* * * * *
* * * * *
"Never expected to see you so soon, old man," was Dick's candid greeting to his chum.
"Nor did I," admitted Athol. "For that matter I wasn't at all sure that you got away all right. I heard the bombs drop, so I knew that the battleplane had set to work. In fact the last bomb you dropped nearly settled my hash. Instead it did me a good turn."
"And I went for Sergeant O'Rafferty for being such a clumsy blighter," said Blake. "By Jove, Athol, you seem to have had a run of luck. Sorry I can't say the same for the poor fellow who brought you back."
"Most remarkable case that," remarked an Army Medical Corps officer. "Not only was his sight injured, he had received a piece of shrapnel in his groin and a bullet lodged in his body in the region of his heart. All the while he was piloting that machine back he was bleeding to death internally. No wonder, with men of that stamp, that we hold the individual mastery of the air."
Having, through Athol's instrumentality, recovered the battleplane's plans, Desmond Blake resolved to run no more risks in that direction. In spite of the most stringent precautions German spies were found to be active behind the British lines. Confidential documents disappeared almost under the noses of the authorities. So, rather than run a chance of having the plans stolen a second time, he destroyed them.
"The details of one battleplane may be kept a secret, with reasonable care," he remarked. "With a dozen in the making the odds are against it, and since the authorities have told me pretty plainly that I am of more use here than superintending the construction of other machines at home, I am content. I have an idea that they've a pretty stiff job for us to tackle before very long."
Blake's surmise was correct, for a few days later he was ordered to report himself at the Staff Office.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, taking Athol and Dick aside. "We're going to put the wind up the Bosches this time. Half a dozen of our fastest machines are detailed to make a raid—guess where?"
The lads hazarded the names of several places, but without success.
"Berlin," declared Blake. "Our people have been keen on the idea for a long time, but the authorities at home have, for some unearthly reason, deprecated the idea. Sickly sentimentality I call it. They shrink from reprisals, although they know perfectly well that that is the only way to bring the Hun to his senses. Events prove it. He was the first to use gas shells; now he squirms and whines when we give him a dose of his own poison. He gloated over the torpedoing of our merchant ships, and squeals out piffling protests to neutrals when our submarines tackle his trading vessels in the Baltic. The German papers were full of bombastic rejoicing over the Zeppelin visits to our undefended towns; the Kaiser weeps copious crocodile tears when the Allied airmen knock his beloved Karlsruhe about a bit. I'd go a jolly sight farther than the precept laid down in the old Mosaic Law. 'An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.' By Jove! Three British shells for every German one, and a ton of high explosive for every kilogramme of T.N.T."
"When do we start?" asked Dick eagerly.
"At three to-morrow morning," replied Blake.
"It's blowing half a gale from the west'ard," said Athol, "and the glass is falling rapidly. It's all right for the outward journey, but we'll have a job to get back. Not that I am at all anxious about the battleplane's capabilities," he hastened to add.
"There will be no coming back," declared Blake. "At least, not at present. We've been waiting for this westerly gale. With it the squadron ought to do at least a hundred and sixty over the ground. When we arrive over the German capital, by turning head to wind we can keep almost stationary over any part we choose until all the machines have dropped their bombs. Strict orders have been issued to avoid hitting, as far as possible, the residential parts of the city. Then, after that particular business is completed the machines are to resume the westerly, or north-westerly course, and alight on Russian soil, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Riga."
"And then?" asked Dick.
"Make ourselves useful until we get a fair wind back," replied Blake. "But be careful," he added, "not to mention this business to anyone. Even after the raid no communication will be made; the official bulletins will ignore it. And, I fancy, the Germans won't care to admit it, since they've boasted time after time that Berlin is absolutely immune from air attacks. We'll see how far their boast holds good."
For the rest of the day preparations for the long flight were diligently carried out. Blake and Dick overhauled the motors, oiled and tested the wing-operating mechanism, and carefully examined the controls lest any of the wires had developed designs of chafing. The petrol tanks were replenished under Dick's supervision, while in addition twenty cans of spirit were taken on board.Ammunition and storeswere also placed in readiness for the flight, Athol and Sergeant O'Rafferty being responsible for the quantity and the correct weight, since a lot depended upon the flying trim of the mechanical bird.
Similar scenes of activity were witnessed in other parts of the aerodrome, while the individual units of the squadron detailed for the raid were being prepared for the most extensive aerial operation of the war. By nine o'clock everything was in readiness. The airmen retired for a well-earned and necessary rest, while sentries were posted at the door of each hangar to prevent any possibility of the machines being tampered with.
