"To save Lieutenant Dastral and his observer, sergeant! Don't let your men fire on us. We'll be back in five minutes," shouted Bratby.
"Devil a bit of use you fellows throwing your lives away like that. The Boches are sure to attack under cover of the fog. Come back, the pilot must have been dead an hour. The machine was ablaze when it crashed," called the sergeant again.
To this they returned no answer, but scampered as fast as they could across the broken ground, creeping under barbed wire, and stumbling into shell holes, for the ground had been torn and rent by the morning's bombardment, and huge gaps had been made in the barbed wire defences.
Now, when Dastral, his ammunition expended, his machine damaged to such an extent that it scarcely held together, had reached the British lines that morning, after the brilliant reconnaissance he had carried out with his Flight, he made a steep gradient to get to earth at the first possible landing-place, but even as he made the attempt he knew he would fail. The wasp's fuselage was plugged in a hundred places. The petrol feed had been severed by shrapnel, and a shell from the German lines, hitting the reserve petrol tank, set it ablaze, just at the moment when he was making for the ground.
Half-blinded by the flames and scorched by the heat, he, nevertheless, held the joystick firmly, and tried to reach his objective, but, when near the trenches, the machine nose-dived and crashed, side-slipping to the earth, so that the left aileron struck the ground first. Then she rolled over, and crumpled up. She did not strike the ground with any great force, because Dastral had kept her so well in hand.
Disentangling himself from the wreckage first, bruised, and burnt, he yet remembered Jock, who had received still greater injury.
"Jock!" he called. "Are you hurt?"
But no reply came from the unconscious observer, who lay under the wreckage which was now in flames.
"Come along, old man! Pull yourself together. The Huns are sure to turn their machine guns upon us in a few seconds."
Even as he spoke there came the dreaded sound, which told that the infernal Huns had opened fire upon the wreckage.
"Rep-p-p! Rep-r-r-r-r-r!"
A howl of rage went up from the British trenches at this act of cowardice, which permitted men to turn their guns upon wounded officers, entangled in the wreckage of a burning aeroplane.
"Come on, boys, let's give 'em 'ell!" shouted some of the Wiltshires, when they saw what was happening, and at least a dozen men sprang out of the British trenches of their own free will in a useless attempt to save the lives of the aviators, but every man fell long before he gained the spot where the wreckage lay.
Dastral, however, kept cool, and seeing a pilot's boot projecting from under the blazing he seized it, and tugged away, until the unconscious form of his chum lay at his feet. Then, heedless of the bullets still whizzing around him, he dragged his comrade quickly into the friendly shelter of a huge crater, a dozen yards away. Even as he rolled over into the hollow, after throwing Jock in first, his thick, leather pilot's coat was pierced by several bullets, and he himself was wounded again.
Still cheerful, however, he bandaged his wound, then endeavoured to rouse Jock, but all his efforts failed.
So he searched him, found several wounds, bound them up as well as he could with the emergency lint and bandages which every soldier on active service carries in the lining of his coat. Then, through sheer loss of blood he fainted away, and lay there he knew not how long, for he was thoroughly exhausted, and felt that he was dying.
As he slumbered, sheltered in that little hollow from the direct fire of the enemy, he became feverish, and dreamt wild, fantastic dreams. With Jock beside him he sailed away on the hornet, over distant lands, where the skies were blue and the sun shone bright and the atmosphere was pleasant and warm.
Here there were no Germans to worry them with shrapnel and bullets, but calmly and serenely they sailed over huge forests and deserts, swamps and islands, which studded the deep blue sea far below them, like gems set in emerald. Now they were in the tropics, skimming along over huge palm trees, and lagoons that opened out into the sea. Great monsters basked in the sunlight on the banks of the rivers and lagoons, and on the shores of the sea. They were in an unknown land discovering strange places. Just such a trip it was as Jock and he had often talked about, when, the day's work done, they had settled in the comfortable arm-chairs in the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison.
Often they had talked of these things, and the trips they were going to make in the happy years to come, when the fighting was all over, and the smoke of battle had blown away, and the liberties of mankind had been won back from the tyrants of these latter days.
