It did not take Blake long to form a pretty accurate idea of the situation. The sea was fairly calm, showing that here, at least, the gale had blown itself out. The water, too, was clear and comparatively shallow, the bed consisting chiefly of white sand. Visible against the bottom of the sea was a long grey object, sufficiently distinct to enable Blake to decide that it was a submarine.
Less than three hundred feet above it hovered the Zeppelin, flying slowly dead into the eye of the light breeze and thus endeavouring to keep almost stationary over the submerged craft.
On her part the submarine was creeping over the sandy bottom, sometimes backing astern and striving to hide herself in the disturbed water from the watchers on the Zeppelin.
The airship, intent upon the destruction of the submarine, had now descended to within two hundred feet and was dropping specially shaped bombs resembling aerial torpedoes. On striking the surface of the water these diabolical contrivances would plunge to the bottom under their own weight and momentum, then exploding with sufficient force to destroy any craft within fifty feet. Up to the present, however, the Zepp had not scored, although the crew were getting nearer their objective with each missile they dropped.
A sharp order and Athol and the sergeant manned the two automatic guns. Although the weapon did not fire shells, the peculiar nature of the bullets would enable them to rip up the airship's envelope like a jagged knife once the gun could be brought to bear.
All intent upon the destruction of the submarine the crew of the gas-bag had no inkling of the presence of the battleplane until a regular sheaf of bullets struck the Zeppelin well for'ard. In a couple of seconds the pilot's gondola was completely wrecked; but the ballonets came off comparatively lightly. There was a rush on the part of the Zeppelin's crew to man their guns, while with a bound the airship shot vertically upwards, intent upon gaining a greater altitude than that of her attacker.
But for once the commander of the airship had underrated the climbing capacity of a "heavier-than-air" machine; for, anticipating the manoeuvre, Blake set the battleplane to climb at her maximum speed.
With her fuselage pointing almost vertically the battleplane rose under the powerful beats of her wings. Thanks to the balanced gear of the seats, all four of her crew felt no inconvenience. Athol and Sergeant O'Rafferty were pumping in hundreds of nickel bullets, until it seemed as if the Zeppelin must be riddled through and through.
Still the gas-bag rose. Two of her guns were replying to those of the battleplane, firing a sort of combined high explosive and shrapnel three-pounder shell.
Long rents were now visible in the glistening sides of the envelope, as the shower of bullets completely penetrated the frail covering to the numerous gas-filled sub-divisions of the air-ship. Yet she showed no tendency to drop. Her upward motion seemed uninfluenced by the loss of hydrogen; but whether this was owing to the great reserve of buoyancy or to the immense quantities of ballast thrown overboard, none of the battleplane's crew could decide.
While the British automatic guns were making hit upon hit the German fire was becoming more and more erratic. The first few shells hurtled perilously close to the battleplane; fortunately the time fuses had been badly adjusted, for the missiles burst harmlessly a couple of hundred yards beyond their objective. But after a few rounds a kind of panic must have seized the Hun air-pirates. Perhaps they realised that they were "up against" something that was their superior in manoeuvring and offensive powers, for they blazed away recklessly without scoring a single hit.
Throughout the race skywards the battleplane easily held the ascendancy, and as the Zeppelin reached a great altitude the increasing rarefaction of the air, in addition to the loss of hydrogen through the perforation of the ballonets, began to tell.
"She's dropping," exclaimed Dick, enthusiastically, as the huge fabric began to drop stern foremost.
Right above the now doomed Zeppelin flew the battleplane. In this position she could no longer give or receive blows, for the Zepp mounted no guns on the upper side of the envelope while the battleplane's automatic weapons could not be sufficiently depressed to bear upon her antagonist. Had Blake any bombs in reserve he could have easily destroyed the airship with one properly-placed missile, but his last had already been used to good purpose in the raid upon the German capital.
In almost absolute silence the battleplane dropped in short spirals, following the downward plunge of her defeated foe.
Suddenly the British machine gave a terrific lurch. To the lads it seemed as if the whole bulk of the mechanical bird was being hurled sideways. They were dimly conscious of the fuselage turning rapidly and erratically around the gimballed seats, while the air was rent with vivid flames and pungent volumes of black smoke.
In vain Blake attempted to lock the wings, The controls, fixed to a dashboard on the coaming in front of his seat, were moving too rapidly past his outstretched hand as the body of the machine rolled over and over.
The horrible thought that the battleplane was rushing headlong to destruction gripped the minds of all on board, yet not a cry burst from their tightly set lips.
With a rending crash something penetrated the floor of the fuselage, and, missing Athol's feet by bare inches, vanished outwards through the deck, tearing a jagged gash through which the lurid smoke-laden clouds could be plainly discerned. Fragments of metal, none of them of any size, began to patter upon the aluminium framing.
All this took but a few seconds, for with a rush like that of an express train emerging from a dark tunnel, the battleplane, still tilted on her side, shot into the pure sunlit air. Then, gradually recovering her normal trim, she allowed herself to come once more under the control of her designer, builder and pilot.