At two in the morning the pilots repaired to the Wing Commander's quarters to receive final instructions. The machines were to proceed in two columns, each biplane starting at two minute intervals, the columns to be roughly three miles apart. Blake's battleplane was to act as covering escort, flying at three thousand feet above the others. No attention had to be paid to hostile aircraft unless unavoidable. If the enemy should attack, half the squadron, assisted by the secret battleplane, was to engage, while the rest pushed on towards their objective.
As soon as the German capital was sighted, a wireless message was to be sent to the British headquarters; and then, and only then, was the Russian General Staff to be informed of the projected visit of the raiding aircraft.
Punctually at the appointed time the first of the biplanes left the aerodrome, followed at stated intervals by the rest. In spite of the howling wind the ascents were carried out without a hitch.
The secret battleplane was the last to leave. Almost silently as compared with her consorts she rose evenly and swiftly from the ground, and headed off in the direction the others had taken.
In the pale morning light the far-flung double line of British machines could hardly be distinguished against the angry red glow on the eastern horizon, although in the upper regions the deep bass hum of their exhausts could be distinctly heard.
As they neared the lines of opposing trenches three or four Fokkers rose with the evident intention of intercepting the raiding machines; but thinking better of it, they volplaned earthwards.
At length, far above the storm-driven clouds that hid every detail of the country from their sight, the raiders pursued an even and uninterrupted flight, piloted on a compass course by the flight commander in the leading biplane of the right column. With the wind almost dead aft navigation was a fairly simple matter. There was no need to trouble about "side-drifts." All that had to be done was to fly continuously in a straight line until it was judged that the machines were approaching their objective and then descend below the clouds and verify their position by reference to a map and a recognition of conspicuous landmarks.
The "maps" had been especially supplied for the raiding airmen's use by the French government, and were the result of careful aeronautical observation work in pre-war days. In a strict sense they could not be called maps, as they consisted of an elaborate series of enlarged photographic views taken from an altitude of about eight hundred metres, and embraced practically every mile of country between the Franco-German frontier and the environs of Berlin. Their compilation was the direct result of the memorable visit of a Zeppelin to Nancy, where, owing to an accident the gas-bag had been compelled to come to earth. An examination proved conclusively that the airship had been taking aerial reconnaissance of the French fortresses. The French government did not protest: it merely retaliated by making the series of photographic maps that were in the present struggle to play such an important part.
At a quarter to five the leading biplane of the right column began a volplane, the rest of the machines following its example. It was a test in order to verify their position.
For full five minutes each was lost to sight of the other as the air-squadron dipped swiftly through the dense, rain-laden clouds. While it lasted the ordeal was a nerve-racking one, for not only was there the danger of collision in the event of any of the biplanes swinging out of position, but the air was filled with "pockets"—partial vacuum of insufficient density to offer resistance to the planes—into which the airmen fell like stones until the machines "picked up" in the buoyant air beyond. Vicious and erratic currents and eddies, too, added to the pilots' difficulties, while in the midst of the layer of clouds it was almost as dark as midnight.
As the battleplane emerged from the underside of the clouds the lads could discern an extensive town through which flowed a broad river. Viewed from the height of seven thousand feet the town, with the numerous railways radiating from it, resembled a gigantic spider lurking in the centre of its web.
Already the leading biplanes were far beyond the maze of buildings, so it was evident that the city was not Berlin.
Blake noticed the look of enquiry on Athol's face.
"Magdeburg," he announced laconically. "Know the place well. We're fairly on the right road now—Brandenburg, Potsdam and then Berlin. Another quarter of an hour."
Up into the clouds climbed the raiding aircraft. The now furious gale was completely in their favour, for it was impossible for the Germans to send aloft any of their numerous captive balloons that formed a part of the aerial defences of the capital. The wind was beginning to rend the bank of clouds. Brilliant shafts of sunshine shot through the rifts. Over the ground the shadows chased each other with a speed that gave the aviators a knowledge of the strength of the gale.
Blake, holding the steering wheel, spoke hardly a word. His whole attention seemed to be centred upon the task of "keeping station" with the rest of the squadron. His left hand was almost continuously upon the timing lever of the motors, checking the speed of the battleplane whenever, as frequently happened, she showed a tendency to overhaul the biplanes.
Far below lay an extensive and irregularly shaped lake with at least two considerable towns on its banks. Surrounding the lake was a dense forest, of which a large part had been but recently cleared, for newly-felled trees were plentifully in evidence.
"Potsdam," announced Blake. "If we imitated the methods of the Kultured Huns we should drop a few bombs on Kaiser Wilhelm's palace. That lake is the Havel. They've cleared a lot of the Spandau and Potsdam forests, I see. Not that they are hard up for timber. I suppose it is chiefly for wheat growing, in anticipation of the day when the German frontiers are most considerably restricted. But stand by—the leading machines are turning head to wind."
