Dastral of the Flying Corps

"But where the deuce is Brum? He should be here by now. It's getting quite light," said Jock, peering in every direction for the missing aviator.

"Ho! ho! here he comes."

"Where away? I can't see him."

"Right behind us. He must have over-shot the mark also, and he's coming back on our trail from Brussels."

The next instant, Dastral did a rapid swerve, and a steep nose-dive, in accordance with the pre-arranged code made before starting.

This was quite sufficient, for the strangers had been stalling their machines, and circling around, waiting for the signal. Now they opened out their engines and came on at top speed to meet their leader.

As they came up Jock could see the observers waving their hands in recognition. Yes, they were all here. The first part of the business was over. They had all come safely through and gained the rendezvous.

"Now we must get to work, for there's trouble brewing somewhere for us, and the sooner we get through the affair the better," shouted the pilot through the speaking tube.

As the machines came up, they wheeled smartly round, and each took up its appointed place in the formation. To an observer down below it must have appeared that they were great birds wheeling about to order, just like a platoon of infantry on parade.

"Prepare for action," was the next signal given, as they sped off, led by Dastral.

"Braine l'Alleud next," called Dastral.

"Yes, a little further to the right, just below the dip in the hill. We should see the Zeppelin sheds shortly," responded Jock, who was ready for the query, and had one finger already on the waterproof map.

"Shall I follow the road?" asked Dastral.

"Yes, till I pick up the hangars."

A moment later, the huge sheds came into view, and Jock, putting down his glasses, shouted with glee:

"There they are–three of them, and quite a crowd of people round about them. A little more to the left."

"Yes, I see them–why, there are hundreds of people there. What on earth can they be doing there?" asked Dastral.

"German soldiers waiting for the return of the Zeppelins that raided England last night, I expect."

"Phew! Our luck's in this time."

"They think we're friendly machines too, I believe," cried Jock, fingering the bomb release, ready to let go the first twenty-pound bomb on to the hangar. "Evidently, they can't make out our marks yet in the morning mist."

"They'll soon think differently," replied the pilot, as, coming up at full speed, followed by the rest of the flight, he did a rapid nose-dive of two thousand feet. Then, flattening out to get a better control over his machine, he swept on again till nearly exactly over the first huge shed, and did another rapid nose-dive, the speed of which must have approximated one hundred and fifty miles an hour.

"Look to it, Jock. Let go, man!" he yelled.

Jock pulled the clutch of the bomb release, and the first missile fell almost into the middle of the huge building. He could not fail to hit it, for the target was so large, and Dastral had dropped to within three hundred feet of the high roof.

"Swis-s-s-h–Boom-m-m-m–!"

The explosion was terrific, and the huge roof of the building crumpled in with a crash.

Scarcely fifteen seconds later Mac. dropped a petrol bomb into the half ruined building, and before the third plane could come into action, huge flames were bursting out everywhere.

Then it was that the German anti-aircraft guns, discovering their mistake, turned their concentrated fire upon the first machine, which by this time was passing the second hangar, and about to repeat the process.

"Spit! bang! boom!" And now the calm morning air was alive with bursting bombs and tearing shrapnel, while down below the distracted German soldiery, who had been waiting to house the returning Zeppelins, were rushing hither and thither, bewildered, whilst their officers were cursing those verdomt Englanders, who were always up to some new devilment.

"Gott in Himmel! Gott strafe England!" came from many a mouth, and curses and cries of anger, coupled with shouts of defiance, rent the air.

"Are you ready, Jock?" yelled Dastral, as they whirled through a screen of bursting shrapnel.

"Yes, aye, ready!" came the response from the observer, whose eyes were lit with the light of battle.

"Then let go!"

"Boom-m-m!" went another bomb on to the second hangar, and so with the third and last.

Within three minutes the whole of the structures of the three huge sheds were blazing fiercely, and, as the 'planes sped away, and climbed out of the line of immediate fire, they noted with joy that the flames from the third shed were larger and fiercer than those from the others.

Huge forks of fire leapt three hundred feet into the air, and the heat was so fierce within a hundred feet that everybody within that zone of fire was scorched and fell fainting or dead.

"Some blaze that, Jock!" cried Dastral as soon as they had left the fire curtain of shrapnel behind them, and could observe the burning mass properly.

"Yes, there's a Zeppelin in there, I'll swear to it. Else it would never blaze like that." Scarcely had he spoken, when a terrific explosion rent the air, fifty times as loud and terrible as that caused by the bursting of the twenty-pound bombs. At the same instant, a huge column of smoke, flame and debris shot up into the sky, making the very aeroplanes tremble with the tremendous vibration.

"Great Scott, you're right, Jock! We've done it this time. It must have been a Zeppelin. There is nothing left of the shed now. It has been clean lifted away."

The destruction wrought down below had been terrible. The casualties caused by the bombs had been as nothing compared to the terrible death-roll amongst the German soldiery by the explosion of a million cubic feet of gas and the wreckage of the huge hangar. The burning, blazing missiles of bent, twisted iron, steel, timber and aluminium came down from the skies, and wrought death and havoc amongst the labour battalions which must always be on duty near a Zeppelin hangar.

Once they were out of range of the enemy's guns Dastral looked round upon his companions. So far they had come through pretty well. No vital hit had been made, but every machine had received its quota of shrapnel. Not a 'plane amongst them but had its fifty or sixty jagged tears through the planes. Mac's propeller had also been hit, but as it was only slightly splintered, it still enabled the pilot to carry on.

However, as he wheeled round his flight, Dastral saw that it would take his brave followers all their time to get back nearly a hundred miles to safety. He gave the signal, therefore, for every pilot to make a bee line for the English trenches, and thus get home before the Aviatiks, Rolands and Fokkers came, which he knew would be climbing up already to attack them, from the aerodromes in the vicinity of Brussels.

Two of the observers had also been wounded, though slightly, and signalled accordingly, so that Dastral became uneasy, lest, after all, their return to safety should be hindered. Most of all did he fear that it might be necessary to leave one of his machines behind, for, if an aeroplane is forced to land in enemy territory, there is small chance of escape, either for man or machine.

The whole flight, therefore, had fallen into position for return, with Dastral leading, for he had signalled his men to keep together, as far as possible, till they were about to cross the lines. Suddenly, however, when they had proceeded some eight or nine miles on their way, Jock, who had been scanning the north-western horizon, called out:

"A Zeppelin! A Zeppelin!"

"Good heavens, where?" shouted Dastral.

"Away over there on the right, low down on the horizon."

"Phew! So it is. One of their lame ducks coming home to roost, after raiding some English village, I expect."

"The devils. I say, Dastral?"

"Yes?"

"Let's strafe the baby-killer!" shouted Jock.