Shaken and well-nigh breathless, for the atmosphere through which the machine had plunged was highly charged with poisonous fumes, it was some minutes before Athol and Dick fully realised that they were still alive. Almost their first thoughts were concerning the Zeppelin. In vain they looked over the side of the chassis in the hope of seeing a tangible proof of their victory. The airship was no longer in existence. An explosion, either the result of an accidental ignition of the escaping hydrogen or of a deliberate act on the part of the crew, had literally pulverised the huge and frail structure. The battleplane, almost immediately above the source of detonation, had narrowly escaped destruction, having been enveloped in the terrific up-blast of the fiery gases. The sliver of metal that had only just missed Athol's legs was a piece of aluminium sheeting from the dismembered Zeppelin, for it was afterwards found bent round one of the girders of the landing-wheel framework.
"I'd like to wait till the submarine reappears," remarked Blake, "but it's getting too late to-day. We are, I should imagine, less than a hundred miles from Riga, and it wants but an hour and a half to sunset. By the by, has any one seen anything of Private Smith?"
No one had. When last heard of the ex-prisoner had been sleeping soundly in one of the bunks.
"See where he is, sergeant."
O'Rafferty descended from his perch and entered the interior of the fuselage. The bunk was empty. A couple of blankets hitched up upon some hooks in the ceiling trailed forlornly to the floor.
"You there, Smith?" shouted the sergeant.
"Here, sergeant," replied a drowsy voice from the very after end of the tapering body. "Have they finished strafing us yet?"
Wedged in so as to be incapable of moving hand or foot was the imperturbable Private Thomas Smith. When the battleplane had commenced her almost vertical leap in her encounter with the Zepp, the Tommy had been shot from his bunk. Alighting on the floor he had slid aft to the position in which O'Rafferty had discovered him. There, throughout the erratic and violent motions of the battleplane following the explosion of the airship, he had lain, too sleepy to realise what was taking place, and when roused by the Sergeant's voice he was still under the impression that he was in a dug-out somewhere in France during a heavy bombardment by hostile guns.
The sun had dipped behind the waters of the Baltic as the battleplane flew serenely across the broad waters of the Gulf of Riga. A thousand feet beneath the airmen lay a powerful Russian squadron, including dreadnoughts, armoured cruisers and destroyers.
Keenly alert to the possibilities of hostile vessels from the air the Czar's sailormen were quick to discern the approach of a strange and altogether remarkable battleplane. Soon the distinctive tri-coloured circles could be discerned. All doubt as to the nationality of the mysterious aircraft was now at an end, and the British machine was given three ringing cheers, the volume of sound being easily heard by her crew.
Five minutes later the battleplane came to earth upon the Ruski Aviation Ground, a few miles eastward of the Slavonic stronghold of Riga.
Upon alighting Blake and his companions were warmly greeted by a group of Russian staff officers, some of whom spoke English fluently, while all could converse with the utmost ease French.
"You are slightly beyond the scheduled time, Monsieur le Capitaine Blake," remarked a courteous colonel of the Preveski Guards. "We trust that you met with no misfortune?"
"Slight mishaps that proved blessings in disguise," replied Blake, as he proceeded to give a brief outline of the battleplane's adventures.
"Extremely gratifying," declared the Russian. "And your compatriots have done well in the raid, although, alas, they have lost heavily. Of the number that left the soil of France for this lengthy flight only six have contrived to arrive here."
"And one cannot make omelettes without breaking eggs," added another of the Czar's officers. "Ma foi!From all accounts you British have made a fine hash of Berlin."
A prolongedspell of steady westerly winds delayed the British air squadron's return to the Western Front. A week or more had passed since the arrival of Blake and his companions on Russian soil, and although the hospitality of their hosts exceeded all expectations, the airmen eagerly looked for a favourable breeze to aid them on their lengthy flight.
Especially was there anxiety when they learnt the news—a widespread secret—that the great Anglo-French offensive was shortly to take place. On the Eastern Front, especially in Bukovina, the Muscovite troops were displaying great activity. Already the Austrians were being pushed back in headlong rout towards the Carpathians. In Italy, too, their frenzied offensive, which in the first instance had pushed Cadorna's troops from the Trentino Mountains, had been checked and hurled backwards by the magnificent valour of the Italian armies.
On the Western Front Verdun was still proving the grave of thousands of the Kaiser's troops, who, in hopes of being able to announce a splendid though costly victory, had been ineffectually hurled day after day upon the grim, determined lines of Frenchmen backed by their tremendously effective "Seventy-fives."
Meanwhile in the neighbourhood of Riga Hindenburg had to be watched. More, his projected offensive had to be met and broken. Here, too, there was a good prospect of success for the Allied arms, for not only had the Russians vast reserves of men and munitions, but since the bad smashing of the German Fleet off the Jutland shore, the danger of a naval attack upon Riga was at an end. And not only that; the almost intact Russian Baltic Fleet, aided by a number of British submarines, could co-operate with the land forces and seriously menace the left flank of the German armies in Courland.