The attack had been magnificently planned. One division of the biplanes had flown over the southern environs of Berlin; the other over the northern; now both were turning inwards and just holding their own against the wind. They had the city at their mercy.
Before the utterly surprised artillerymen manning the anti-aircraft guns were fully aware of the presence of the British raiders, powerful bombs were hurtling through the air, each missile aimed with deliberate intent upon a specified objective and not dropped haphazard under cover of darkness as in the case of the Zeppelin raids over England. The railway stations and other public buildings of military importance were carefully singled out by the airmen, in spite of the now furious but erratic fire of the German guns, particular attention being given to the official buildings in the Wilhelmstrasse, not omitting No. 13—the headquarters of the Imperial Admiralty.
It was by no means a one-sided engagement, for shrapnel shells were bursting heavily all around the British machines. As far as Athol and Dick were concerned they rather welcomed the warm attentions of the enemy. It was far better to run a fighting risk than to hover deliberately over a defenceless town and hail projectiles upon a populace unable to raise a little finger in self-protection.
Already fierce fires were raging in a dozen different quarters of the German capital. The air trembled with the terrific detonations of exploding bombs. The dense columns of smoke, beaten almost flat with the strong wind, prevented the airmen from making definite and accurate observations of the result of their work, but on the other hand the vapour hid the attacking aircraft from the artillerymen. Nevertheless two British biplanes were hit. One, taking fire, streamed earthwards, leaving a trail of smoke and flame in its wake. The other, its engine disabled, contrived to land in Thiergarten, where the pilot and observer were made prisoners.
The secret battleplane had dropped her last bomb and was preparing to resume her north-eastward flight when a shell burst almost immediately above her. A hail of bullets rattled against her proofed sides. One ripped a hole through Blake's airman's helmet, fortunately without doing further injury. The wings were perforated in fifty places, although the damage had little effect upon the speed of the machine. The battleplane literally reeled with the concussion, recovered herself, and then began to wobble alarmingly in spite of the efforts on the part of the pilot to keep her on a straight course.
One of the actuating rods of the left wing, bent by the violent impact of the base of the shell, was thrown out of action. Sooner or later the machine would be obliged to descend upon hostile soil, almost in the very centre of the German Empire.
Itwas indeed well that the battleplane was already flying "down the wind." Locking the wings, and trimming them at the furthermost limit of the bent actuating rod, Blake made the comforting discovery that the planes were in the best possible position for a prolonged glide. Aided by the following gale, the velocity of which was not far short of seventy miles an hour, the battleplane ought to cover a distance of from fifty to sixty miles before alighting. In that case he hoped to effect a landing in the bleak and sparsely-populated district drained by the sluggish River Warthe.
Nursing the volplaning craft with the utmost care, Desmond Blake was getting every possible foot of space out of the involuntary glide. Perfectly calm and collected he bade Athol find a particular section of the map of Prussia and Posen and fix it in the celluloid holder in front of him.
Dick, having shut down the motors, since they were no longer of service, clambered into his seat, and made good use of his binoculars; while Sergeant O'Rafferty deliberately fixed a time fuse under the row of crank-cases so that in the likely event of the presence of German troops, the battleplane would never fall into their hands except as a twisted and tangled mass of metal.
Fortunately the clouds of smoke issuing from the burning buildings had prevented the Huns from observing the result of their chance shot; and now the battleplane was at frequent intervals hidden in the masses of scudding clouds.
Apart from that there was little in her favour, for it was now two hours before midday. The twilight that had afforded protection on the occasion of the raid upon the Zeppelin sheds at Olhelt was denied her.
The manometer now registered a thousand feet. No longer the clouds afforded protection. The country had the aspect of being fiat, and almost destitute of trees; nor were there any signs of human habitation. On the distant eastern horizon could be discerned the smoking chimneys of a manufacturing town. To prolong the flight much further would be literally throwing away the chances that the airmen already held.
"We'll descend here," announced Blake, turning the battleplane head to wind. "Stand by to jump for it if the wind threatens to capsize her on landing."
The warning was necessary, for, owing to the jamming of the wing mechanism, the wings could not be folded immediately upon contact with the ground. The now rigid expanse of planes would have to withstand the full force of the gale, and everything depended upon the angle of inclination—whether it was sufficiently small to enable the weight of the machine to pin it to the ground.
Down planed the mechanical bird at a tremendous rate. Although it cleft the air at nearly seventy miles an hour its progress over the ground and against the wind was practically nil. In point of fact the battleplane was dropping vertically earthwards at a rate of fifteen feet per second.