Thus he dreamt, for he was feverish, while over him the shells burst, and the great guns thundered, and all around, upon the wide-stretched battlefields, the dead and the dying lay. And always he was parched and thirsty, and sometimes he would turn and say to Jock:
"There, far below us in the desert, Jock, I can see an oasis, with pools of cold refreshing water, and a cluster of tall trees, where we shall find dates and figs. Let us go down, Jock."
But the vision would fade before he reached the promised land, and the cup of water was dashed from his lips, and the goblet broken. Again he would see across the desert, which now seemed interminable, mystic and wonderful lakes of fresh water. But always he was mocked, and again and again those horrid German guns would thunder out from far below and forbid them to land.
Suddenly from out of the midst of his dream, he heard some one calling his name.
"Dastral! Lieutenant Dastral!"
He turned uneasily in his sleep; then he woke with a start, and looked about him. His brow was flushed, his head burned as though it were on fire, and his eyes glittered. All seemed dark, for the landscape was blotted out by a dark cloud.
Half regaining consciousness he murmured:
"Where am I? Who called me?" But while he wondered, his hand touched something, and he shrank back startled. It was Jock's poor wounded and bruised body that he had touched. Then he remembered it all. The flight over the German lines; the attack which had been made upon them by a whole German squadron; the fierce fight and the dash back, followed by a cloud of Fokkers and Aviatiks. Then the crash–. Yes he remembered it all now, and Jock, poor Jock must be dead, for he had not moved, and they must have been there for hours, days perhaps–at least, it seemed so, for it was dark as night, and it was morning when they crashed.
Then again he heard that welcome sound, a human voice, and it called him by name.
"Dastral! Lieutenant Dastral, where are you?"
And he feebly answered with all his strength.
"Here! Here! For heaven's sake help us!"
The next instant two burly forms came stumbling and rolling down the crater, for Cowdie and Brat had just arrived at the spot, and as yet scarcely an hour had elapsed since the crash. Strong arms were put around the pilot, which raised him up, for he had fallen down again, after his effort to rise. He had just time to murmur something, and point to the unconscious form of his observer, when he relapsed into unconsciousness again.
"Thank God we have found you both, sir!" exclaimed a strong voice, which seemed to resound again and again through his being.
As the thick fog came on, the firing had been suspended for a moment. It was a strange, weird silence that seemed to presage a coming storm. Cowdie was the first to read its meaning.
"Quick, Brat!" he cried. "They're going to attack. We must make a dash for it."
It was only too true. Scarcely had they reached the top of the crater, and proceeded a dozen yards with their heavy burdens, when they heard the sound of voices.
"Hist! What was that?"
They paused for a moment, and waited, but it seemed to them that their panting and the loud thumping of their hearts would betray them. How far had they to go yet? they asked each other. Then, with a shudder, Cowdie turned and began to retrace his steps, whispering to his comrade:
"We have come the wrong way. Those are the German trenches over there, and look, they are forming up over the top ready to attack."
"Good heavens! Then we are lost," replied his comrade.
"No, we may yet be in time. Come along. It cannot be far."
With his keen blue eyes Cowdie peered through the gloom, for Cowdie, the "spare part," had been the first to make the discovery. He had seen the shadowy forms of the Germans not twenty yards away. Fortunately, they had not been observed as yet, but they were not out of danger. They had regained their right direction, however. The British trenches were not more than seventy yards away.
On they stumbled, over the broken ground, through pools of water, and soon they reached the tangled wire. Exhausted they were ready to sink with fatigue, yet they held out. But their hands were bleeding and torn by the wire, and their clothing was in shreds.
Suddenly they heard the sound of voices behind them. Low voices called to each other, and the tramp of feet was also heard.
"They are advancing. Quick! quick!" shouted Cowdie.
Then, knowing that the British trenches could not be more than thirty yards in front of him, he called out:
"Stand-to! The Huns are attacking!"
The next instant a blaze of fire lit up the fog, as a dozen Very lights were fired up from the British trenches. The two figures of the men carrying the unconscious pilot and observer were clearly outlined. The sergeant of the Wiltshires shouted to his men:
"Don't fire! They are the R.F.C. men bringing in their officers."
The firing, however, came from a different direction, for the Germans, baulked of their prey, and seeing who had given them away, opened fire, and Cowdie stumbled into the British first-line trench into the arms of the sergeant of the Wiltshires, carrying his burden to the last. He was dead, shot through the heart. He had made the supreme sacrifice to save the man he loved.
