Dastral of the Flying Corps

The consternation of the Germans can be better imagined than described. Thinking themselves in comparative security so far behind the lines, a huge shell without the slightest warning explodes near by, and the next lands clean in the middle of the column.

The object hit was a motor lorry conveying ammunition up to the guns. The first explosion is followed by another, more terrific than the first, for a couple of hundred shells are exploded, and when the smoke and dust have cleared away the observer and his pilot look down, and there is a huge gap in the column, for two of the lorries are blazing, several have been overturned, and one has disappeared entirely from view.

Not only so but the road is blocked for the next six or seven hours for all traffic, and not only will guns go short of ammunition but more than one battalion of the German army will go short of food for the next twenty-four hours.

For half an hour the guns continue to shell the rest of the column, which by that time has managed to get the undamaged motors away, by dashing blindly down any side turning that leads to anywhere, out of that terrible inferno.

For a little while longer the observer continues to send cryptic messages back to headquarters, which have the immediate effect of altering and adjusting the range of the heavy batteries, until the whole convoy has dispersed sufficiently to prevent the waste of further ammunition.

Modern warfare is like a game of chess, with move and countermove, and this applies just as much to war in the air as to warfare on land. Evidently this morning, however, the enemy have been caught napping. His air patrols have not yet been sighted. Surely he has had time to deal with the offender up there in the skies, who has been reading the secret of his lines, and the movements in his rear, or can it be that he is laying a trap for the unwary?

So far the daring young adventurers have had it all their own way, but a surprise is in store for them. Meanwhile, however, they continue to circle around, noting half a dozen little things which Jock briefly enters on his memoranda sheet. A few photographs are also taken with the telescopic camera, for in reconnoitring the observer has noted some new lines of brown coloured earth showing up plainly against the green. Becoming suspicious he pointed them out to Dastral.

Holding the joy stick between his legs, Dastral takes the glasses for a minute, then cries out,

"New trenches, I believe!"

"I think so, but we must make sure. I want a snapshot. Reserve trenches probably. Perhaps the enemy are thinking of falling back the next time they are attacked in force."

"If so, we've got his secret. It's important; we must go down and see. Hold tight!"

At that moment while the couple were intent upon the line of new trenches below, they failed to notice a little cloud that was coming up out of the eastern horizon. Till now it had been bright and clear, as it often is at the break of dawn, but the first little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand, had arisen. And it was in that cloud that the danger lay.

Heedless, however, of this little thing, and willing to take some deadly risks to get the precious photograph, which might prove to be the final link in some theory held at headquarters as to the position on the enemy's front, they ignored the coming danger.

Putting forward the controlling gear the hornet dipped her head, and made a graceful nose-dive at a terrific speed, losing in fifteen seconds that which she would shortly very badly need, namely, her altitude.

The long, downward glide is finished at last. They are within a thousand feet of the newly-dug trenches when they flatten out, and the camera is released and a series of short, sharp snaps are taken, as the instrument click-clicks. To-morrow, when these are developed, they will tell the divisional commander much that he wants to know, and may explain something which has puzzled him for days past.

At the moment, however, when they flatten out, half a dozen Archies, artfully concealed under a clump of bushes, suddenly open fire upon the intruder.

"Whis-s-s! Bang!" comes one of the shells and bursts within fifty feet of the 'plane.

For a few seconds they are blinded and stunned by the explosion, the flying metal and the deadly fumes. They gasp for their breath, and the aeroplane rocks wildly, but the terrific speed given them by the nose-dive carries them through the maelstrom once more.

"Are you hurt, Dastral?" shouts the observer, as soon as he himself regains the power of speech.

The pilot turns round just for half a second, and shakes his head, but Jock sees for himself that though he evidently does not know it, Dastral is wounded, for the visible part of his face is covered with blood. Jock, himself, feels that his left arm is useless, and he clenches it tightly with the other.

There is no time to waste in words, however, for another peril is at hand. They are soon out of range of the Archies, which, nevertheless, have riddled the planes with jagged holes. No vital part has been hit, however, and the two adventurers are not severely wounded.