Quickly the almost uniform motion gave place to a series of erratic jerks. The falling machine was in the influence of the rebound of the wind from the irregular surface of the ground. The motion reminded the lads of a small boat encountering the "wash" of a huge steamer.
With a double bump the battleplane struck the ground, reared until her landing-wheels were three feet in the air, and bumped again. Then rocking violently she showed every inclination to capsize, until Athol and the sergeant, sliding to terra firma at the risk of life and limb, clung tenaciously to the partly-tilted wings.
"Good men!" shouted Blake encouragingly, as he depressed the aerilons to counteract as much as possible the lifting tendency of the wind upon the wings. "A spanner there, Dick: shift those two nuts as sharp as you can."
Dick swarmed over the side, and clinging with one arm and both feet to one of the vibrating trellis girders, set desperately to work on the nuts and bolts securing the bent rod to the underside of the left wing. With the removal of the metal bar the wings were folded, and for the time being all danger of the battleplane being overturned by the gale was at an end.
"No signs of our friends the enemy," said Blake, standing erect upon the deck of the fuselage and sweeping the treeless plain with his binoculars. "There's a small village about three miles away. I can see the church spire and the roofs of the houses; the place lies in a hollow. Beyond that there are no signs of human habitation."
"Don't you think, sir," asked Sergeant O'Rafferty, "that if we pushed the machine a couple of hundred yards in that direction there would be more shelter in that dip in the ground? It's not deep enough to hide the battleplane entirely, but it may help things a bit."
"Certainly, sergeant," agreed Blake. "Every little helps, and we'll be less exposed to the wind in the hollow."
It was a strenuous task pushing the machine dead in the eye of the wind, but on gaining the spot that the sergeant had pointed out, the airmen found that there was almost complete shelter from the full force of the gale, while the highest part of the crippled machine showed only a couple of feet above the high ground surrounding the natural hollow.
Heavy rain was now falling. The stranded aviators faced the discomfort with rising spirits, for they knew that should the downpour continue the ground would quickly become a quagmire, and that the rain would keep the villagers within doors. Nevertheless all precautions were taken against surprises, since it was quite possible that workers in the fields had noticed the battleplane's descent, and had set off to warn the military.
Enveloped in their weather-proof coats, Athol and Sergeant O'Rafferty mounted guard, taking care to avoid the sky-line. From their respective posts they could command a vast tract of the neighbouring countryside, so that, unless the battleplane was stalked by practical scouts the danger of a surprise was completely obviated.
Meanwhile Blake and Dick were hard at work removing the bent rod. Upon examination the metal showed no sign of fracture, but it was essential that it should be straightened before the wing-mechanism could again be operated.
"We've a tough job here, Dick," observed the inventor as he gazed upon his damaged handiwork. "Now, if we were at home or at the flying ground it would be a simple matter. A forge and a blacksmith's anvil would enable us to rectify the injury in less than an hour."
In vain they applied pressure to the bent rod. They jumped on it, battered it with the heaviest spanners they possessed. The tough metal sturdily refused to respond to the treatment. For the first time since Dick had made Desmond Blake's acquaintance the inventor showed signs of despair.
"I have an idea!" suddenly exclaimed Dick. "It may work; it may not. In either case there can't be much harm done."
"Well, what is it?" enquired Blake hopefully. He had already good cause to appreciate the intelligence of his young assistant, and a ray of hope flashed across his mind at the lad's words.
"Suppose I take the rod into the village and get them to straighten it out," began Dick.
Blake frowned. He was on the point of telling the lad not to be idiotic, when Dick, reading his thoughts, hastened to explain.
"I can speak German well," he continued. "You see, I was three years at school in Mecklenburg—jolly rotten time I had, too!" he remarked in parenthesis. "In this great coat and flying helmet I don't suppose the simple villagers would guess that I was anything but a Hun aviator. I could try the Kopenick hoax over again. You see, we are bound to be captured if we can't get the job done, so it's all the same in the long run."
"There may be soldiers quartered in the village," objected Blake.
"Hardly likely," said Dick. "It is not on a railway line, and consequently troops are not likely to be stationed there. There might be some of the Landwehr or Landsturm. If so, they are Prussians. By passing myself off as a Saxon or a Badener I think that would account for my slight difference in accent."
"I'll go with you," said Athol.
"No, you don't," objected Dick with a laugh. "This is my show. You had your time the other day. If I pull it off all right, well and good; if not, well, we'll most likely have the pleasure of one another's society in a German prison camp."
