"A chance of seeing something exciting at last!" exclaimed Ross. "Of course we've not had altogether a dull time, but this ought to be absolutely 'it'."
Two months had elapsed since the lads saw a hostile air-ship over London. Now they were about to see what a fleet of heavily armed British ships could do—not against a practically defenceless town, but against the strongly fortified German batteries on the Belgian coast.
Trefusis and Haye were on board theCapella, lying in the outer harbour at Dover. It was not theCapellathat had come off second-best in an encounter with a floating mine, but another, similar in almost every respect to the lost patrol-boat. She was manned, too, by the same officers and crew—with one exception. Sub-lieutenant John Barry had obtained his promotion, and had been appointed to H.M.S.Hunbilkerin command.
What theHunbilkerwas, no one on board theCapellaknew. The Admiralty publications at their disposal were blank as far as that ship was concerned. Speculation ran high: some of the officers expressing their opinion that Barry's command was a subsidized cargo-boat; others that she was one of the mosquito flotilla that had been evolved out of modern naval requirements. All were wrong, as they had yet to learn something more of the type of vessel flying the White Ensign that was helping to sweep the seas of the Black Cross of Germany.
"Well, old boy, how do you think you will like the racket?" asked Vernon, stooping to pat the massive head of a healthy-looking sheep-dog. Shrap had been allowed, by the Captain's permission, to join theCapellaas a mascot—the pet of both officers and crew, and of Vernon Haye in particular.
Shrap winked knowingly, then trotted off to a secluded part of the chart-room, where, under a locker, he had hidden the remains of what, half an hour previously, had been Sub-lieutenant Fox's shaving-brush.
TheCapellawas by no means the only craft rolling sluggishly in the vast artificial harbour. There were seven motor patrol-vessels, specially detailed for the forthcoming operations as tenders to the sea-planes.
A strong array of monitors, craft of ugly but utilitarian design, low-lying, and mounting two 14-inch guns, had assembled for the purpose of making it hot for the Hun on the morrow. Only light-draughted craft were to be employed in the attack, since they could approach within very effective range of their guns, and at the same time stand little chance of being torpedoed by a handful of unterseebooten that had been transported in sections to Zeebrugge and there fitted for service.
According to the Admiral's plan, the monitors were to approach Ostend just after daybreak. In the offing a number of empty transports were to assemble, protected by a powerful flotilla of destroyers. The appearance of these transports would be taken by the Germans as an indication of an attempted landing of a British force, and troops would be hurriedly massed to repel the threatened invasion.
The monitors were thereupon to fire a certain number of rounds, then, followed in a parallel course by the transports, make for Zeebrugge. Alternate visits to both the Belgian ports in German hands were to be made throughout the day, thereby wearing out the German troops in fruitless marching and counter-marching, and at the same time diverting a strong body of men from a section of the trenches upon which the British troops were to deliver a sudden and unexpected assault.
At four in the morning the monitors began to leave Dover Harbour. Thanks to the stringent military precautions taken in the town—precautions that could with decided advantage be imitated elsewhere—the presence of spies was almost, if not quite, a matter of impossibility. Unheralded by the Kaiser's agents, the small yet powerful vessels cleared the entrance to the breakwater and headed for the Belgian coast.
An hour later a masthead lamp blinked from theVega—the senior officer's ship of the patrol flotilla. Then, in line ahead, the swift motor craft slipped quietly out of the harbour to overtake their slower consorts.
TheCapella, like the rest of her sister ships, was cleared for action. Stanchion-rails were unshipped; everything likely to splinter was sent below. In the wake of the armoured protection, sandbags were placed to reinforce the steel plating. Although the patrol-vessels were not to take part in the bombardment, they had to be prepared in case a forlorn hope in the shape of a few German torpedo-boats might attempt a sudden onslaught.
As attendants upon the sea-planes, too, it was possible that the patrol-boats would have to approach within range of the garrison artillery, especially in the event of one of the aerial craft being disabled and falling into the sea, on its return from "spotting" the hits of the monitors' guns.
Dawn had not yet broken when the monitors, followed at two miles' distance by the motor patrol, came in sight of the search-lights on the low-lying Belgian coast. Beyond the limit of direct rays, yet within range of their monster guns, the monitors were safe from detection. All that was wanting was the presence of the sea-planes, for whose work daylight was essential.
Slowly a pale light spread on the north-eastern horizon. The short wintry day was breaking. The sea was calm. The air was piercingly cold. A thin coating of frost covered theCapella'sdeck. Ross and his chum were heartily glad of their thick pilot-coats, mufflers, and woollen "mitts", as they sheltered behind the breast-work erected on the bridge.