Private Thomas Smith, who was now putting on weight rapidly and was fast recovering his normal health and spirits, had been made a supplementary member of the battleplane's crew. On learning the names of his new officers he made the announcement that for three months during his incarceration at Meseritz he had been acting as servant to Athol's father.
There were, he reported, four British officers at the prison camp, on whom the task of maintaining discipline devolved; for, owing to the horrible sanitary conditions and totally inadequate food, typhus had broken out in the camp. It was Wittenburg all over again. The Prussian guards, terrorised by the thought that they were exposed to the dread disease, had kept well aloof from their prisoners, supplying them food by means of iron trucks that were hauled in and out of the camp by endless ropes. To make matters worse the trucks were liberally sprinkled with chloride of lime, which had the effect of making the already unwholesome food absolutely unpalatable.
"Not a single man of us left the camp alive during those days," continued Smith. "Afterwards it got a lot better, so they hired us out like a lot of cattle. As things went it turned out all right for me. No, sir, I haven't seen anything of Colonel Hawke for nearly six months. He was all right then—as well as could be expected in that horrible den."
At daybreak on the following morning the rumble of guns, that for the past week had been intermittent, increased into a continuous and terrific roar. All along the Courland Front dense clouds of smoke drifted slowly across the Russian lines. The ground, twenty miles from the actual scene of the furious cannonade, trembled under the pulsations of the concentrated artillery.
"Would you like to have a nearer view of the action?" enquired the courteous Russian colonel who acted as the British officers' principal host. "To-day we hope to achieve something."
"Our battleplane is at your service, sir," replied Blake.
"No, no," protested the Russian. "That is not what I meant. Your work is best performed on your own front when the climatic conditions permit of your return. Here, while you are on Russian soil, it is our duty to take good care of you. Nevertheless, should you wish to see how your Russian brothers-in-arms can fight the Huns——?"
"Assuredly," replied Blake.
Within five minutes a swift motor-car was in readiness. Accompanied by two Russian officers, Blake, Athol and Dick were soon speeding over an excellent road that had only recently been completed—one of the vast network of communications made by the Russians during the winter of 1915-16, and which enabled them to move their troops with the same facilities as did their highly-organised foes.
"This is as far as I dare take you, gentlemen," announced one of the Russian officers, as the car came to a standstill in the rear of a slightly-rising ridge. "His Excellency Colonel Dvouski has impressed upon me the necessity of caution. It will be fairly safe to walk to the summit of this hill. From it we can see much of the operations."
The party alighted and accompanied their guide. The view at first sight was distinctly monotonous. Both the Russian and the German triple lines of trenches were completely invisible, the zigzag lines of clay being garbed in a verdant cloak of wavy grass interspersed with gay-coloured flowers. But, although the trenches were concealed from direct view the Russian gunners had the range of the hostile guns to a nicety, thanks to the efficient aid given by their observing aeroplanes.
As far as the eye could reach the German lines were being subjected to a terrific bombardment. Clouds of dust and smoke, mingled with flying timbers, sandbags, human bodies and limbs testified to the stupendous power of the high-explosive shells which Russia's erstwhile foe was now lavishly pouring into her new ally's magazines.
Two miles beyond the German third line trenches another deluge of shells was falling, forming a "barrage" or impassable zone of fire in order to prevent the enemy's reserves from being rushed up to assist the already demoralised front line defenders.
The Russian officer consulted his watch.
"In seven and a half minutes from now," he announced laconically and as calmly as if he were stating the time of departure of a train.
Breathlessly Athol and Dick watched the bursting shells, mentally comparing the hail of friendly projectiles with the state of affairs when they were "foot-slogging" in the Flanders trenches. Then they were in the unenviable position of being subjected to a heavy "strafing" with the disconcerting knowledge that the Huns were sending three shells to the British one. Now, thanks to energetic measures to provide munitions, it was the other way about. The sight that the lads witnessed near Riga was but a part of a similar and concerted plan of action stretching between the Baltic and the Carpathians on the Eastern Front; from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier on the Western, and in no less a degree against the Austrians on the Italian border.
Suddenly the guns pounding the German first line trenches "lifted," transferring their hail of projectiles to a line well beyond. Simultaneously swarms of grey-coated Russian infantry appeared from the invisible trenches, clambered over the parapets, and surged shoulder to shoulder across the intervening "no man's land."
Numbers fell, for the Huns had contrived, even amidst the inferno of high explosive shells, to keep some of their machine-guns intact.
But the Czar's troops were not to be denied. With the sunlight glinting upon their long bayonets, and with a succession of rousing cheers they swept forward unfalteringly and irresistibly.
Penetrating the barbed wire entanglements they closed. Here and there bayonet crossed bayonet, or clubbed rifle fell upon foeman's skull, but for the most part the Huns, their spirits crushed by the nerve-racking bombardment, threw down their rifles and raised their hands above their heads in token of surrender.