"Very well, carry on," said Blake cordially. "And jolly good luck to you."
The already torrential rain was in itself an excuse for Dick to wear his aviator's coat buttoned tightly from his neck downwards, while his padded helmet pulled down over his face left little of his features exposed. As a precautionary measure he carried his revolver in its holster conspicuously displayed outside his coat.
Shouldering the bent bar, which, although remarkably tough, weighed less than seven pounds, Dick bade his comrades "au revoir," and set off on his three-mile tramp to the village.
It was slow progress. There was no beaten path. The coarse grass-land was ankle-deep in tenacious mud. The rain blotted out everything beyond a distance of two hundred yards. Not only was there the risk of missing the little hamlet, but the more serious danger of losing touch with the stranded battleplane, which at a distance of a hundred yards was an almost inconspicuous "hump" in the midst of a monotonous terrain devoid of anything in the nature of "bearings."
Trudging with his back to the gale Dick held on doggedly. Unless the wind veered or backed he could be fairly certain of his direction. With a change of wind, coupled with the fact that the sun was completely overcast, there would be no means of finding his way.
Before he had covered a mile and a half the lad encountered the first inhabitant of that dreary district. An old peasant, his bent form enveloped in a tattered cloak, was tending swine. Dick made no effort to avoid him. This man's attitude towards him might be taken as a specimen of the reception he would be likely to receive in the village. On approaching, the peasant regarded the flying officer with the undisguised curiosity that dwellers in rural districts invariably bestow upon strangers; until, realising that the newcomer was one of the military "caste," the old fellow bared his head, standing stock still in the downpour until Dick, who curtly acknowledged the act of homage, had walked past.
A little further on the lad struck a lane, so deep in slime that it was of no use as a means of progression. Worn several feet below the surface of the adjoining ground it resembled a stagnant ditch of liquid mud. However, guessing that it must lead to the village, Dick struggled gamely on, keeping to the slightly firmer ground by the side of the primitive by-way.
In another quarter of an hour he descried the misty outlines of the little village looming up through the mirk.
With a quickening pulse the lad pressed on, and gained the outskirts of the straggling hamlet. The road, even in the village, was little better than the quagmire without. At first there were no signs of human beings. A few ducks revelled in the slush and rain. A gaunt pig wallowed in the mud, nosing amidst the garbage in search of food. Peat-reeking smoke was issuing from some of the chimneys, and, beaten down by the rain, was driving over the saturated ground in eddying wisps.
Dick hastened onwards in the direction of the church, the only building with a pretence of importance in the squalid village. At the same time he kept his eyes and ears on the alert in the hope of finding some sort of a place where he could get the important work carried out. There was almost a total absence of shops in this particular quarter. Commercial intercourse, if any, must be carried on in a very meagre fashion, he argued.
Presently the lad's quick ear distinguished the clang of a blacksmith's hammer—not the quick, merry ring that characterises the smith's activity in Merry England, but the slow, listless hammering of a toiler whose heart is not in his work.
Guided by the sounds Dick turned down a narrow street until he came to a low stone and plaster building, through the two glazeless windows of which bluish smoke was issuing. Over the open door was a sign, setting forth that Johannes Müller was a skilled worker in iron-work, especially in connection with agricultural implements.
Striding pompously to the door as well as the slippery nature of the ground permitted, Dick entered the low smithy. Within were two men, neither of whom, owing to the hiss of the bellows-fanned flames, had heard him approach. The elder of the twain was a short, thick-set man in a grey shirt open at the neck, a pair of trousers reaching but a few inches below his knees, a pair of rusty boots and a paper cap. His hairy chest and gnarled arms betokened great strength, although his lower limbs were ill-developed, and seemed scarcely able to support the weight of his body. His features were coarse and brutal, the sinister effect being heightened by his soot-stained face and yellow protruding eyes. He had just set aside a light hammer and was resting upon the heavy "striker," while his assistant coaxed a mass of iron into a state of white heat.
The second man's features were hard to judge, for the lower part of his gaunt face was hidden by a bushy, unkempt beard of a light brown colour. His clothing consisted of a ragged shirt and trousers; his toes, innocent of socks, peeped through rents in an odd pair of boots that in England would look out of place anywhere except on a rubbish heap. His movements were listless and dejected, and as, for the first time, he caught sight of Dick, he shot a glance of mingled hatred and contempt. He made no attempt to attract the smith's attention to the new-comer, and it was not until the young officer stamped imperiously upon the cobbled stone floor that the old fellow was aware of the presence of his uniformed visitor.
The conscript habits of by-gone years were still latent in the smith's mind. Dropping his hammer, he brought his heels together, drew himself up as far as his bent frame would allow, and saluted smartly in the Prussian style.