Captain Syllenger slowly paced the bridge, frequently glancing at the clock in the chart-room, since it was almost a matter of impossibility to consult his watch, owing to his generous accumulation of clothing. It was now nearly eight o'clock, but as yet there were no signs of the expected sea-planes.
Just then the dull morning light was pierced by a brilliant flash from one of the monitors. The watchers on theCapella'sbridge could see the low-lying hull give a decided jerk in a sternward direction under the reaction of the enormous projectile.
Long before the shell reached its objective, other 14-inch guns added their quota, and the air was rent with the flashes of the ordnance and the ear-splitting detonations following the discharge.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Sub-lieutenant Fox, who with his brother officers had had telescopes levelled upon the faintly outlined sand dunes. "There are the sea-planes!"
He was right. Flying at a great height the air-squadron had passed over the warships, and had taken up their observation stations without being seen or heard by anyone on board the patrol-vessels immediately over the German batteries, they were cutting "figure eights" and describing seemingly erratic circles, while the observers, coolly wirelessing the results of the monitors' shells, hardly heeded the furious fire directed upon them by the hostile anti-aircraft guns.
On a point extending for nearly three miles, the shore was torn by the terrific explosive shells. Clouds of sand, and yellow smoke mingled marked the scene of destruction, as battery after battery was spotted and promptly put out of action. Across the dunes could be seen swarms of ant-like figures—German troops flying for shelter from the devastating fire of the British guns.
But the action was by no means a one-sided one. Guns, large and small, replied; the heavier ordnance vigorously at first, and then gradually slackening down as the lyddite shells sought out the fixed emplacements. The lighter guns, mounted on armoured motor-cars, gave more trouble, since, after every shot, each piece was moved a hundred yards or more.
For several minutes the lads watched the unusual spectacle through the binoculars. Then something resembling a concentrated tornado screeched above their heads. Instinctively they ducked, the glasses falling from their hands. Ten seconds later Ross ventured to look up. Vernon was still holding his hands over his face. Then slowly he, too, opened his eyes.
The lads smiled sadly at each other, picked up their binoculars, and somewhat shamefacedly resumed their former positions.
It was their baptism of heavy gun-fire. A 42-centimetre shell had ricochetted and leapt full twenty feet above their heads.
Captain Syllenger was standing a few paces from them. Luckily, thought Ross, the skipper's back was turned, and he had not noticed the action of his young subordinates. But Trefusis was wrong. The Captain had seen them. Out of consideration, for he remembered his own sensations when first under fire, he affected not to notice the temporary panic that had overtaken the midshipmen.
TheCapellawas now running at half speed, in a direction parallel to the shore. All around, the sea was torn by the falling projectiles, most of which were sufficiently large to send her to the bottom like a stone. Yet, beyond the wounding of her wireless operator, the loss of her signalling-mast, and the shattering of one of her boats, she came off lightly. Although not the object of the hostile guns, she narrowly escaped several ricochets, until, at a signal from the senior officer, the patrol-vessels withdrew to a safer distance.
One of the monitors, too, was slowly steaming seawards, well down by the bows and smoke issuing from her fo'c'sle, while her single funnel was riddled like a sieve.
"Sea-plane returning, sir!" announced Sub-lieutenant Fox.
Flying at an altitude of about a thousand feet, one of the aerial scouts was making towards the line of patrol-vessels. She was flying steadily; her motor was purring rhythmically; a trail of thin bluish smoke from her exhaust belied the suggestion of an overheated engine. Yet something must have taken place for her to have quitted her observation station.
Promptly Captain Syllenger gave orders for theCapella'smotors to stop, then "Easy astern" until way was off the ship.
Making a graceful volplane, the sea-plane alighted with a faint splash upon the surface of the water, and "taxied" to leeward of the motionless vessel.
The sea-plane was a "two-seater". The rearmost or observer's seat was unoccupied. In the foremost was a young Flight-Sub-lieutenant heavily clad, and his clean-shaven face almost hidden by an airman's helmet. For the first time, the officers on the bridge of theCapellanoticed that the light steel plating was holed in many places, while the planes bore testimony to the accuracy of the enemy's shrapnel.
"A casualty!" sang out the Flying officer. "My pilot's been hit. Can you take him on board?"
Two of theCapella'screw swarmed over the side and gained the nearmost float, whence they clambered upon the body of the sea-plane. At the same time, one of the davits from which theCapella'sshattered boat had hung was slung outboard. By dint of careful manoeuvring, the sea-plane was brought alongside with her main planes practically parallel to the side of the ship.
The injured man was lying on the floor of the fuselage. A canvas band was strapped round his waist, and, supported by the two seamen, he was gently hoisted on board the ship by means of the davit tackle.
The Flight-Sub swung himself over the side of theCapellaand ascended the bridge.