Over the parados of the captured trench swept the triumphant troops, hurling hand grenades by hundreds into the second line of Hun defences. The reserve trenches shared the same fate, and in less than forty minutes the surviving Germans, unable to flee owing to the steady barrage fire, surrendered to their hitherto despised foes.
Already swarms of prisoners, closely guarded, were being marched to the rear of the Russian positions, while a long line of wounded, some supported by their comrades, others borne in stretchers, and others walking slowly and painfully, testified to the stubbornness of the conflict.
"What are those fellows doing, I wonder?" asked Dick, indicating a large body of unarmed men who were approaching with every indication of delight. They were still some distance off, but by the aid of their binoculars Blake and his party could see the men with comparative distinctness.
They were clad mostly in a motley of rags Their faces were black with dirt and almost hidden by long, straggling beards. Yet in spite of their battered and scarecrow appearances they marched with a good idea of military order.
"Poles, perhaps," suggested one of the Russian officers. "The Huns have forced a lot of them into their ranks. That is what the Germans meant by granting them self-government."
"You are wrong there, Alexis Ivanovitch," said his brother officer, speaking in French, for, out of politeness to their guests, they had refrained from talking to each other in their native tongue. "Those men are not Poles; they are English and French."
"Surely?" inquired Blake incredulously.
"I am certain of it," continued the Russian. "They are some of the prisoners whom the Huns have sent from their concentration camps to work in their trenches on this front. These Germans have a saying, 'Scratch a Russian and you will find a Tartar.' The whole civilised world can now very well say, 'Show me a Hun and I will show you a brute.'"
Nearer and nearer marched the ragged regiment, proceeding along a road that led about a quarter of a mile from the hillock on which Blake and his companions were standing.
"Let us go and give the poor fellows a bit of a welcome," he suggested, to which the Russian officer agreed.
Suddenly, to his comrades' surprise, Athol broke into a run and made straight for the advancing men. His sharp eyes had discovered a tall, attenuated figure at the head of the column. In spite of the grey beard, the hollow cheek, and bent shoulders the lad recognised his father. Not so Colonel Hawke; he never expected to find his son, a tall strapping youth in the uniform of an officer of the Royal Flying Corps, on this remote corner of Russian soil.
When at length the colonel grasped the situation, he could only gasp in speechless wonderment, while Athol shook his hands as if they were a couple of pump-handles.
The rest of the released prisoners, numbering half a dozen British and French officers, and about four hundred men, halted, broke ranks, and crowded round the rest of Blake's party, filled with delight at the sight of the well-known uniforms once more.
At the same time a Russian regiment on its way to the captured positions halted. The troops with characteristic kindness were soon offering their water-bottles, rations and tobacco to their starving allies.
"It has been simply hell," declared Athol's father, after he had recovered from the surprise that had all but rendered him speechless with emotion. "Those swine of Germans compelled our poor fellows to slave in their first-line trenches. Our spirit was broken by hunger and exhaustion. We would have welcomed a Russian shell, but even that was denied us. They pushed us into dug-outs and mine galleries, and kept us there for three days without food. Thank heaven, though, the boys kept their end up pretty well. At least three large mines failed to explode as the Russians stormed the first line trenches, and I think I know why. We tampered with the wires."
"We have a motor-car which is at your disposal, Colonel Hawke," said the Russian officer responsible for the safety of the British airmen. "It will indeed be an honour to offer you hospitality."
Athol's parent shook his head.
"Many thanks, sir," he replied, "but I must decline. Until I see these men safely quartered and given a good meal my place is with them. Well, good-bye, Athol, for the present. I'll try to look you up this evening. I say," he added anxiously, "what's this we've heard about a great German naval victory in the North Sea?"
"If the fact that Wilhelmshaven and Kiel are chock-a-block with crippled German warships, that a score or more are at the bottom of the North Sea, and that Jellicoe's fleet still holds undisputed mastery of the sea—if that constitutes a German victory they may repeat their success as many times as they like," observed Desmond Blake. "I suppose that in Germany the people still believe the tissue of lies issued by the German Admiralty. Already neutrals know the truth. I feel sorry for the Kaiser when his subjects learn the actual facts."
"I feel sorry for no German," declared Colonel Hawke. "I never was of a vindictive nature, but—a Somali would give a Hun points as far as 'culture' is concerned, while an Afghan or a Turk is streets above the brutal, degraded louts who sport the Kaiser's uniform. My great wish at the present moment is to get back to England as soon as possible, pick myself up—and I want a lot of feeding up, I fancy—and then have another go at the Huns."
Foranother three days the battleplane rested on Russian soil, the climatic conditions remaining unfavourable for the much desired return journey.
During that period Athol saw a good deal of his father, for the rescued prisoners were quartered in a little village within three versts of the flying-ground.
There was every possibility of the colonel's wish being speedily gratified, for arrangements were already in progress for sending the released officers and men back to England by ship from Archangel.