"I want this straightened out instantly, smith," said Dick, returning the salute. "It is work of imperial importance."
"Certainly, herr leutnant," replied the man, relieving Dick of his burden. "A part of one of our incomparable flying machines? An accident has taken place?"
"Yes," replied Dick, then, realising that he would have to account for the fact that an officer had to perform the menial work of bringing the rod to the smithy, he added, "and my sergeant has broken his leg—the idiot.... So I must needs fetch and carry. ...And not a single peasant did I meet to relieve me of this weight. The mud and rain, too, are vile."
"There are few men left here," said the smith. "We are even obliged to——. But how is this to go, herr leutnant? Are the two slotted ends to remain in line or across each other, so?"
He traced a rough diagram upon a board by means of a piece of chalk, at the same time signing to his assistant to get to work with the bellows.
The man, his face working with anger, merely folded his arms. Again the smith motioned to him. Dick began to think the assistant was deaf and dumb, or, perhaps, of weak intellect.
Still meeting with refusal the smith grasped a round bar of iron. The other, stepping back to the wall snatched up a formidable pair of tongs.
"Hanged if I do a stroke of work to the job!" exclaimed the man in unmistakable English. "Let the Bosche do a bit. It will do him good. Nothin' doing here, old sport."
Fora few seconds Dick stood dumfounded. The smith, full of apologies for the deliberate insolence of his assistant towards a German officer, hurriedly explained.
"The swine is an English prisoner," he said. "He was lent to me from a camp at Meseritz. If the rest of these Englishmen give so much trouble as this one I feel sorry for the good Germans to whom they are hired out. I pay this rascal a mark a week and feed him, and only by threatening to send him back to camp for punishment could I get him to work at all. But I was beginning to think I had broken his spirit, and now he goes back to his old ways."
"Let me see if I can cow him, smith," said Dick. "You cannot speak the English tongue, I suppose? No; well, I can, although it is a barbarous language, hardly fit for good Germans to use. I will frighten him. He will know what it means to refuse to work at the orders of a Saxon officer."
"The matter is in your hands, herr leutnant," replied the smith, obsequiously.
"It's all right, my man," began Dick, addressing his luckless fellow countryman. "Don't look astonished. I'm supposed to be jawing you. Look as sullen as you can. That's better. This is part of a British machine. We're stranded three miles out. Set to work as hard as you can, without giving the show away, and I'll do my level best to get you away. We're in a bit of a hole ourselves, but with this job set right we can make another start."
"Thought something was fishy, sir," replied the man. "Hun flying officers don't sport 'wings'; leastways, I've never seed 'em. Yours puzzled me a bit, but I'm getting past being astonished at anything."
"It's lucky for me that this old smith isn't as cute as you are," rejoined Dick. "Now I'll tell him I've made you promise to slog in. I'll let him know that you are to carry the rod back to the battleplane. I'll order him, and he daren't refuse."
"His bad fit is soon over this time, her leutnant," remarked the smith, as the prisoner resumed his post at the bellows. "And this is peculiar metal—so light. Do I temper it in water or oil?"
"Oil," replied Dick promptly, not that he was sure of it, but because it was unwise to profess ignorance.
Half an hour later the smith, puffing and blowing like a grampus, completed the task, apologising for the roughness of the finish.
"It will be as strong as ever it was," he declared. "The roughness is to be regretted, but after all, the makeshift job will last until you return. Is it to the Russian front, herr leutnant?"
"No, to the Bulgarian," replied Dick. "Only this terrific gale blew us out of our course. We were indeed lucky to land at all, except as a crew of corpses. Now, how much is your charge?"
The smith named quite a small sum. Experience had taught him the folly of demanding anything more of a German officer.
Dick paid him by means of the mark notes that Athol had taken from the spy, Karl von Secker, and with which his chum had thoughtfully provided him before setting off for the village.
"And now," he continued. "I must have your English prisoner to carry the thing back. I will make him return within three hours."
"He may take it into his head to escape, herr leutnant," objected the smith. "You will understand that I am responsible."
"I order you," said Dick sternly.
"In which case I must obey," replied the German. "But if your excellency will permit me, I will go with him. It will ease my mind of a lot of worry, and in these times one has quite enough trouble what with war taxes and food tickets."
"It is forbidden to criticise the actions of the government," said Dick sternly.
"True, true, herr leutnant. I deeply apologise. I trust it will go no further," said the smith tremblingly. "But it is permissible that I go with the man?"
"You seem fonder of the man than I do," grumbled the pseudo-Saxon. "Does it always pour like this in Posen? Come along, then, we must hasten."