"Got it hot at fifteen hundred feet," he explained. "My pilot was winged. Hit twice, I believe. Luckily the old bird kept fairly steady until I could clamber into the pilot's seat and take control. Rough luck, too. We were just doing a useful bit of spotting. I suppose, sir, there's no one on board who can handle a 'plane?"
"I'm afraid not," replied Captain Syllenger.
"Rough luck!" exclaimed the Sub despondently. Then, brightening up, he asked:
"Can you lend me a 'wireless' man? I could take on the pilot's job."
"Our man's knocked out," said the skipper.
"That's done it!" exclaimed the Sub. "There's a particularly tough battery that I wanted to see knocked out. No. 5 was almost on it when we got it hot."
Ross was thinking rapidly and deeply. He knew the Morse code well. He had dabbled in wireless telegraphy at school. Perhaps——
He felt that it was almost too impertinent to offer his services, yet the matter was urgent. It was dangerous, too, most dangerous; but the midshipman had learnt to place duty before personal consideration.
"Well?" asked Captain Syllenger as Trefusis stepped up and saluted smartly.
"I'll go if I can be of any assistance, sir," said Ross. "I can Morse and use a buzzer, and I have a knowledge of wireless."
"Carry on, then," replied Captain Syllenger.
"Good man!" exclaimed the Flight-Sub-lieutenant. "Can you stick heights?"
"I've done a lot of cliff climbing—I am a Cornishman, you know," said Trefusis. "I haven't had a chance of flying before."
"You have now!" added the Flight-Sub.
Ross climbed agilely into the observer's seat, and, at his flying companion's suggestion, buckled a broad leather strap round his waist. At his right hand was the wireless transmitter, together with a pair of prismatic glasses and map. The latter was held in a transparent celluloid case, while the glasses were secured by a cord sufficiently long to enable the observer to use them in any direction. Everything was attached to the sea-plane so that in the event of the machine having to "loop the loop" nothing would be lost.
The Sub, who for the present was to act as pilot, took his place in the forward part of the body. Giving a few preliminary touches to the mechanism, he announced that everything was in order.
The self-starter was released and the motor fired, causing the twin propellers to buzz smoothly and powerfully.
Ross waved his hand to his chum as the sea-plane glided away from theCapella, and from that moment his whole attention was centred upon the work on which he was engaged.
For nearly a hundred yards the sea-plane "taxied", rising lightly over the waves; then almost imperceptibly it glided upwards with an even motion. Ross could hardly believe he was flying until he saw the sea apparently receding from him.
"All right?" asked the Sub through the telephone that formed the only audible means of communication between pilot and observer. "Not feeling giddy?"
"Not a bit," replied Ross. Without experiencing the faintest sensation of vertigo, he found himself able to lean over the side of the chassis and look down at the scene two thousand feet beneath him.
The sea-plane was rising in a direction diverging obliquely with the coast. She was, in fact, almost over the line of empty transports that looked little bigger than a fleet of toy boats. Farther away could be discerned theCapellaand her consorts, moving with apparent slowness upon a perfectly calm sea, for at that altitude the waves were merged into a flat surface. Small splashes of white—the spray thrown up by falling shells—could be seen all around the patrol-vessels, which, in obedience to a signal, had now taken up a position rather nearer to the monitors.
Presently the Flight-Sub, having gained the desired altitude, moved the steering-plane ever so slightly. Quickly the machine answered her helm, swinging round until she pointed towards the land.
Three minutes later Ross found himself immediately above the British monitors. The sea-plane was now pitching slightly in the disturbed air, for the concussion of the heavy weapons was distinctly felt even at seven hundred yards above the bombarding ships. Although the roar of the concerted cannonade was deafening, Ross heard not a sound of it. To all intents, as far as he was concerned, the guns might have been fired with silencers attached to their muzzles. The whirr of the sea-plane's motor and the rush of air past his ears out-voiced every other sound.
Five miles beyond the line of monitors, could be discerned the Belgian coast, composed for the most part of undulating sand-dunes dotted with clusters of buildings.
As the sea-plane approached the land Ross could, with the aid of his binoculars, distinguish other objects—wavy lines, dotted with ant-like figures bunched together round something that looked like stumps of a lead pencil. The lines were the German trenches, the "ants" grey-coated artillerymen, and the "stumps" the heavy howitzers.
"That's our pigeon!" spoke the Flight-Sub through the telephone. "The battery a hundred yards to the north of that ruined church tower. Our fellows haven't knocked it out yet. Wireless them; fifty yards over."
Ross sent the desired information. The sea-plane, having flown over its objective, turned, describing an elongated figure eight. As she swung round, Ross noticed a mushroom-like cloud of white smoke a short distance beneath, and to the left of the fuselage. Then another a hundred feet immediately in front. At each "mushroom" the sea-plane curtsied. Something zipped close to the lad's ear. A wire snapped, the severed portions circling themselves into erratic spirals. A fragment of fabric from one of the main planes flew past him, like a scrap of tissue-paper in the grip of a boisterous wind.
