Dastral of the Flying Corps

The utmost confusion reigned down below. The impossible had been accomplished. Krupps', the very heart of Germany, had been bombed by a few daring raiders.

"Donner and blitz!" people down below were shouting. "What is the good of our great Prussian army if it cannot prevent such things?"

The raiders were off now, for all this had been done in less than three minutes, once they had found their targets. As they made off German aeroplanes rose to pursue them. In every direction they saw the enemy, who had been surprised after all, in spite of the warning he must have received.

As they made off strange electric shocks seemed to agitate the air, and to make the machines rock wildly. Violent waves disturbed the atmosphere. Evidently the enemy had discovered some new device of creating air-pockets, and filling the heavens with lurid flashes of electricity.

But the device fails. The machines pass out of danger, but alas, it is doubtful whether two of them will ever reach the shelter of their own lines again. Still, they are going to make the effort. Number three and four have been badly hit, and Dastral's 'plane is torn with bits of shrapnel.

Once or twice they look back at the flaming destruction which they have wrought, all in the space of a few minutes. As they do so, a mighty column of flame and black smoke rises up into the air, and a terrific explosion takes place, which shakes the earth for fifty miles around.

Yes, the T.N.T. works have gone up, and the two explosions which soon follow show that something else has gone into the sky as well.

"Bravo! Krupps' has been bombed!"

Dastral gives the signal for his men to turn to the westward, and to make with all possible speed for the shelter of their own lines.

But enemy 'planes are in rapid pursuit, and there are two lame ducks in the flight. It means another two hours' journey, and there is no chance for the lame ducks if they are further molested.

The leader quickly decides. He has still some fight left in him, and so has Mac. They will escort the rest. He signals to Mac, "Take the left flank!" and Mac understands, while he himself takes the right flank.

Then he orders the others to go S.S.W., for they must not infringe the neutrality of Holland by going due west. And so they proceed, until Jock signals that two of the Huns are gaining upon them. They are fast 'planes, and will do some damage if they are not dealt with.

At present they are still half a mile behind and a thousand feet below them. So Dastral circles round once or twice as if to fight with them, but only one of them accepts the challenge, and opens fire at the Flight-Commander.

"Rap-rap-rap-rap-rap!" comes the sound of the fire, just audible above the roar of the engines and the whir-r-r-r of the propellers.

But Dastral has the weather-gage of him, for he has a thousand feet greater altitude. He waits a moment, circling round. Then, as the Boche comes up, he dives at him, as though he meant to ram him, for he knew this would unnerve the enemy more than anything else.

At the same moment he treats the Boche to three sudden bursts of fire from his Lewis gun. It is quite enough for the enemy. He has outdistanced his friends, and does not care to engage this air-devil of an Englishman alone, so he swerves round, and hauls off a little, hoping that the Britisher will be sufficient of a fool to pursue him, but Dastral returns to his command, so that he may shepherd the lame ducks through any further peril that may come upon them.

Again and again on that long journey back he has to turn and fight, and often Mac accompanies him.

At length, half frozen to death, with their eyes smarting so that they can scarcely see, one of them sights the relief squadron which has come to meet them and escort them back to safety.

Half a squadron has come to meet them, good fighters, all fresh and ready for any hostile aircraft that cares to take the challenge. And so, after nearly six hours of a trying ordeal, "B" Flight returns safely to the shelter of the aerodrome behind the British lines.

CHAPTER IX

THE GIANT WAR-PLANE

FOR some days after the daring adventure recorded in our last chapter things had been fairly quiet along that portion of the Somme front, near the sector patrolled by the 'planes of the –th Squadron. There had been the usual daily reconnaissances over the enemy's lines; the usual spotting and registering for the artillery by the aeroplanes and the kite balloons, but the dull, cloudy weather had restricted the use of the 'planes to a great extent.

One incident that had occurred, however, caused no little excitement, and awakened the professional curiosity of the pilots, observers and air-mechanics of the squadron.