"Is the engine all right?" shouts Jock, as he sees Dastral peer into the mechanism once or twice.

"She's 'pukka' (all right)," comes back the answer.

"Then we'd better make for home. Breakfast will be ready. It's nearly six o'clock, and we've been out an hour and a half."

Dastral nods, and heads the machine for home, altering the controls again in order to get a good altitude ready for crossing the trenches.

As he does so he happens to look away to the eastward, as the machine banks.

"Great Scott, look there!"

Jock did look, and in a cloud, not a couple of miles away, he saw two specks racing for them with twice the speed of an express train.

Seizing his glasses he fixed them for one second upon the objects, to discover, if possible, the rounded marks of the Allies upon the newcomers. Instead, he saw the black cross in a white rounded field, showing distinctly upon both machines.

"Enemy 'planes!" he shouted to the pilot.

"Himmelman?" suggested Dastral in a half bantering tone. "We're up against it this time, old man. He's the 'star turn' of the enemy's corps, and he fights like the deuce. I would like to have met him upon even terms. As it is, if we cannot leave him and get back with this information, we must fight him."

"Open the engine out, Dastral, and I'll bring the machine gun to bear."

Fortunately, the hornet had not been hit in any vital part, and her engine was running splendidly. But she had lost her altitude to get the precious photograph, having dropped nearly six thousand feet, and, in fighting, altitude counts a great deal, for it is much the same as the "weather gage" for which our sea-dogs used to contend in the olden days.

The hornet mounted two guns, but in a stern chase like this she could use only the rear weapon. If he could only cripple one of their pursuers by getting the first shot in Jock knew that they would then be on more even terms, despite the fact that the enemy 'planes, having caught them unawares, had got the advantage of them.

"What are they, Jock?" asked the pilot.

"Fighting scouts, I fancy." Then half a minute later he added:

"Yes, Fokkers, both of them, single seaters with the gun forward."

"Are they gaining much?"

"Yes, they're creeping up rapidly. Now they're nose-diving to gain speed. Shall I open fire?"

"Not yet. Wait till they're within six hundred feet before you open. Cripple the leader if you can."

"Here they come. They're about to open on us."

"Biff, ping, ping, rap, rap!" and the Hornet was sprayed from wing to wing with machine gun bullets.

"Good heavens, the machine's like a sieve! She'll not last much longer at this rate," cried Dastral, as he looked round and surveyed the damage done. Then, turning round towards the observer, who was sighting his gun, he shouted wildly:

"Give it him, Jock!"

Then it was that Jock let fly, a full drum of ammunition clean at the fuselage of the leading enemy 'plane. Thus it was that nerve told. Not for nothing had Jock gained the highest honours in the School of Aerial Gunnery before putting his brevet up.

"Got him!" he cried exultantly, and the first machine went down in a spinning nose-dive under that withering fire, for the pilot at the controls was stone dead, shot through the head.

The next instant, however, the master-pilot of all the German airmen was upon them. While his companion had attacked from the level, he had kept his gage, and now, at the critical moment, he had appeared as it were from the clouds above their heads, firing from his bow gun as he did a thrilling nose-dive.

It was ever Himmelman's game to pounce upon his opponent and to beat him nearer and nearer to the ground, until he was forced to crash or make a landing in enemy territory. Once again he was about to triumph, so he thought, for never before had he caught his man so neatly.

But Dastral was no ordinary aviator, and though his machine was raked again from end to end, yet the engine still ran, and to Himmelman's surprise his quarry proved much more elusive than he thought. With his superior speed, owing to his downward drive, the German air-fiend swept round and round the hornet, firing all the while, but Dastral, his blood thoroughly up now, found an answering manoeuvre each time.

The end was near, however, for the English machine could not hold out much longer. Not only were the planes riddled, but several stays and struts were gone, and several times the engine had missed. To make matters worse, after the second drum the machine gun had jammed, and things seemed hopeless.