Then Ross tumbled to it. Those silent mushrooms of smoke were shrapnel shells bursting unpleasantly close. For a moment, the young observer felt himself seized by an almost irresistible impulse to take refuge under the coaming surrounding his seat. He uttered an involuntary exclamation of unwelcome surprise.
"What's up?" asked a voice in his ear. It was the Flight-Sub, to whom the telephone had transmitted Ross's exclamation.
"Nothing," replied the lad.
"Thought so," was the laconic reply. "Don't worry."
Reasoning with himself, Ross came to the decision that the advice was thoroughly sound. Worrying would not help him in the least; neither would cowering inside the frail body of the sea-plane. Twice within a very short space of time he had experienced a sensation of "funk". Twice he was surprised to find how quickly he recovered; for, at the next shot from the monitor for which he was "spotting", he found that the sensation of "cold feet" had given place to one of exhilaration when he was able to record a "direct hit".
By this time the initial operations were terminating. The German fire had almost ceased to be troublesome. Most of the big howitzers and long-range guns had been knocked out. A few were still firing, but very erratically.
At a signal from the senior officer, the monitors drew out of range, and steaming at the maximum speed—a bare 11 knots—kept a course parallel with the shore, accompanied by the patrol-vessels and transports.
Well above effective shrapnel range, the squadron of sea-planes headed for Zeebrugge. A number of aviatiks, which were flying over the German new sea base, hurriedly turned tail. Previous experience had taught them that naval air-craft could hit hard, in addition to carrying out observation work.
There were, however, plenty of evidences that the Germans were rushing up thousands of troops in order to deal with the supposed landing in force. Train after train made towards the town, crammed with soldiers.
The sea-planes let the trains pass unhindered. It was not their purpose to stop Germans from pouring into Zeebrugge. Once the troops were there, then would be the time to cut their lines of communication.
Again the monitors opened fire. Their reception was hotter than it had been in the neighbourhood of Ostend, for, in spite of frequent and destructive molestation, the Germans had succeeded in throwing up numerous heavily armed and cleverly concealed batteries.
At almost extreme range the British ships maintained a rapid high-angle fire. In a few minutes fires had broken out in several places. Fifteen-hundred-pound shells dropped in the canal basin, blowing to atoms several submarines that were in the process of fitting out. The harbour works were swept by the huge projectiles. The long curved breakwater suffered heavily. Huge gaps appeared in the solid masonry. Everything lying afloat in the enclosed water was either set on fire or sunk. In an hour the havoc wrought at Zeebrugge had wiped out the work of months.
Ross had little time to notice the work of destruction. His particular business was to observe the fire directed upon a large redoubt to the north-east of the town. The first shell from the monitor fell short, blowing an enormous crater in the grass-grown dunes. The second fell beyond, completely demolishing a house. The third dropped fairly in the centre of the redoubt, causing a terrific explosion that was not due solely to the lyddite bursting-charge. The magazine had exploded.
Skywards rushed an enormous cloud of black and yellow smoke. Caught by the blast of the violently displaced air the sea-plane rocked, then began dropping like a stone.
For the moment Ross imagined that the end had come. He was no longer afraid. A sensation of intense curiosity as to what the machine and its occupants would look like seemed to obsess his mind.
Then, with a jerk that reminded the midshipman of the sudden starting of a lift, the sea-plane "flattened out" and began to climb out of the enveloping cloud of smoke.
The Flight-Sub turned his head and grinned broadly. His manner could not do otherwise than inspire confidence. Although not a pilot, he was master of the frail machine. Side-slips and nose-dives troubled him but little, provided he was flying at a safe altitude.
"A jolly good wipe-out!" he exclaimed. "There won't be many Bosches left within half a mile of that battery, I'm thinking. Now watch when the next shot lands: that will give you the objective."
A sharp buzzing in the receiver attached to Ross's flying helmet announced that the monitor was "calling up" her observer. Quickly the lad seized the pencil, and gave the signal that he was ready to take down the message.
The Morse signal, when translated into writing, was as follows:—
"Register Position 47."
"Good!" exclaimed the Plight-Sub when Ross had telephoned him the message. He consulted his map, which was similar to the one at the observer's disposal "Position 47: that's a railway junction."
In the course of their work of fortifying Zeebrugge, the Huns had constructed a double-track railway, passing within a few yards of the Dutch frontier for several miles before heading straight for the new submarine base. Two miles from Zeebrugge the line joined the existing railway, the junction being recorded on British airmen's maps as Position 47.
