Dastral of the Flying Corps

"Caught them on the nap, Jock, eh? Stroke of luck. Case of the early bird. Tell the heavies to give 'em hell, old man," shouted Dastral, but the conversation was carried away into the morning breeze, for jock was already sending the message which would shortly bring the thunder.

"Zip-zip-zip, zur-r-r-r, zip!" went the brief coded message, back over Longueval and Ginchy; over Contalmaison and the trenches to where the British heavy batteries were waiting.

Behind the Ancre, in a little dug-out, an expert operator catches up the message. He has been waiting for it impatiently since dawn. The brief tapping which his receiver picks up, tells him exactly the spot on the terrain behind the enemy's lines where the thunder is needed. The whole map is scaled out into tiny sections and sub-sections, each with a number or letter to indicate the point where the concentrated fire is needed.

"Quick!" cries the operator to the little exchange. "Give me H.Q. Heavy Batteries." Then as the reply comes through he gives:

"A-2-3. Concentrated fire!"

Within four minutes, while the hornet still circles over the luckless Germans, now alive to their danger and rushing over each other in their haste to finish the detrainment of the column, flashes of fire are seen away to the west, and through the air comes a heavy explosive shell. It is followed by another and yet another. As they explode, the observer sees the earth blotted out from view for a few seconds. He notes how near the first shots fall to the target. Then he taps his keys once more.

"Zur, zip-zip!" cries the machine, and the next shell falls into the midst of the column, destroying nearly a whole train. And so for another ten minutes the airmen remain, altering the range until at least a dozen direct hits are scored, and the damage done to the railway, the trains, and the division or so of men is tremendous.

Very quickly, however, the men are scattered and placed out of danger, hiding in the woods, and under hedges and trees where they cannot be seen.

The Germans, aware of that dangerous pest overhead, have rushed up anti-aircraft guns to deal with it, and have also telephoned to the nearest aerodromes for their beloved Fokkers. So shortly after, having done as much damage as possible in a short space of time, the hornet moves off to reconnoitre further afield.

"Watch for their verdomt Fokkers, Jock," cries the pilot. "They may appear at any minute. Himmelman himself may be in the neighbourhood."

"Himmelman?" queries Jock, more to himself than to his comrade, as he looks round uneasily, for on the previous day he had heard some tall tales of the doings of this crack German flyer.

Then as they move off and open out the engine to gain speed, Jock sweeps the horizon for a sight of enemy 'planes, for a strange curiosity grips him at the thought of Himmelman, and he wonders half aloud whether it will ever be his fate to meet this renowned airman, who was said to have brought down more machines than any other man living.

But there is little time for soliloquy in the life of an airman in war time. He must ever be on the qui vive. And so for another half an hour, seeing no enemy 'planes to engage and remembering that he is out first of all for a reconnaissance, he watches the ground more and more closely.

They have moved south some distance by this time, and have crossed the railway near Cléry. Below them they see the narrow waters of the Somme, glistening in the sunshine, for by now the sun is up, and there is the promise of a brilliant day. Jock is keenly watching the white road that leads from Peronne to Albert.

"Ah! Ah!" He gasps. "What is that dark object that breaks the white, sunlit road, as though some dark shadow has fallen across it?"

He points it out to the pilot, with a few gestures, and Dastral spirals round, and makes off towards the place at a rapid rate.

As they approach the spot Jock scrutinises it yet more closely, for it looks suspicious. Then suddenly putting aside his glasses once more, he calls out,

"Enemy column on the march!"

"The deuce it is?" queries the pilot.

"Yes, ammunition column, I think, but we'll soon find out."

Then the tapping begins again, and the message is flung across the battle-ground and is picked up. With a swift mental calculation the observer has reckoned up when the head of the column will reach a certain point in the road, where a bridge carries the road over a tributary of the Somme.

"Swis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m-m!" comes the first heavy fifteen-inch shell.

It is a little short and another message on the keys is necessary.

This time the shell falls plump right into the middle of the column, for so accurately are the guns trained, that, though they cannot see the object they are firing at, if the message sent only gives the exact position on the map, a direct hit is soon gained.

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.

"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?"

"Just this, sir," replied the pilot. "Our plan to destroy the sheds is well forward, and we hoped to carry it out in three or four days. We know exactly where the place is–"

"Yes, yes, go on. The staff officer is waiting at the other end of the line," blurted out the C.O.

"Well, sir, if you will detail me to take my flight over there, so as to be on the spot at dawn, when the airships return, we may be able to strafe the lot. At any rate, we can destroy the sheds, and a Zeppelin would be useless without its cradle, and would soon come to grief."

"Good! Prepare your flight at once for the venture, and we must leave the other Squadrons and the R.N.A.S. and coast batteries to try and stop the raid."

"Yes, sir," replied the pilot, saluting smartly and departing on his errand.

So while the C.O. concluded his conversation with Headquarters over the 'phone, Dastral got to work at once with his flight.

While Snorty, the Aerodrome Sergeant-Major, and Yap, the rag-time "Corporal," and a squad of experienced air-mechanics prepared the machines for action, the Flight-Commander got together his pilots, Mac, Steve, and Brum, with their observers, and explained every detail of the proposed campaign. Distances were carefully worked out, a prearranged code of signals agreed upon, maps and charts examined and committed as far as possible to memory, and a score of necessary details worked up, so that there should be no confusion in the method of attack.