With a wild cheer the British received the welcome order to charge, and the last thing that Brat remembered was that cheer, as the men swept by him, and he also sank down with his load.
Next day they buried Cowdie, "the regimental spare part." Gently they laid him to rest in a little graveyard by a shattered church, behind the British lines. And over his grave the bugles of the Wiltshires sounded the solemn notes of the "Last Post." And his comrades in Number 7 tent fired three volleys over the hero's grave, just as in the olden days, two thousand years ago, AEneas and his comrades, when they buried the hero Misenus, called his name thrice into the shades.
And Bratby, he recovered from his wounds, and, to-day, upon his breast he wears the ribbons of the Military Medal.
Dastral and Jock also recovered from their wounds, for their work was not yet done, and six weeks later were back from sick leave, preparing once more to strafe the Huns.
CHAPTER VIII
THE RAID ON KRUPPS
IT was a dark night, some two or three hours before dawn, when Air-Mechanic Pearson, one of the outer sentries at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, thought he heard the whirr of propellers somewhere in the dark skies above.
For a few seconds he peered up into the gloomy heavens, trying to locate the sound, for he was very much puzzled, and could not account for the sound on such a night.
"They can't be aeroplanes returning from over the lines," he told himself, "or we should have had notice to light the flares. It will be a sheer impossibility to land without a crash on a dark night like this."
Again he listened, and he thought the droning sound settled down into the throb of engines. He was anxious, however, not to call out the guard on a false alarm, for he had once been severely reprimanded for so doing.
"They cannot be hostile 'planes attempting an early morning raid; it is far too thick. It would be like a nigger trying to find a black cat in a dark cellar," he muttered.
A quarter of a minute later, however, he thought he had discovered the real cause, for the throbbing of aerial engines could now be distinctly heard.
"It's a Zeppelin!" he exclaimed. "They're going to find the aerodrome with their search-light, and bomb the place, then make off before our machines can get up," and he instantly yelled out at the top of his voice, "Turn out, guard!"
The alarm was caught up, passed on to the next sentry, who repeated it, and the next moment, after turning out the main guard, the sergeant came running up, and asked:
"What's the matter, Pearson?"
"Zeppelin approaching from the eastward, sergeant!" replied the air-mechanic.
"Zeppelin, man! What the deuce do you mean? Where is it?"
"Up there, sergeant. I can hear it quite plainly now."
"By Jove, so can I!"
The next moment the sergeant was back in the guard-room. From thence he dashed into the orderly-room, and knocked at the inner door, where the orderly officer for the night was on duty.
"Come in," cried the officer in answer to the knocking. Then, as the sergeant, all puffed with his exertion, entered and saluted, he said:
"What's the matter, sergeant?"
"Zeppelin approaching from over the German lines, sir. Hadn't we better 'phone to the anti-aircraft guns, and the searchlights to pick up the raider before he bombs the place?" for to the sergeant's mind, visions of falling bombs and terrific explosions were present.
"Zeppelin?" laughed the orderly officer.
"Yes, sir. I can hear the engines as plainly as possible outside."
"No, you're mistaken. It's the 'Gertie' returning. She's been out on secret service work behind the German lines. I've been expecting her for a couple of hours. Not a word of this to the men, now. I am expecting a secret service man back before dawn, and the 'Gertie's' been to fetch him. Picked him up at some secret place in the dark, far behind the enemy's lines."
Now, the "Gertie" was a baby-airship detailed for special service, and not the least important part of her work was the secret journeying to and fro, across the German lines, to quiet rural places, where, in the dark, she dropped messages, carrier pigeons, etc., and occasionally brought back some daring member of the British Secret Service, who had been collecting information behind the enemy's lines.
By this time the orderly officer was out on the aerodrome, and the squads of air-mechanics were being roused by the orderly sergeant. Suddenly there came a cry from one of the guard.
"Airship signalling to the aerodrome, sir!"
"What signal was that?" demanded the officer.
"Two green lights and a red, sir, over there, half a mile away," came the reply.
"That's right. It's the 'Gertie' trying to find the landing place. Flight-sergeant, where are you?"