The time was now ripe for the monitor which had successfully demolished the redoubt to attempt a similar exploit, namely, to destroy the junction.
The sea-plane's appearance was the signal for a furious fire from the numerous anti-aircraft guns mounted in the vicinity of the station.
At six thousand feet the risk of being hit was small, while the height did not prevent the observer making a fairly accurate register of the hits.
It was a very long range, but the monitor's 14-inch guns did excellent work. Seven shells sufficed to reduce the station to a heap of ruins and blow whole sections of the line to atoms.
Again came a wireless order:
"Sea-plane to proceed to Zwilhuit. Attempt destruction of bridge across canal."
Once more the Flight-Sub smiled. This was work that suited him immensely. For the nonce "spotting" was finished with. The sea-plane had to drop her cargo of bombs upon an important strategic position.
"All right!" exclaimed the Flying officer. "Keep a cool head. When I give the word, press that pedal under your right foot. Bend down and you'll find a safety pin just above the floor. Remove it, but be jolly careful not to touch the pedal until I give the word."
Underneath the fuselage were six bombs hanging from an inclined steel rod. These were released by means of a rachet operated by the pedal to which the Flight-Sub had alluded. To prevent a premature release the pedal was "locked" by a safety device. When this was removed, each depression of the pedal would result in the liberation of a potent missile of destruction.
The sea-plane was not alone on her errand. In her wake flew two more, for the actual bombardment had now ceased, and the air-craft were at liberty to engage upon a raid several miles inland.
The Huns had not constructed their strategic railway close to the Dutch frontier without a cunning reason. Extreme care had to be exercised by British airmen, since it was an easy matter for a bomb to drop across the border. Nothing would please the Germans better, for at once there would be a case of violation of Dutch territory. On the other hand, the Huns had no scruple in mounting a battery of anti-aircraft guns, training them in such a manner that the earthward flight of spent shrapnel would assuredly fall upon the Dutch village of Venterloos, which was separated from Zwilhuit by a distance of less than four hundred yards.
In twenty minutes the sea-plane's objective came in sight: a broad line of railway crossing a canal by means of a steel bridge. It was evident that the Germans meant this base to be a permanent one, for the bridge was of massive construction, strong enough to bear the transport of the heavy 42-centimetre guns, and yet sufficiently high above the waterway to admit the passage of large lighters with towering deck-cargoes.
"Stand by!" cautioned the Flight-Sub. "Keep cool. Do as well as you have already done, and everything will go like greased lightning."
Volplaning at an acute angle, the sea-plane swooped down upon her quarry. Shrapnel shells burst over, in front, behind, and underneath her. It seemed impossible that such a frail object could escape destruction.
At five hundred feet the Flight-Sub checked her downward course.
"Now!" he ordered. "And again!"
Two puffs of white smoke marked the points of explosion of the powerful bombs. One had fallen fifty yards short of the bridge; the other had burst almost at the junction of the railway lines.
Round spun the sea-plane. As she turned Ross could discern the second of the aerial raiders gliding down, while the third was still at a great altitude. Before the one in which Ross was flying could again soar over its target the second sea-plane had dropped three of her missiles. All fell close to the bridge. The work of demolition was accomplished, for when the smoke and dust cleared away the substantial fabric had been precipitated, a mass of twisted steel, into the canal.
"THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED""THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED"
"THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED""THE WORK OF DEMOLITION WAS ACCOMPLISHED"
"Two more on the station and then we've finished," exclaimed the Flight-Sub. "Ready?"
"Ay, ay!" replied Ross.
He turned his head to watch the progress of the other sea-planes. One was still maintaining a terrific altitude, and showed no signs of making a volplane.
The other was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was as well that the midshipman had not noticed what had befallen her, for a few seconds previously a shrapnel shell had burst close underneath the chassis. The explosion had communicated itself to the remaining bombs, with the result that utter annihilation had overtaken the plucky British airmen in the moment of their triumph.
Ross's companion had witnessed the catastrophe. More, his trained eye had discerned half a dozen small specks in the western sky. Quickly he brought his binoculars to bear upon them. No mistake now; the specks revealed themselves as German aviatiks intent upon cutting off the retreat of the two remaining British air-craft.
Not until Ross had dropped the remaining bombs did his companion speak.
"We've a bit of a shooting match on," he announced. "Get that rifle ready. It's under the coaming on your right hand. Sight at three hundred yards, and let rip when I give the word."
Ross took up the weapon almost as a matter of course. After the excitement of bomb-dropping and being shelled by shrapnel, the approach of a fleet of Zeppelins would hardly disturb his equanimity.
Already the third sea-plane, having gained a favourable altitude, was making straight for her numerous opponents.
The Flight-Sub now began to speed his machine up, climbing in short spirals, so as to gain what was equivalent to the "weather-gauge" in the sea battles of Nelson's days.