The English prisoner shot an enquiring glance at Dick as the smith began to don a heavy coat.
"It's all right," said the lad reassuringly. "The old fool insists upon coming. We'll deal with him all right later on."
With no additional protection from the driving rain, which was now full in their faces, the thinly clad British Tommy shouldered the repaired rod and followed Dick into the street. The smith brought up the rear, cursing to himself as his weakly legs sank into the mud, that he had to dance attendance on an officer and a Saxon. There was one consolation, he argued. His patron might have been a Prussian, in which case kicks, not paper-money, might have been his reward.
Upon clearing the outskirts of the village Dick struck the sunken lane, keeping, as before, on the higher ground by the side, although by this time the deluge had left little to choose in the matter of a firm footing. He kept steadily onwards, striving the while to locate the place where he had to turn of across the trackless waste. The British Tommy, he knew, would stick closer than a brother; whether the smith would persist in forcing his company upon him troubled him but little. Even if the fellow was shrewd enough to discover that the battleplane was not a German one not much harm was likely to result, unless the smith proved particularly obstreperous.
Dick had already gained the comforting information that there were no troops within twenty or thirty miles, and that the village was practically devoid of able-bodied men; so that, in the event of missing the spot where Blake and his comrades were, the lad would have no hesitation in firing a revolver to attract their attention. For the present, however, he refrained from using the weapon. For one thing he was rather anxious to return unaided; for another the direction and force of the wind rendered futile all sound signals until he was very much closer to the stranded battleplane.
At long intervals Dick glanced over his shoulder. The now drenched soldier was trudging stolidly along; the smith was making heavy going, and showing visible signs of distress. Had Dick wished he could have outstripped the man without difficulty.
"Can't be far off now," he soliloquised. "Seems to me I've tramped nearly five miles."
He stopped and scanned the surrounding countryside. As far as the driving rain permitted the land presented a flat appearance without any outstanding characteristics—a treeless expanse of mud.
The smith must have guessed the lad's perplexity, for a curious look overspread his coarse features.
"Herr leutnant has lost his way?" enquired he. "Or, perhaps, the machine has flown off?"
"Silence!" exclaimed Dick fiercely. This time there was no need to impersonate the irate officer: he was genuinely furious with the fellow.
"Some one signalling, sir, on our right," declared the Tommy, whereat the smith, either surprised at the Englishman's audacity or anxious to vent his spleen upon the luckless prisoner, stooped, picked up a handful of mud and hurled it at him.
"They are our friends," exclaimed Dick joyously. "Keep yourself under control a few minutes longer. We mustn't let this low-down rascal smell a rat until we're ready for action again. May as well make him useful."
"Stop there till I tell you," ordered the lad, addressing the German. "You can keep a sharp eye on your assistant from where you are standing."
Then, bidding the Tommy follow, he hurried across the intervening hundred yards that separated him from his comrades. Unbeknown to all, Dick had actually passed within almost hailing distance of the battleplane without seeing it or being seen by Athol and the sergeant, until the hollow in which the machine rested was well on his right hand.
"Whom have you here?" asked Blake.
"A British soldier, hired out as a sort of slave to the village blacksmith," explained Dick. "We'll have to keep up the deceit until we set the rod in position; then it will be a huge joke to enlighten the rascally Hun on certain points."
Having given a rapid report on what had taken place, Dick assisted the inventor in replacing the actuating rod. In twenty minutes the work was completed, although on testing the machine Blake discovered that owing to some slight and almost imperceptible curve in the metal the rod was nearly a quarter of an inch shorter than before.
"May make a slight difference to our trim," said Blake. "However, flight alone will prove that. You see we haven't been idle. We have been repairing the larger rents in the wings. Now, all aboard. Dick, show your protégé the way. We'll give him a dry suit and some hot grub. Poor beggar, he's half dead with hunger and exposure."
"'Arf a mo', sir," protested the man. "Before I go can I have a word with yon chap?" And he indicated the still waiting smith, who was now heartily sick of the whole business, and was wishing that he had taken his chances in letting his assistant go alone.
"Very good," agreed Blake, thinking that the Tommy wished particularly to say something to the Hun.
The man plodded stolidly towards the smith until he got within a couple of yards.
"Put your dooks up, old sport," he exclaimed, at the same time "squaring up" to the astonished German.
Having no longer an iron bar with which to assert his authority, the smith showed no great eagerness to accept the challenge. If he expected the officers to intervene he was grievously mistaken.
At length in desperation, for the Tommy was edging nearer, with grim anticipation written on his gaunt features, the Hun threw himself into a defensive position. That was all his former assistant required; for the next moment the bully was sprawling on his back in a foot of liquid mud.