Having spent an hour thus discussing the matter and threshing out every aspect of the question that arose, Dastral said,

"Now then for a rendezvous, lads, for we must go singly, and come together smartly, at the precise moment, just as the dawn is breaking, which will be no easy matter."

"Let it be the Lion Mound on the battlefield at Waterloo," suggested Mac.

"Well, yes, that will do," said the Flight-Commander. "It is only about two miles away from the sheds, which are close by the village of Braine l'Alleud."

"Agreed," they all cried. "It will be a landmark we shall easily find."

"Then understand, all of you, that you must be there exactly as the dawn breaks, and, as soon as we pick each other up, we shall fall into regular flight formation, make a bee line for the sheds, and drop the squibs before the enemy can get to work with their Archies," said Dastral.

"And the cargo, Dastral? What shall we load up with?"

"Six twenty-pound bombs each, with ten drums of the new machine-gun ammunition. I think that will be all we can safely take without reducing speed."

"Right, sir!"

"And understand, boys," the leader went on. "There must be no fighting on the way there, even if attacked, unless it is absolutely necessary to prevent a crash. I quite expect we may have to fight an airship or two, and possibly a patrol of Fokkers or Aviatiks, for the Zeps are sure to be escorted on their way back, if they get wind of our little game."

"Agreed, sir."

"And now, gentlemen, to bed, all of you. It is imperative that you should each have a good night's rest, for if any man's nerves are run down in the morning, I shall put him off," said Dastral seriously, and they knew he meant it, for he could be serious at times, despite his laughing blue eyes, and his apparently gay and reckless manner.

So to bed they went, for they were all tired out, and not even the promise of the morrow's venture could keep them awake, for these daring airmen had learnt the happy knack of taking sleep whenever they could get it, as soon as duty was done, and of forgetting all about their machines as well as their own wonderful exploits.

Next morning, long before dawn, Corporal Yap, humming one of his rag-time songs, went round the bunks of the officers' mess and gently called the pilots and observers one by one. Within an hour they had breakfasted and were out on the aerodrome watching the machines being wheeled out, by the aid of the hand-lamps and electric torches.

After a brief but careful final examination of every strut and wire, the machines were quite ready, all loaded up, with the machine-guns shipped, compasses aboard, etc.

"All ready, sir!" reported Snorty, as he came up and saluted.

"Tumble aboard, lads!" called Dastral, and within two minutes the pilots and observers were in their seats, and the air mechanics standing ready to swing the propellors.

"Swish!" went the whirling blades.

"Stand clear!" came next in a shrill voice.

Then away into the darkness sped the four machines. In a few seconds they were lost to sight as they taxied across the aerodrome. Then one after another they leapt into the air, and began their upward climb, leaving their friends and well-wishers behind them, craning their necks to get a last view of them as they tried to locate them in the upper regions, by the hum of the gnome engines, and the loud whir-r-r-r of the propellors.

After rising rapidly to seven thousand feet the 'planes made off in the direction of the enemy's trenches, which they crossed at different points, for they had already separated in accordance with their plans. As they crossed the lines a dozen milk-white arms stretched up to reach them. These were the German searchlights, for the alarm had been raised and messages about.

"English aeroplanes crossing our lines!" had been flashed from the trenches to the Archies and the German searchlights.

"Boom-m! Boom-m!" went the anti-aircraft guns in a mad effort to find the raiders. But their efforts were futile, for the raiders looked down upon the little spurts of flame far beneath, and laughed as they quickly passed out of range.

The distance to be covered was nearly a hundred miles, before they arrived at the appointed rendezvous, but that did not trouble the daring aviators. Steering by compass, and watching the eastern sky right ahead for the first faint tinge of dawn, onwards they sped over Cambrai and the ruined fortress of Mauberge. Then they crossed into Belgian territory, that land of wretchedness and suffering, where a brave little people were enduring torment under the heel of the hated Prussian.

They were rapidly nearing the neighbourhood of the rendezvous when Jock called to Dastral, and shouted,

"Look, there comes Aurora, the Daughter of the Morn!"

The pilot looked in the direction indicated by his observer, and away to the eastward, over the far horizon, he saw the first grey streak which heralded the coming day.

He watched it as it grew and rapidly diffused itself over the sky. From grey it turned to a pale yellow, then as they still sped on, crimson flashes shot out over the firmament, as though the door of heaven had literally been unbarred, and the dark curtain of night had been rolled westward.

"Keep a good look-out for the other machines, Jock!" cried Dastral, for he had no time now to dwell in rhapsody over the beauty of the dawn. Danger was at hand, and he had a stern duty to fulfil.

The observer, however, did not need to be reminded; he was already peering through his glasses, searching the skies in the faint light for signs of the other 'planes.

"Can you make out any landmarks?" asked Dastral through the speaking tube, becoming not a little alarmed, and fearing that in the darkness they had overshot the mark and sailed past the rendezvous.

"Yes. Look, we are over a big city. I can see a dozen spires peeping up already through the gloom," replied the observer, after peering down towards the earth for another minute.

"Good!" ejaculated the pilot, bringing over the controls, and banking swiftly to come back on his course. "We must be over Brussels. We have come too far."

The next minute they were speeding away South-west towards the appointed rendezvous. Opening out the engine, they were soon going full pelt, before the enemy's guns could find them.

"Aircraft in sight to the northward," came next, for Jock had picked up a tiny speck away on their right.