Ross unslipped the rifle. Mechanically he set the back-sight, and jerked open the bolt-action to assure himself that the magazine was charged. As he did so he became aware that the cartridges were bent and buckled. A piece of shrapnel, passing through the side of the fuselage, had lodged in the magazine of the rifle. In addition, although it was possible to withdraw the bolt, the striking-pin had jammed. As a weapon the rifle was useless. By stopping the shrapnel bullet the rifle had saved Ross from a serious and perhaps mortal wound.
The midshipman was on the point of reporting the disablement of the weapon, when the motor gave vent to a peculiar cough and abruptly stopped. Unknown to the pilot the petrol-tank had been pierced almost at its lowest point. The remaining petrol had been used up during the spiraling process. The sea-plane was now at an altitude of three thousand feet; propulsion, except under the force of gravity, was no longer possible.
The Flight-Sub was quick to act. Before the hitherto climbing air-craft began diving tail downwards, he regulated the elevating planes, and a long volplane ensued. The sea-plane was bound to come to earth, but it was not on hostile soil that the airman hoped to alight. His goal was the ground beyond the seemingly endless line of barbed wire that marked the frontier between Belgium and Holland.
The anti-aircraft guns had now opened fire, blazing furiously away at the rapidly descending sea-plane. The rapidity of her descent saved her, for, before the time-fuses could be altered to suit the ever-varying range, the air-craft was well below the bursting-point of the missiles. Nothing but a direct hit—a most difficult matter—could harm her now.
At a thousand feet she passed the border-line. Still the Archibalds barked. Ross could see the Dutch frontier guards bolting for shelter as the hall of bullets fell on neutral ground. Not until the sea-plane was well over the boundary did the guns reluctantly cease fire.
The earth appeared to leap up and meet the descending machine. It looked as if a terrific smash were inevitable. A sea-plane alighting upon solid ground has a thousand chances against her, for, being unprovided with landing wheels, she is not adapted to withstand successfully the impact with the earth.
Cool and collected, the Flight-Sub "flattened her out" to a nicety. At forty miles an hour the floats struck the ground. For twenty yards the sea-plane skidded, then with a rending crash the floats and a network of struts and tension-wires gave way under the abnormal strain. The next instant Ross found himself sprawling on the sandy soil, the sudden jerk tearing his securing-belt from its fastenings.
He sat up. A multitude of dazzling lights seemed to flash before his eyes. He was dimly aware of a tangle of wreckage, out of which a practically undamaged plane rose at an oblique angle, lumbering the ground quite twenty yards from where he found himself. Men were hastening towards the wrecked sea-plane from all directions, but, thank Heaven, they did not wear the uniform of the Hun.
With his head still whirling, Ross was supported by two Dutch soldiers, while a third poured a quantity of raw spirits down his throat. Blood was streaming from a gash on his forehead, and his knees, grazed and discoloured, were visible through rents in his trousers.
Of what happened during the next quarter of an hour, the midshipman had but a very hazy idea. The men had laid him on the ground, propping him against a large stone. He felt horribly sick. The pain across his chest, caused by the strain upon the leather belt, was acute—far worse than the wound on his forehead which the kindly soldiers were bathing with handkerchiefs dipped in water.
The men were talking excitedly. He could not understand what they were saying. He felt inclined to tell them to shut up. They irritated him beyond measure; if only they would go away and leave him in peace he would be deeply grateful.
Suddenly it dawned upon him that he had been in an awful smash. The wrecked sea-plane had not hitherto led the train of his thoughts to the subject of the accident. Now he realized his position.
"Where's my companion?" he asked, "Is he knocked out?"
"Do not yourself fret," said a voice that sounded far away. "He is hurt, but badly not at all. We him have carried away. I am a doctor. You quiet must be, and zen recovery rapide will be."
The doctor—a Dutch army surgeon—ran his hands lightly over the lad's limbs.
"Goot!" he ejaculated. "Nodings broken is."
He gave directions to the men in attendance. A stretcher was laid on the ground beside the lad. Two men lifted him gently upon it. Even as they did so, Ross gave a low groan and passed into merciful oblivion.
"Ver' goot. I understan' you no give parole?"
"No, sir," replied the Flight-Sub firmly.
"An' you, mynheer?"
"I am in the same boat, sir," replied Ross.
The camp-commandant smiled—a hearty smile, bordering on a laugh.
"Goot, I understan' also," he reiterated. Then, shaking a podgy little finger, he added: "Same boat, ah? English idiomatic expression? Ver' well, it is so; but if you make escape, do not let me you catch. Zat is all."
A week had elapsed since the involuntary descent of the sea-plane. Both officers were making rapid progress towards recovery, for, in spite of the violence of the impact, neither of them had received anything worse than contusions and bruises.