Apparently the British soldier considered that old scores were wiped out, for with the utmost magnanimity he hauled the helpless smith out of the mire and set him upon his feet. This done he unconcernedly strolled back to the battleplane.
"Couldn't help it, sir," he explained apologetically. "Had to get it off my chest. Let bygones be bygones, they used to drill into my head at school. I reckon that proverb ought to be wiped off the slate after what our chaps have gone through out yonder. Penal servitude ain't in it: it's slaving with starvation chucked in."
"Let's hope your troubles are now over, my man," quoth Blake as he took his seat at the helm. "All ready, Dick?... Hold on a minute."
The smith, finding that his assistant was on the point of being spirited away in the huge flying machine, came floundering towards them. Much as he feared being left alone with the pugnacious Englishman he dreaded having to report his loss to the commandant of the prison camp.
"Good-bye, smith," shouted Dick in German. "Don't be in too great a hurry to inform the authorities that you have been aiding the English by repairing one of their battleplanes. Kaiser Wilhelm might be very angry with you."
The next instant the machine rose with a bound, and fleeting before the still strong westerly gale, resumed her flight towards the Russian frontier, leaving the astonished and dumfounded smith to realise the magnitude of his unwitting offence against the German Empire.
For the next few hours the aerial voyage was comparatively uneventful. The rescued prisoner, who gave his name as Private Tom Smith, of the "Chalkshires," and who had been taken prisoner early in the campaign, was now fast asleep, after a good hot meal and a change of clothing.
The battleplane, flying at an immense height, was now far above the rain-clouds and bathed in brilliant sunshine. Looking downwards nothing was visible of the earth, a seemingly unlimitable expanse of dazzling white clouds forming an effectual screen between the airmen and the dreary soil of East Prussia.
"Time we descended to verify our position," announced Blake. "Although in this case it is preferable to overshoot the mark we don't want a long flight against this gale if we can help it."
Cleaving her way through the clouds and leaving an eddying wake of fleecy vapour behind her, the battleplane again came within sight of the earth.
It was no longer raining. A clear view could be obtained for miles—but instead of the flat plains of Russia a vast sea met the airmen's gaze.
"We're a bit out," declared Blake. "We're right over the Baltic."
Before either of the lads could comment upon the somewhat disconcerting nature of the discovery Blake suddenly thrust a lever hard over, automatically locking the wings.
"Take charge, Athol," he exclaimed hurriedly. "Keep her as steady as you can, and check any tendency for her to heel. I'm going outside for a few moments."
To the young airmen's astonishment the inventor began to discard his heavy coat and boots.
"What's wrong?" enquired Athol.
"Only that rod," replied Blake. "The securing nut is working loose. We can't afford to let both drop or it will mean complete disaster for us all."
"Then I'm the man for that job," decided the lad promptly. "I'm light and agile and—and——"
He stopped abruptly. It was on the tip of his tongue to add the words "you are not," but checked himself in time.
Every moment was precious. There was no time for argument. Blake instantly realised the force of his young assistant's remarks and acquiesced.
Knotting a rope round his waist, and holding a spanner in his mouth, Athol dropped lightly upon the rigidly locked wing, gripping the foremost edge in order to save himself from being swept away by the terrific rush of air.
Foot by foot he made his way along the trembling fabric until his head and shoulders projected beyond the tip of the aluminium wing. Although by this time well acquainted with dizzy heights the lad dare not look down upon the distant expanse of water. He kept his eyes fixed upon the loose nut, a foot or so on the underside of the wing. Only three or four threads were holding. In a few minutes, had not the defect been noticed, the actuating rod would have become detached, with the result that the wing, no longer held in position, would have folded itself. Like a crippled bird the battleplane would have crashed through thousands of feet with incredible speed, sealing the fate of all on board.
"Got you, you brute!" ejaculated Athol triumphantly as he gave a final wrench to the now secure nut.
The task accomplished it was no easy matter for the lad to regain the chassis. Temporarily exhausted with his exertions and buffeted by the cutting wind he lacked the strength to haul himself from the wing to the upper side of the fuselage; but Dick came to Athol's aid, and at length the lad was dragged into safety.
"Good man!" exclaimed Blake approvingly as he again actuated the wings.
There was little margin to spare. Already the battleplane had volplaned to within a thousand feet of the sea.
It was not until the mechanical bird had regained her former altitude that her crew were able to discuss the factor that had carried them so far out of their course. An explanation was necessary in order to explain satisfactorily why, instead of being over the province of Courland, the airmen found themselves miles from land and over the expansive Baltic.