Dastral of the Flying Corps

"Confound the gun! He's coming on again, Dastral," shouted the observer, clenching his fist, and forgetting all about the bullet in his arm.

"Look out, then, I'm going to ram him. If I've got to go down, he's going down with me."

The two machines were almost on a level now, and when the German came on, Dastral just put the joy-stick over, and made straight for his opponent.

"Donner and blitz!" yelled the irate Boche, for he did not understand such tactics. For one aeroplane to ram another in mid air at two thousand feet seemed incredible, but here was this mad Britisher coming straight for him.

"Mein Gott, no!" gasped Himmelman, and by a skilful manoeuvre he sheered off, though thousands of his fellow-countrymen were watching him from below, for they were now almost over the trenches.

"Bravo, Dastral!" yelled Jock, though but an instant before his heart seemed to be in his mouth, as the pilot made his almost fatal dash for his opponent.

Seeing that Himmelman had failed in his move, the anti-aircraft guns opened fire again from below, but the hornet sailed on over the trenches, and Himmelman did not follow, for out of the west three British fighters were coming to the rescue.

"Will she hold out, Dastral?" the observer asked a moment later, as they passed the British trenches, out of the range of the German Archies.

"I think so. Can you spot the aerodrome?"

"Yes, there it is, a little to the right."

"Thanks, I see it now," came the softened reply, for Dastral was rolling a little in his seat, as though he held the joy-stick with difficulty.

Jock bent over to help him, and the next minute they landed safely on the level turf. And Jock remembered hearing a voice say:

"Come along now. We're waiting breakfast for you in the mess."

CHAPTER IV

STRAFING THE BABY-KILLERS

DASTRAL and Jock received a hearty welcome home that morning. Although it was scarcely yet six o'clock, their day's work was finished, and a good day's work it had been. Dastral's laconic report was handed to the Squadron-Commander. Then, as soon as his slight flesh wounds had been dressed by the genial "Number Nine," as Captain Young, the medical officer for the squadron, was called, they went in to early morning breakfast at the mess.

"So you've had a scrap with Himmelman, have you, Lieutenant?" asked Number Nine at the breakfast table.

"Just a slight skirmish," replied Dastral.

"You're lucky to get away from him!"

"You think so?" queried the young pilot, pouring out another cup of coffee, and pressing Jock, whose wound was giving him a good deal of pain, to another slice of hot buttered toast.

"I do, decidedly. He's so deucedly clever that he's uncanny. We haven't found the man who can match him yet on our side. But one of these days we shall do it."

Dastral did not reply for some time. His mind was full of the details of the recent encounter he had had with the unbeaten champion. He wondered what Himmelman thought of his own tactics which had made the air-fiend sheer off at the last moment. And he also determined that should the opportunity ever come to fight with him on equal terms he would not refuse the challenge. If it were possible the western front should be rid of this champion, and the supremacy of the air wrested from the Germans.

For the next few days Dastral and Jock remained on light duty, nursing their wounds, and taking strolls about the aerodrome near Contalmaison. The hornet had been so badly damaged that it was necessary to send to England for new parts to be supplied before it could be flown again.

At the end of a fortnight, however, they were both quite well again, and the hornet had been brought to its pristine condition. Then they took part in several reconnaissances over the enemy's lines, and in more than one bombing raid, but nothing of unusual importance happened for nearly a month, when the following incident occurred:

Dastral had just been made Flight-Commander, and so, in addition to the hornet, three other active warplanes and three brilliant pilots who were ready to follow him to the "Gulfs," wherever that might be, had been placed under his command. This was the section of the Royal Flying Corps called "B" Flight, which was to win much fame and glory in the days of the near future. Already, Dastral, by his cool daring and skilful manoeuvring, had won a great name amongst his fellows, and some had even begun to talk of him as a possible competitor with Himmelman.

Often, after one of his more than usually brilliant raids or reconnaissances over the lines, his friends would remark of him in his absence:

"Some day he will meet with Himmelman again, and then one of the two will never return."

"What a fight that will be!" remarked Number Nine one day, as he lit his cigar and leaned back in his comfortable fauteuil, to puff rings of smoke into the air.

"And I hope I shall be there," said Mac, one of the pilots of "B" Flight.

"And while Dastral fights with Himmelman, may I be there to fight with Boelke," added Brum to his friend Steve, both pilots belonging to "B" Flight.

Brum was short and sturdy, while Steve, or Inky as he was sometimes called, was tall and thin and very dark, with piercing blue-grey eyes, and they both considered Dastral the finest and fairest fighter in the British Air Service.

One day, while the great fight on the Somme was in progress, and the Allies, by their great pressure were winning village after village from the enemy, there came a mysterious message to the Command Headquarters of the – Division, stating that the enemy had finished the construction of three huge Zeppelin sheds not far from Brussels. Also that the same number of Zeppelins had just arrived from Friedricshaven to take possession of the sheds, evidently preparatory to a raid upon Paris or London.

The wires and despatch-riders were busy that day between the Command Headquarters and the Aerodrome. Plans were drawn up to destroy at an early date both the airships and the sheds. After some consideration, it was decided that "B" Flight should have the honour of carrying out the raid, and accordingly Dastral and Jock went to work at once with their maps and charts to evolve a thoroughly sound plan of campaign.

Several days later, towards evening, another coded message from the same secret service agent behind the lines came to hand by carrier pigeon, which when decoded ran something as follows:

"Two Zeppelins just left Brussels' sheds, travelling west-nor'-west!"

"Send Flight-Commander Dastral to me at once," said the Squadron-Commander, immediately the message was read to him.

As soon as Dastral appeared the O.C., who had been pacing about his little room, turned abruptly upon the pilot, and said,

"See this, Dastral?"

"Yes, sir," replied the youth, scanning the brief message, which told him so much.

"You know what it means?"

"It evidently means that a raid on London is imminent, and is being carried out to-night, I fancy, sir."

"Exactly!" snapped the O.C., who at such times became easily fractious and irritated.

At this moment the telephone in the C.O.'s office suddenly burst out,

"Ting-a-ling-ling!"

"Yes, who's there?" asked the Major sharply.

"Advanced Headquarters, Fourth Army. Are you the R.F.C.?"

"Yes–Squadron-Commander speaking from No. 10 Aerodrome."

"Right. News is just to hand by field telephone that three Zeppelins have passed overhead making for the Channel. We have wired the coast stations and the R N.A.S. to look after them, and if possible to bring them down. There is evidently a raid in progress. What do you think you can do in the matter?" asked the officer at the other end.

"Hold on just a few seconds, sir!" replied the Major. Then, turning round to Dastral, he repeated the conversation briefly, and said,

"What do you suggest?"