After three days in hospital at Utrecht, the interned aviators were transferred to a small concentration camp at the village of Koedijk, a short distance from Alkmaar. A few miles to the westward, and beyond an expanse of sand dunes, was the North Sea. The temptation to refuse to give their parole was not to be wondered at, with the call of the sea so near at hand. It was, indeed, rather remarkable that the two officers had not been sent to the large internment camp at Groningen, where so many of the ill-fated Naval Brigade languished, if not in captivity, in a state of enforced and tedious detention.
"We'll have to be doubly careful now," remarked the Flight-Sub. "The mere fact that we have declined to give our parole will put the commandant on his guard. Our best plan will be to mark time for a bit."
"Marking time is always an unsatisfactory business," protested the energetic Ross. "Nothing rusts a fellow like inaction. It wouldn't be much of a task to tunnel our way out."
The Flight-Sub shook his head.
"Tunnelling's not much good in this water-logged country," he declared. "We are not water-rats. Patience, my festive: where there's a will there's a way."
Their quarters consisted of a long, two-storied building. The only other occupants beside the guards, were three British Naval officers rescued from a mined trawler that had managed to reach Dutch waters before foundering. Two of them had broken legs; the third was down with double pneumonia, the legacy of many a cold, stormy night in the North Sea.
Surrounding the house was a high brick wall, on which had been recently placed a triple row of barbed wire. At the entrance, an archway about ten feet in height, stood a wooden sentry-box, where a soldier with rifle and fixed bayonet kept guard in the leisurely manner of the stolid Dutch menfolk. One could imagine him, a picturesque figure in baggy trousers and coat of fantastic cut, smoking his pipe on the quay at Volendam. The blue uniform did not form a fitting mantle for his corpulent form.
The sentry was one of a type. The rest of the guards—middle-aged men called up on mobilization—were much of the same build and demeanour. Their innate love of gossiping tempted them to be on most friendly terms with the interned officers. One and all were violently pro-British. They had reason to dread the German menace, for they were level-headed enough to realize that, with the Central Powers triumphant, the independence of Holland would be a thing of the past.
Adjoining the grounds were the quarters occupied by interned seamen, to the number of about sixty. They were strictly guarded; a formidable double fence of barbed wire, between which armed sentries patrolled, enclosed the premises. For discipline, the men were under the orders of their own petty officers.
"Jolly good luck to you!" exclaimed one of the wounded officers, to whom the two new-comers confided their intention of escaping. "If we three weren't crocked we should have been across the ditch by this time."
He pointed seawards as he spoke. From the upper windows of the building the sunlit sea could be seen. Beyond the "ditch", as he termed it, was England and freedom.
"It's no use trying to break out," he continued. "German spies as thick as blackberries along the coast. The most benevolent-looking mynheer might, as likely as not, be a kultured Hun. You have to be smuggled out. Try your blandishments on old Katje."
"Old who?" asked the Flight-Sub.
"Katje, the old vrouw who calls for the washing. She comes every Tuesday and Friday with a cart drawn by dogs, and a basket big enough to stow the pair of you. You'll want plenty of palm oil. There are the sentries to be squared, and the fellow who provides you with a suit of 'mufti'. Wilson, our Lieutenant-Commander, got clear about a month ago. He made his way to Ymuiden."
"Wasn't there a row about it?" asked Ross.
"Naturally," replied the wounded officer. "We had a pretty strenuous time after it—certain privileges withdrawn and all that sort of thing. However, when we heard that Wilson had succeeded in making his way to England we didn't mind that, and things have now recovered their normal appearance."
On the following Tuesday, Ross and his companion anxiously awaited the arrival of Vrouw Katje. At length the old lady—she was nearly eighty—drove up in style, shouting shrilly to her dogs from her perch on top of an enormous wicker hamper.
"More washing for you, Katje," announced one of the crippled officers. "Two more of my countrymen. They will be very pleased to see you."
Without further ado, Katje ascended the stairs and hammered violently upon the door of the sitting-room.
Her knowledge of English was good, for earlier in life she was the wife of the skipper of a bolter that made regular voyages to Hole Haven at the mouth of the Thames, where a large eel trade was in the hands of the Dutch fishermen.
"Very well; but I must ask permission of the Commandant," replied Katje, in perfect good faith, when the Flight-Sub had broached the subject of being conveyed from the internment camp.
"No, no," protested the young officer in alarm; "that won't do."
"Why not?" persisted the washerwoman. "Mynheer the Commandant is very kind."
"Undoubtedly," replied the Flight-Sub. "But we would much rather that you wait until we are away from the place before you ask him. See, here are five English sovereigns. They are yours once you get us clear."
The vrouw shook her head.