Private Tom Smith elected to go with them, although not until he had spent many an anxious hour deliberating the matter in his mind. He was already a keen airman; he realised his debt of gratitude to Dick and the battleplane's crew for getting him out of a most unpleasant situation. On the other hand he was deeply attached to his old master, Colonel Hawke. With him he had shared the horrors of the Meseritz Prison Camp, and the private's sense of loyalty to his chief, coupled with his desire to share in the colonel's resolution to "get his own back" upon his former captors, decided him to throw in his lot with his master.
At five o'clock in the morning of the seventeenth day of their visit to Russia the battleplane's officers were aroused by Sergeant O'Rafferty announcing that the wind had veered and was blowing steadily from the north-east and seemed likely to remain so.
Wireless reports from Russian warships far out in the Baltic confirmed the statement. There was every indication of the favourable air-drift continuing for some days.
Already the battleplane was in readiness for flight. Her tanks had been replenished with petrol, her motors overhauled. There was still an ample reserve of machine-gun ammunition, while the Russian authorities had supplied a dozen bombs filled with a super-powerful Japanese high-explosive. The rents in her wings and in the body of the fuselage had been made good, numerous neat patches bearing a silent testimony to the ordeal through which she had successfully passed.
In accordance with the perfect array that existed between all the Allies Blake had given the Russian aeronautical engineer every facility to study the constructive details of his invention; and it was more than likely that before the war had come to a victorious conclusion, battleplanes after the model of the mechanical bird would be seen operating under the control of Russian airmen.
Having taken farewell of their hospitable hosts the crew of the battleplane prepared to set out on the return journey. This time they flew alone, for the remaining British biplanes that had taken part in the raid had already left. Acting under previous orders they had flown southward, and after a rest at Odessa, had passed over Constantinople, arriving safe and sound at the Allied Camp at Salonika.
Amidst salvoes of cheering from the swarm of grey-coated Russians the battleplane—"secret" no longer—rose steadily and faultlessly, and shaped a course towards the Baltic.
"I've decided upon an alteration of plans," announced Blake. "The deciding factor is the petrol question. If we fly direct and over German territory, we may run short of fuel and have to descend. You see, the spirit we are now using is different from the prepared petrol that brought us here. Whether we can cover the whole distance or not without replenishing remains to be seen. So I propose keeping over the Baltic and thence over the Cattegat and Skager Rack. By the time we are in the vicinity of the Skaw I shall be able to determine whether there will be enough petrol to carry us the rest of the way."
"And if not?" enquired Athol.
"Details already arranged," said the inventor, with a grim chuckle. "The Admiralty have instructed a tank-vessel, escorted by cruisers and destroyers, to lie off the Norwegian coast, well outside the three mile limit. That's a pretty tangible proof that we hold the sea."
At a rate approaching one hundred and eighty miles an hour the battleplane was soon out of sight of land. She had at first held a north-westerly course in order to avoid passing over Libau, then in the possession of the Germans. Blake, although he would not have declined another aerial fight, was anxious to traverse the Baltic before the Huns were aware that he had left the Russian frontier. There was work awaiting the battleplane in France—work of far more importance than engaging individual hostile seaplanes in the neighbourhood of the Cattegat.
Fifty minutes after leaving Riga the Swedish island of Gothland was sighted. At this point the course was altered to the south-west, until the island of Bornholm was discerned.
Although numerous Russian warships and patrol-boats had been sighted at the entrance to the Gulf of Riga the Baltic was almost deserted, except towards the Swedish shore, where several enemy merchantmen were hugging the coast in order to avoid the studied attentions of the British and Russian submarines. But of German warships there was no sign.
Presently Blake's trained ear caught a disconcerting sound that was repeated time after time with increasing frequency. Dick, sliding from his seat, made his way to the motor-room; then, after a brief examination, approached his chief.
"She's firing badly," said Blake gravely.
"Yes," assented Dick. "It's not the ignition this time. It's the petrol. It is my belief that either the stuff is very inferior or else that it has been watered. Whatever it is the rotten stuff is now passing through the carburettors. Hitherto we've been running on the petrol we brought with us."
"Was it strained?" asked Blake anxiously.
"I stood by and saw it done," reported Dick. "Of course some one might have tampered with the tanks during the night. There are spies with the Russian troops as well as there are in the French and ours, worse luck. There she goes again," he added, as the motors faltered badly for several strokes and then spasmodically fired again. "Ought we to turn back?"
"I don't believe in turning back," said the inventor. "No, the sea is calm, there are no vessels in sight. We'll volplane down, rest on the surface and re-strain every drop of petrol on board."
Preparations were quickly made for the venturesome enterprise. The hatchway in the floor of the fuselage, which was already shut, was now hermetically sealed by means of wing-nuts that jammed the metal flap hard down upon an indiarubber seating. A similar watertight covering closed the aperture through which the bombs were dropped in action. The exhaust, which generally led through a pipe on the underside of the rear part of the chassis, was diverted by means of a two-way union so that the former escaped from an outlet and projecting well above the deck. Thus, in less than five minutes the hull of the battleplane was made absolutely watertight and ready to float upon the waves.