"Here, sir," came the answer, as the aerodrome flight-sergeant, just roused by the alarm, rushed up, without putties or tunic on.
"Light the usual flares at the landing-place, and give the Brigade colours as well."
"Yes, sir."
And the next instant he had disappeared into the darkness again to hurry up the air-mechanics and to light the flares. The "Gertie" had very nearly found her mark, having over-shot it but half a mile or so in the pitchy darkness, which was a very creditable performance.
As soon as the flares were lighted, her engines, which had been shut off, were heard again, as she gradually came nearer and nearer, until, when right overhead, she began to descend slowly.
"There she comes! This way, lads!" cried the stentorian voice of Snorty, whose piercing eyes were amongst the first to spot the looming mass overhead.
"Steady, there, steady!" came the next order, as the ropes and drags were lowered, and the men made a scramble for them. And, in a very short space of time the baby-airship was made fast, and from the single gondola, in which five men were cooped, some one leapt out, who held in his hand a bundle of documents.
"Captain Scott, I believe, sir," said the orderly officer stepping forward.
"Yes. Are you Lieutenant Grenfell?"
"Yes, sir." And with that the two men went off together to the private room of the orderly officer.
The newcomer was the bearer of some important plans and sketches, to obtain which he had risked his life every hour of the day and night during the past three weeks. They were nothing less than detailed plans of the great German arsenal at Krupps', for which the Commanding Officer had been anxiously waiting. For some time previously, the C.O. had received from the War Office, through the General Headquarters in the field, a peremptory order, something like the following:–
"To the Officer Commanding,"
--th Squadron, Royal Flying Corps.
"It is of vital importance that the enemy's supply of munitions should be hampered and restricted as far as possible, in view of the offensive to be undertaken shortly. As soon, therefore, as the necessary plans and papers reach you, you will detail one of your best flights, under your most capable Flight-Commander, to carry out the first raid on the enemy's main arsenal at Krupp'."
This document, signed by one of the generals commanding in the field, had been in the hands of the Squadron-Commander for some days, and he had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of the promised plans and sketches. As soon, therefore, as the orderly officer received them, he sent Brat, the despatch-rider, with his motor cycle and side car to the C.O.'s quarters. And ten minutes later that distinguished person was leaving the officers' quarters on his way to the aerodrome.
Having arrived, after ten minutes' chat with the officer belonging to the secret service, his first words were:
"Grenfell, ask Flight-Commander Dastral to come down at once."
"Yes, sir."
And on his next journey, Brat fetched Dastral down from his bunk at the mess to join the party.
"Dastral," was the first word from the C.O. as soon as the daring young pilot entered.
"Yes, sir," replied the Flight-Commander, saluting smartly.
"Here's something for you after your own heart."
"What is that, sir?" asked the youth, smiling.
"The promised raid on Krupps'. How would you like to undertake it with your flight? You have often spoken about it."
"Nothing would please me better, sir."
"And the other fellows belonging to your flight, what about them?"
"They would follow me anywhere, sir!"
"Gad, I believe they would, for they all worship you. I believe they'd follow you to 'Gulfs,' if you led them there."
Dastral laughed, and repeated his avowal, that he would be only too pleased to start at dawn should the weather conditions prove good enough.
"Right!" exclaimed the major. "Then, you'd better spend the next two hours with Captain Scott here, and with your men. Get thoroughly hold of these plans, and fix them in your mind."
So, while breakfast was laid for the Intelligence officer, Dastral got his men together, including Mac and Jock. Afterwards the eight men who were going into action carefully laid their plans, arranging a code of signals and the method of attack, should they succeed in reaching their destination. Then they went over to the sheds, examined and tested the machines, saw them loaded up with bombs and drums of ammunition. The guns, compasses, etc., were then shipped and everything was ready.
Dastral looked at his watch. In an hour it would be dawn.
"We must be off, boys. We must cros the German lines before daybreak."
"Right, sir," replied the others, "We can be ready in ten minutes."
Then, having previously breakfasted, they put on their thick leather coats, pilots' boots and helmets, and made ready. The C.O. came down to wish them godspeed and a safe return. The probable time of their return was fixed, and it was arranged that an escort should meet them on their way back to defend them from hostile aircraft, lest any of them should be in difficulties, and unable, through damaged machines or lack of ammunition, to fight their way home.