"I do not care to," she replied firmly; then without a pause she continued: "My son-in-law, Jan van Beverwijk, will. I am sure he will. Next Friday he will come instead of me. He is mate of a steamship that takes the bulbs from Holland to England. He returns to-morrow, and sails on Saturday from Ymuiden."
"That sounds excellent," commented the Flight-Sub.
"It is excellent," agreed Katje. "It will cost you each twenty English sovereigns."
"But we haven't ten between us."
The vrouw smiled till her weather-beaten face was one mass of deep wrinkles.
"You English have a proverb about a road," she remarked.
"'It's a long lane that has no turning?'" quoted the officer; but Katje shook her head.
"'Where there's a will there's a way'," suggested Ross.
"Ah! That is it. I knew it was something about a road or a lane. Way, you call it. Very well; by next Friday you will find a way."
"Artful old baggage!" exclaimed the Flight-Sub when Katje had taken her departure. "She's mighty keen on the rhino. We'll have to have a whip round, Trefusis, and give a note of hand."
Their brothers in adversity willingly responded to the call, and before the eventful Friday a sum in English and Dutch coinage, equivalent to forty pounds, was ready to be handed to Jan van Beverwijk.
"I wouldn't pay cash on the nail if I were you," suggested the crippled officer who had been so useful in advising them before. "Half down, and the rest when you land in England. Jan might object, but he'll give in. No Dutchman of his standing would shut his eyes to twenty in hard cash."
At eight o'clock on Friday morning Katje's dog-team romped up; but, instead of the old vrouw, a lean, leather-faced man with a long coat reaching to his heels and a flat-topped peak cap strode beside the cart.
At the gate he stopped, and spoke at considerable length with the sentry. There was hardly any expression on the faces of the two men as they talked. Whether the soldier fell in with the suggestion, Ross, who was anxiously watching from the window, could not decide.
Presently Jan stooped to fasten the strap of one of hisklompen, or wooden shoes; then shouting to the dogs he came towards the house. Before he had gone very far, the sentry bent and picked up something that was lying on the spot where Jan had been attending to his footgear.
"Palm oil!" remarked the Flight-Sub laconically.
"Heavy wash to-day," was Jan's greeting as he deposited his heavy basket in the corridor. "Spot cash, down on the nail."
"Your knowledge of English is remarkable," said the Flight-Sub affably.
"It has to be," rejoined the Dutchman stolidly.
"We have only twenty pounds," declared the Sub. "That we will give you as soon as we are on board and in English waters. The balance Mr. Brown will give you on your return, on receipt of a note from us to the effect that we are safely home."
"It cannot be done," said Jan.
"Then the deal's off," remarked the Flight-Sub coolly; but he ostentatiously poured the coins from his right hand into his left before returning them to his pocket.
The Dutchman capitulated.
"Very good," he said. "I can trust an English Naval officer, although many a time have I been done in London. Get in, one of you."
"But the other?" enquired the Sub.
"I am strong, but I am not a Hercules," replied the Dutchman with a shrug of his shoulders. "One I can carry to the cart. To-day is a heavy wash, so I must return for a second load. You twig?"
"In you get, Trefusis," ordered his companion, in a tone that would brook no refusal.
By dint of hunching his shoulders and bending his knees, Ross managed to get into the basket. The lid was shut, and Jan, assisted by the Sub, lifted the heavy load on to his shoulders.
Jolting over the cobble-stones, the cart proceeded at a rapid pace for nearly a quarter of an hour. Then Jan called to the dogs to stop. The lid was thrown back and Ross told to get out.
He found himself outside a small cottage by the side of a canal. Katje was on her knees washing a bundle of clothes; the operation assisted, with disastrous results to the interned officers' effects, by means of two large stones with which she pounded the saturated garments. Without even turning her head to watch the midshipman's exit from the basket, she proceeded vigorously with her task.
Jan led him into the cottage and pointed to a heap of clothes.
"Put these on you," he said. "I will now go for your friend."
Before the Flight-Sub rejoined him, Ross was rigged out as a Dutch youth, in voluminous trousers, long coat, stock, tall cylindrical hat, green stockings, and wooden shoes. His companion had to look twice before he recognized him.
"Now you come with me to Mynheer Guit," said Jan. "He is a bulb merchant, and lives just outside Ymuiden. You will then go on board a barge that brings the boxes of bulbs from Mynheer Guit's warehouse to the ship. I will be with you. The men in the barge will say nothing. Before to-night you will be safe on board theHoorn."
Jan was as good as his word. That night the fugitives slept comfortably in the cabin of the mate of the steamshipHoorn; and at tide-time, early on Saturday morning while it was still dark, the vessel glided between the breakwater of Ymuiden, and shaped a course for the mouth of the Thames.