Being unprovided with floats like those fitted to naval seaplanes the machine took the water clumsily. The sudden resistance of the girders carrying the landing-wheels as they encountered the water, caused the body to tilt nose downwards. With solid water well over her forepart, the battleplane shook herself free, bobbed violently several times and finally rocked easily upon the placid waters of the Baltic.
Leaving Athol to keep watch all remaining hands set to work. First the contents of the carburettors were strained. Globules too heavy to pass through the fine meshed gauze confirmed Dick's suspicions. The petrol had been heavily "doctored" with water.
It was a lengthy and disagreeable task draining each of the tanks and refiltering the liquid fuel. The atmosphere of the confined space reeked of petrol fumes; the unusual motion of the hull as it pitched and rocked to the action of the sullen waves added to the discomforts of the highly necessary work. Sergeant O'Rafferty, almost overcome with nausea, stuck gamely to his job, while both Dick and Desmond Blake felt their heads whirling under the powerful influence of the volatile gas.
Suddenly Athol perceived two pole-like objects forging slowly through the water at a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. Only the feather of spray caused by the resistance of the vertical objects betrayed their presence. They were the twin periscopes of a submarine.
At his shout of alarm Blake and the rest of the crew left their task and hurried to their respective flying-stations. Anxiously they awaited developments. Was the submarine a friend or foe?
Flight, under present conditions, was impossible.
Until the whole of the petrol in the tank nearest the carburettors was completely strained, it would be impossible to get the motors to fire.
Quietly Athol and the sergeant fitted ammunition belts to the two automatic guns. Although the bullets did not possess sufficient penetrative powers to perforate the shell of a submarine the hail of projectiles would be sufficient to prevent any attempt on the part of the vessel's gunners from using their quick-firers—provided they kept within range. Nor could the submarine make use of a torpedo, for the lightness of the battleplane's draught—floating she drew but four or six inches—offered no target to an under-water missile unless the weapon struck the girder-work of the landing-wheels which projected several feet underneath the surface.
Nevertheless the situation was a perplexing one. Should the submarine prove to be German, she could either shell the battleplane from a distance or else summon, by means of wireless, Zeppelins and seaplanes to finish off the helpless aircraft by means of bombs.
Several long-drawn-out minutes passed. The eyes of the periscopes were steadily fixed upon the battleplane as the invisible submarine slowly approached. At length, apparently satisfied with her investigations, the submerged craft housed her periscopes and made off, leaving a tell-tale swirl upon the surface of the water.
"She's off, sir," exclaimed O'Rafferty.
"Yes, for the present," replied Blake. "She'll be at it again, I fancy. Come on, lads, let's carry on. Another half hour will see us straight."
Leaving Athol still on watch the rest of the crew resumed their labours, but before they had been at work for another five or ten minutes the submarine appeared upon the surface at a distance of nearly two miles.
"The brutes!" ejaculated Blake. "They've spotted our automatic guns. We'll be having some three pounder shells this way before long."
Bringing their glasses to bear upon the low-lying hull of the submarine the airmen found that their fears were realised. The vessel was a largeunterseebootflying the Black Cross ensign of Germany. She was lying broad-side on and forging ahead at a rate of about five knots. The two quick-firing guns were already raised from their respective "houses" or watertight troughs, and were being served by their gunners.
A flash followed by a dull crack announced that the submarine had opened the ball.
"You'll have to do better than that, old sport!" exclaimed O'Rafferty disdainfully, as the projectile struck the water at a hundred yards beyond the target, and ricochetting with a tremendous splash, finally disappeared a mile and a half away.
Again and again the Huns fired, each shell approaching with uncanny and methodical exactness nearer and nearer the crippled battleplane. They were blazing away with plugged shell, and that fact, combined with the evident reluctance of the submarine's crew to score a direct hit, told the airmen pretty plainly that the Germans wished particularly for their surrender and the capture of the battleplane intact.
From time to time Athol and the sergeant let loose a few rounds of ammunition, but in spite of the extreme elevation of the sights of the automatic weapons the bullets all fell short.
Suddenly Athol ducked his head as a projectile hurtled through the air less than ten feet above him. He could distinctly feel the windage of the missile, while the screech was appalling. The Huns, getting out of patience with the resistance of the British battleplane, were trying to shell it in grim earnest.
But before another shell could be fired from the U boat, a column of foamy water shot up a couple of hundred feet into the air. For a brief instant the bow and stern of the submarine showed, tilted up at different angles to the surface of the water. Then, as the muffled roar of an explosion was borne to the ears of Blake and his companions, their antagonist simply vanished, leaving a maelstrom of boiling water to mark her tomb.
"Hurrah!" shouted Dick, the first of the delighted and astonished men to find his voice. "She's gone. Wonder what's happened?"