Late one afternoon a very small but swift aerial scout, in the shape of a new type of baby-monoplane, suddenly appeared over the aerodrome, and after circling round once or twice, made several rapid spirals and descended on to the grounds. It was no enemy machine, for the red, white and blue cocarde of the Allies was plainly visible upon the underside of the wings, and also on the rudder.

No sooner had the ferry-pilot who had brought her over from England, made a landing, and climbed out of his tiny nascelle, than every pilot and observer who was about the place, and not on duty, gathered round to welcome the newcomer with the usual greeting, and to flood him with questions as to the new machine. Amongst the rest the Flight-Commander of "B" Flight could be seen talking and arguing with his friends.

"Gee-whiz! But isn't she a beauty, boys?" he was heard to exclaim, as, with quite a boyish enthusiasm, he completed in less than two minutes his first brief examination of the machine.

"By Jove, but she's a gem!" replied Mac, to whom the question had been more particularly addressed.

"I've never seen anything like her," exclaimed another member of "B" Flight. "I don't think the Huns have anything to equal her."

"Not even their Fokkers?" ventured one of the pilots, who was already seated in the little cockpit, trying her controls, for he was just longing to take her aloft. "And you came from London in an hour and a quarter?" asked Dastral of the ferry-pilot, helping him out of his thick leather coat.

"Yes, quite easily," replied the latter.

"And you never even pushed her?"

"I never opened the throttle to the full till I rushed the Channel, half an hour ago."

"And then you let her rip?"

"Yes, I did then. She fairly seemed to leap over the English Channel. She touched one hundred and sixty miles, and for a while she quite frightened me."

"Phew! I should think so. What the deuce shall we get to next? One hundred and sixty miles an hour! Great Scott! I'd give ten years of my life to meet Himmelman on her, when I've fairly tried her," said Dastral quietly.

There was a note of silence when the Flight-Commander spoke thus, for he did not often express himself like that, though every one knew that the ambition of his life was to meet the German air-fiend on equal terms, and fate had decreed that before very long his wish should be gratified.

After this, they all adjourned to the messroom, and, for that evening, and the next, the ferry-pilot was their guest.

At dinner that evening, when John Bunny, the jovial, stout, stumpy, chubby-faced waiter at the officers' mess, had cleared away, and cigars were lighted, and chairs drawn to the fire-place, all the talk was about the baby-monoplane. For the time being even the war faded away, except so far as it hinged upon the coming deeds of the new machine. They discussed its merits and its possibilities, its high speed, its wonderful but powerful engine, capable of 200 horse-power and nearly two thousand revolutions a minute.

Next morning, as soon as it was light, Dastral was seated in the little nascelle, climbing into the azure. For an hour he tested it, and came down delighted with his new plaything. Again and again he tried it during the next two days, until he was thoroughly at home with it, and could handle it just as well as any other machine he had ever flown. Indeed, the ferry-pilot who watched him was amazed at the antics which the Flight-Commander performed with the trippy little thing.

On the third morning after the arrival of the new visitant, the aerodrome was startled by renewed activity on the part of the enemy. Just as dawn was breaking Lieutenant Grenfell, who was again on orderly officer's duty at the aerodrome, was called suddenly to the telephone by the Flight-sergeant in attendance saying:

"Advanced Headquarters Ginchy want to speak to you, sir."

An instant later he was holding the receiver, and heard Ginchy speak plainly.

"Is that Advanced II.Q. Ginchy?" he asked.

"Yes. Is that the orderly officer, Contalmaison aerodrome?"

"Yes. Anything the matter?"

"Enemy 'planes crossing our lines, and coming in your direction," came the laconic answer. "Want you to take necessary action at once."

"Right, old fellow. Action shall be taken at once. But I say–hullo, are you still there?"

"Yes."

"How many enemy 'planes were there?"

"Three have crossed over. A very big one, and two fast scouts. The others have all been turned back by our A.A. guns, but they are trying again, I think, as the guns are opening fire upon them once more."