"Stand by! Contact, switch off!" came the order.
The propellors were swung vigorously once or twice, then, one after another, the engines broke into their mighty song, and the machines taxied off into the darkness across the aerodrome, and as the joy-stick was pulled over each 'plane sprang into the air, and began its long voyage.
"Good-bye, and good luck!" shouted the C.O. as each man taxied off, and as a parting salute, each pilot raised his gloved hand from the controls for an instant.
Four hundred miles, that was the distance of the double journey. Two hundred miles of enemy territory to be traversed before they reached their objective; then, another two hundred back again to safety; and no chance of a landing to remedy even the slightest defect. That was the prospect before these daring aviators, as they sallied forth on their dangerous errand this morning about half an hour before the first faint whisper of dawn came up out of the east.
No wonder the Commanding Officer of the Squadron, as he watched them depart, turned to his companions and said:
"A perilous venture, isn't it, for the boys?"
"You're right, sir," replied the orderly officer. "I hope not one of them will lose the number of his mess before nightfall."
"Ah, well. We have had some vacant chairs in the mess lately. Four hundred miles," he was heard to remark as he turned on his heels and went back to his room.
He was a kindly, considerate commander, for he had that rare quality which combined firmness with kindness, and because of that he was loved by all his men.
The adventurers crossed the German lines at seven thousand feet, and in the darkness the enemy's searchlights failed to find them, so they were well away for once. There was just a little doubt in Dastral's mind about the weather conditions when he started, as the success of the venture depended very much upon the visibility. At present, however, the dull cloudy weather was in their favour, if only it might clear up later.
He was therefore very pleased when, having left the enemy's lines some thirty or forty miles behind, the first tinge of dawn lit up the sky in front of them, showing the horizon clearly. The wind had changed during the last hour, and, though it grew colder, it became much brighter.
Once or twice the Flight-Commander looked round at his followers, casting a critical eye upon the whole flight.
"Thank goodness, the engines seem to be running well. Everything depends on them," he murmured.
His own machine was a double-seater type with the observer's car projecting right in front of the engine, a powerful twelve-cylindered R.A.F.
A little later Jock, speaking through the tube, shouted:
"Shots on the left, Dastral!" and he pointed to a spot far down below, for the landscape had opened out now, and they had been spotted for the first time.
Dastral looked down, and saw several rapid flashes, away down on the left, where a battery of "Archies," having found them, had opened fire.
In front of the machine which was leading the flight, Dastral saw several black bursts of smoke, and in the centre of each burst was a yellow glare.
"Ah, the Boches have found the range to a nicety!" yelled Dastral to Jock. "Look out! We must dive."
Then, pulling over the controls, the hornet dipped at the head, doing a neat little nose-dive of some five hundred feet, throwing the enemy's range out of gear, and compelling him to readjust his sights.
As he dived, the others, with an eye always on their leader, followed him, and the whole flight dived clean underneath a mass of curtain fire, intended to bar their progress. So cleverly was it all done that they all escaped without a scratch.
The Commander looked down at those batteries still spitting fire. With not a little contempt he regarded them. They could not touch him, for already, before they could readjust their fire, the whole flight was out of range, for the engines were now doing well, and a speed of a hundred and twenty miles an hour had been worked up.
At another time Dastral would like to have dived down to within five hundred feet of those German guns, and put them out of action, but he had other work on hand today; work which would take all his time and skill to complete satisfactorily, and to bring his men back to safety. Even if Himmelman himself should attack him now, he must refuse him battle, unless compelled to fight for mere safety. His present duty was to bomb the great arsenal at Krupps', and, as far as possible, leave the principal buildings nothing but a heap of smoking ruins. So he opened out the throttle of his engine to the full, and for the first time reached one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, not a very bad speed when you are loaded up with heavy missiles.
They had been flying for an hour now, and had climbed higher and higher until they were at nine thousand feet. It was bitterly cold, and already their feet and hands were numbed. What would they be like in another two hours?
An hour and a half passed, and shortly afterwards Jock shouted:
"The Rhine! The Rhine!"