"One of her torpedoes gone off by accident, I expect," hazarded his chum. "It seemed like an internal explosion."
"At any rate, she's gone," observed Blake thankfully. "Now, lads, let's get on with the business, before there are a swarm of patrol boats on the scene. I shouldn't wonder if the noise of that explosion were heard fifty miles away."
Leaving Athol again on watch the others continued their interrupted labours; but before another ten minutes had elapsed came the watcher's doleful shout:—
"Another submarine!"
The new-comer had appeared upon the surface apparently without any preliminary investigation. At least Athol had not noticed the periscopes until the vessel rose at a distance of a cables length away.
She bore no number or distinguishing marks, but hardly was she awash when the conning-tower hatchway was opened, and a seaman dressed in a thick "fearnought" suit, appeared. Making his way aft he tugged at the halliards of a short flag-staff, and instantly a flag was "broken-out," fluttering proudly in the breeze.
It was the glorious White Ensign.
Others of the crew now appeared, as the submarine, forging gently ahead like an enormous porpoise, closed with the battleplane that she had so timely rescued. Then, slowing down, she came to a standstill ten yards to windward of the crippled aircraft.
"Heave us a line if you have one on board," shouted a boyish-looking lieutenant-commander, who, as he smiled displayed a set of white teeth that contrasted vividly with his deeply bronzed complexion. "We'll have all on board in a jiffey."
"We haven't a line," replied Blake courteously, "and we don't want to come on board, thanks all the same. We're effecting repairs and then we're off, I hope."
"Thought that Hun was strafing you," remarked the young officer.
"He was about to, when—I suppose you bagged him."
"We did," agreed the lieutenant-commander with pardonable pride. "We're out of your debt now, I take it."
Blake was genuinely taken aback.
"You've a bad memory, I'm afraid," continued the skipper of the submarine. "T'other day a Zepp was strafing us, and you strafed the Zepp. We came to the surface in time to see you sheering off. Nasty quarter of an hour while it lasted, by Jove! So now we're quits. Well, what's wrong?"
The difficulty with the watered petrol was explained.
"Don't bother about the rest," said the lieutenant-commander. "We've plenty on board. Only replenished at Cronstadt yesterday, and we don't do much surface running. We'll soon fix you up."
In a brief space of time a delivery hose was passed from the submarine to the battleplane, and with a prodigal generosity gallons of petrol were pumped into the latter's tanks.
During the operation Athol was engaged in conversation with the sub-lieutenant of the submarine, each, with pardonable pride, maintaining that his branch of the respective services afforded the greater excitement. While the lieutenant-commander of the submarine paid a visit to the battleplane, Athol went on board the naval craft, and was shown most of the wonders of the latest type of under-water warship.
Just then the skipper of the submarine made a flying leap from the deck of the battleplane to the platform of his own craft.
"Back with you!" he exclaimed, addressing Athol, who was in the act of emerging through a hatchway. "Sharp as you can, unless you want a trip with us. There's another strafing match about to commence."
High up and several miles away to the south-westward at least a dozen black specks were visible against the cloudless sky. A fleet of hostile seaplanes was approaching with the evident intention of making it hot for the British submarine.
"Sure you can start?" shouted the lieutenant-commander as he slid down the conning-tower hatchway.
Blake gave an affirmative reply, which was confirmed by the engines being set in motion.
"S'long!" was the naval officer's farewell greeting as he slammed the rubber-lined hatchway cover. Then, forging quickly ahead the submarine dipped her nose and slid swiftly beneath the surface.
Withher replenished stock of fuel the battleplane had no difficulty in rising once she was clear of the surface; for, owing to the absence of properly contrived floats and the restricted limit of the beats of her wings, the tips of which could not be dipped into the water without considerable risk, she could not soar at her usual angle. It was only after "taxiing" for nearly two hundred yards that she was able to shake herself clear of the unnatural element.
"Much more of this sort of business and I shall have to modify the design," declared Blake. "Ah, here they are again," he added, indicating the approaching seaplanes.
"Stand by with the guns. I'm going right through them."
With this laudable intention Blake took the battleplane up quite a thousand feet above the altitude of the hostile aircraft, and at full speed tore to meet the hostile seaplanes.
By this time the Huns had learnt of the presence of the battleplane. Recognising her by the beat of the powerful wings they one and all declined combat, and scuttling like a flight of wild duck, made rapid tracks for home.
"That's decided me," declared the imperturbable pilot. "We'll make a short cut for home. O'Rafferty."
"Sir?"
"Send off a wireless to the petrol depot ship. We are within call, I fancy. Tell them not to wait. We have more than enough petrol to take us home."
"Now, Athol," continued Blake, "I'll give you fellows a sight of the Kiel Canal and of Heligoland. I don't suppose any British airman has seen Billy's ditch from the air before."