Nor indeed was he mistaken. He had been eagerly searching for the famous stream that runs through the German Fatherland, and of which the Hun is so proud. And now, there it was, a little way ahead of them, running through the landscape like a silver thread.
Soon they were over the stately river, and Dastral, knowing that the road was as plain as a pikestaff now if the weather kept clear, no longer heeded his compass, but, wheeling smartly to his left, followed the stream on its way to the sea.
"What town is that?" shouted the pilot, as a vast assembly of houses and spires came into view.
"Coblentz," replied the observer, with his finger on the waterproof map.
"Better look out for trouble, hadn't we?"
"Yes, the Ehrenbreitstein Forts are down below; just a little way ahead on the left. They have plenty of guns down there."
This place, called the Gibraltar of Central Europe, is a towering fortification, overlooking the town of Coblentz, and defending the line of the Rhine. The river runs between the fort and the town, and the two are connected by a bridge of boats.
"Better skirt the town, else they will think we are going to attack the place, and some of our fellows might get winged."
"Poch! They can't hit us. All their best gunners are miles away at the front. Let's go straight on. We shall be out of their range in five minutes."
Before they reached the town the white puffs of the 77's made a line of smoke ahead of them, and, intermingled with this, they saw the black cloudlets caused by the bursting of the enemy's 105 calibre shells. In fact they were ringed with a curtain of shell fire.
Dastral gave the signal by a sudden clip of his 'plane, which was leading.
"Ninety degrees left and dip 500 feet!"
The Flight-Commander led the way through a gap in the curtain fire, and the rest followed, swerving rapidly to the left, then down, down in a fearful nose-dive of hundreds of feet, before they flattened out.
"Bravo! Well done, boys!" yelled the leader, waving his hand to the daring men behind. For they had outclassed the Boche, and before he could rectify his aim, the machines were out of range once more.
On the other side of the town, however, they came in for the same treatment, but they once more evaded the enemy's fire, and soon they left the town of Coblentz, with its Denkmal of Wilhelm der Grosse, and the forts of Ehrenbreitstein behind them.
"Three hundred shots for nothing, Jock," shouted Dastral, who was highly pleased with himself.
Jock did not hear, however, for the wind carried the words away, and the observer was otherwise engaged, searching the skies with his glasses. A moment later, however, having discovered what he was looking for, he turned and shouted:
"One, two, three of them climbing to attack us!"
"Where are they?"
"Down below there to the left. Two yellow fat 'planes with black crosses on them, and a white one."
Dastral looked serious for a moment, as, holding the joy-stick with his right hand, he raised his glasses with the other and looked down, to where, from an aerodrome just by the river, three enemy 'planes were rising up to fight with them.
The shadow passed from the fair, young face of the chief pilot, as he gazed upon the enemy, and a calm smile wreathed his face.
"Humph! Let the devils come. We are not afraid of them. Sorry I can't stay to fight them, Jock. Our first business is to bomb the arsenal, not to pick a stray quarrel with these beasts, who are asking for trouble."
Then, opening out his engine once more to the full, he waved his hand coolly to the enemy, and called out:
"Good-bye, Mr. Boche. Some other time, if you don't mind, but to-day I'm busy."
His followers understood, and opened the throttles of their engines accordingly, and, speeding on, soon left the enemy behind, for they were slower machines, all the enemy's best fighters being on the western front.
Again and again Dastral looked round to see that his comrades were all right. Eagerly he looked for the red, white and blue cocarde on the wings, and felt very happy, for there was no need to be miserable and lonely with those brave fellows so near. Had they not sworn to follow him to the "Gulfs," if necessary?
The chief enemy, however, so far, was the biting cold. The thermometer was showing sixteen degrees below zero. Even with the thick leathern coats, pilots' boots and padded helmets, it was impossible to keep warm. The cold intruded everywhere. The thought which consoled them, however, was this:
"We shall soon be there, now! And we shall be the first raiders to bomb the enemy's citadel, where he manufactures his enormous supply of shot and shell to keep the war going."
They were following the Rhine still. Every now and then they could see long strings of barges being towed up and down the river between Coblentz and Dusseldorf.
"Cologne!" shouted the observer, and Dastral nodded, as he looked ahead and saw the twin spires of the wonderful cathedral, and close beside it the ancient Rathaus.