At an immense altitude the battleplane swung round, crossing the Schleswig-Holstein isthmus at a height of seventeen thousand feet. Unseen—or if she were seen no attempt on the part of the Huns was made to molest her—she glided serenely across to Heligoland Bight, the islands of Heligoland and Sandinsel looking like mere dots in the sea. Then following the chain of Frisian Islands she skirted the Dutch coast on her way south-westwards.
In about nine hours—including the stop for repairs—the battleplane had covered a distance of nearly a thousand miles, and was within half an hour's run of the opposing forces on the Western Front.
Already the airmen could feel a strange rumbling sensation in the rarefied air. It was not the thunder of the guns in Flanders—it was something far louder than that. The concentrated fire of hundreds of enormous allied guns was literally shaking the firmament.
"I know where we are now," declared Blake. "That town we can see ahead is Peronne. By Jove! we're in time to see the 'Big Push,' lads. Look, our line is different from what it was three weeks ago. It's beyond that village—Fricourt, I think is its name."
In vast circles the battleplane volplaned earthwards, the two lads and O'Rafferty surveying the scene of terrific carnage by means of their binoculars.
There was no doubt about it. Our khaki-clad troops, recking not the stubborn resistance of the grey-coated Huns, were pressing forward with bombs and bayonets. All along the line, as far as the limit of vision permitted it to be seen, the lads could mark the irresistible progress of their brave countrymen and the equally gallant French allies. Overhead, although at a considerably lesser altitude, flew swarms of aeroplanes, all bearing the distinctive marks of red, white and blue. Of the Black Cross machines not one was visible. It was an Allies' day with a vengeance.
Unable to take part in the operations for want of previous instructions, Blake manoeuvred the battleplane up and down the changing line of opposing forces. The spirits of the two lads rose to high water mark. They realised that this was the beginning of the end; the set purpose, which after weeks and months of tedious and seemingly wasteful inactivity, was to justify the waiting tactics of the silent Joffre.
Suddenly Athol noticed an ominous movement in our part of the far-flung line. A village, although the buildings were almost levelled by the accurate gunfire of the British, was still being held with the utmost stubbornness by the Huns.
Evidently the enemy had preserved a number of machine guns intact in spite of the terrific hail of shells. The British, pinned to the earth by the terrific machine-gun fire, were unable to advance; while evading the "barrage" of shells, strong reinforcements of Germans were being rushed forward to convert the British check into a defeat—glorious but none the less a set-back that might adversely influence the concentrated operations.
And, with the exception of Blake's battleplane there was no other British machine to warn the infantry of the approach of the German reserves.
"Now for it!" shouted Blake, the glint of battle in his eye. "Let 'em have bombs and flêches when I give the word. Get ready with the automatic guns."
Athol, the end of the ammunition belt already in the breech mechanism, depressed the muzzle of his weapon. O'Rafferty was ready on his part, while Dick stood by to operate the bomb dropping gear, keeping one hand on the lever that would release hundreds of steel darts upon the close columns of German troops.
Like a hawk the battleplane swooped down, descending to less than four hundred feet. Greeted by a terrific fusillade from the rifles of the astonished and demoralised Huns she returned the compliment with interest. Bombs, darts and bullets wrought havoc in the crowded ranks, until the survivors broke and fled, leaving a trail of dead and wounded as they sought a doubtful shelter from the terror of the skies.
Dismayed by the rout of their supports the defenders of the ruined village slackened their fire. Quick to seize the advantage the British troops, with a cheer that could be distinctly heard above the roar of battle, swayed forward on and over the rubble of masonry and carried the position.
This much Athol saw. Then his attention was attracted by a groan. With his head and shoulder resting over the coaming lay Sergeant O'Rafferty, the blood oozing from a bullet wound in his neck. Before Athol could make his way to the sergeant's assistance Blake called to him in an unsteady voice to take the steering-wheel.
"The blighters have got me," he exclaimed. "Plugged through both wrists."
"Dick," shouted his chum. "Bear a hand with the sergeant. He's hit. Sharp as you can, then stand by with the motors."
"We'll have to come down," replied Dick. "Petrol tanks perforated."
Only sufficient fuel for half an hour's run remained before the damage was done; with the precious spirit trickling in a steady stream it was doubtful whether the engines could be kept running more than a few minutes.
Dick, too, did not mention that he had stopped a bullet, which, passing through the fleshy part of his right arm, had rendered that limb useless and was causing him exquisite pain.
Just then the motors coughed and stopped abruptly. Athol was only just in time to grip the steering wheel when the long volplane to earth began.
He attempted to tilt the aerilons. The operating rods responded stiffly to the action of the levers. The movable tips to the wings were firmly locked. Absolute control of the battleplane was no longer possible.
"There'll be a most unholy smash!" muttered the lad between his clenched teeth.
The next instant the battleplane flattened out, not under the influence of the pilot's guidance, but through some freakish aircurrent. Then, before she could gather momentum for her tail-dive she crashed to earth.
Myriads of white lights flashed in front of Athol's eyes, and then everything became a blank.