Dastral of the Flying Corps

CHAPTER X
HIMMELMAN S LAST FIGHT

IN the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, a blue-eyed, dark-haired youth of about twenty-two stood with his back to the fire. He was alone, for the others had not yet come in from the marquees and sheds where the aeroplanes were being stored. On his left breast he wore the double brevet of a fully-fledged pilot.

This was Flight-Commander Dastral of "B" Flight, of the –th Squadron, –th Wing, Royal Flying Corps, known to the whole of the British Expeditionary Force, and to the British public also, as "Dastral of the Flying Corps."

Just under his pilot's brevet was a couple of inches of blue and white ribbon, the insignia of the D.S.O. For, though but a lad, he had fought with more Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands, and had more thrilling exploits over the German lines, than any other youth of his age.

To-night, however, the pilot seemed sad; there was a shadow of disappointment over his fair, young face. There was also a dreamy, far-away look in those usually piercing blue eyes. What was the matter with the lad? He was generally gay and even frolicsome. More than once the O.C. had found it necessary to take him to task for some of his jovial pranks.

At his feet lay the previous day's issue of the Times, which he had just been reading, and that which had made him sad was a paragraph telegraphed to London by the Amsterdam correspondent of that paper, which ran as follows:–

"Yesterday, at the German Headquarters behind the western front, the Kaiser in person conferred upon Himmelman, the famous German air scout, the insignia of the Iron Cross. It is claimed by the enemy that this air-fiend has brought down more than forty British and French machines, and that his equal in skill and daring does not exist upon the battle-fields of Europe. Quite recently he fought with and vanquished three British pilots single-handed in one day. This famous pilot flies a new type of machine called the Fokker, and the Germans claim for this machine that for climbing and rapid manoeuvre there is no other aeroplane which can be compared to it."

Dastral picked up the paper and read the paragraph again. Then, speaking half aloud, he said:

"So that's what happened to Benson's Flight the other day. I felt sure he had encountered Himmelman. Ah, well! A pilot's life is only a short one at the best, but there's one thing I beg of Dame Fortune, and that is, that I may meet Himmelman before I go down."

Again he cast the paper from him, and as he did so, the door flew open, and Fisker, his observer, accompanied by Graham of "A" Flight and Wilson of "C" Flight entered the room.

"Hullo! What's the matter that you look so glum, Dastral?" exclaimed Graham, as he caught sight of his friend. "Has the O.C. been giving you another reprimand over that last rag, old fellow?"

"What rags?" laughed Dastral, regaining his usual cheerfulness with an effort.

"Ho! ho!" laughed the others. "Of course you know nothing about it, Dastral, gut all the fellows are laughing over it, and the whole squadron puts it down to you, naturally," replied Wilson.

"Naturally?" echoed Dastral with raised eyebrows, and a query note in his voice.

At this there was another burst of laughter. For this pretended ignorance of Dastral, and above all, the intoned, sepulchral voice he adopted for the occasion, reminded them of the "sky-pilot" as the chaplain was called, who, on this occasion, had been the victim of the rag.

"Tell you what," exclaimed Wilson. "If the O.C. hasn't yet heard of it, you'd better go out and have another of your scraps with a whole German flight, before he does. That would soften him a bit when you're called for the 'high jump.'"

"Yes, better go out and have a look for Himmelman!" suggested Graham, tossing, the stump of his cigar into the fire.

"Himmelman?" replied Dastral, becoming suddenly serious.

"Yes, Himmelman. Why not? I believe you'll be a match for him, if you can only meet him at the same level, and with your drums full," replied the young commander of "C" Flight.

For answer Dastral picked up the paper again, and pointing to the column about the air-fiend, said brusquely,

"Read that."

For the next two minutes the newcomers crowded around the paper, and read, partly aloud, the paragraph above referred to.

At the time of which I write the supremacy of the air was still in question. The daring exploits of Himmelman and his school had been causing much anxiety to the Directorate of Air Organisation. Much consternation had also been caused amongst the British public by the manner in which certain sections of the press in Old Blighty had talked of the merits of the Fokker, the new type of fast fighting monoplane which the enemy had produced. But it was the bold and daring tactics of Himmelman himself, and his few immediate followers, which had given rise to this.

A new British School had come into existence, represented by Dastral and his type. These were very often mere lads from the public schools, full of the sporting instinct in which Englishmen excel. They were soon to make their presence felt, and gain for Britain and her Allies the complete mastery of the air.

What it cost in life and limb to gain this mastery over a wily and efficient foe will be known some day, when circumstances permit the veil of silence to be drawn aside. England will then know what she owes to her daring airmen, and every pilot's grave in France and Flanders–and they are legion–will be honoured and decked with the imperishable flowers of a nation's love.

When the trio in the officers' mess had finished reading the paragraph, it was Graham who spoke first.

"Dastral," he said, in quiet tones, "there will be no peace, and no victory, till Himmelman goes down. Nothing else matters, it seems to me; neither bombing raids, registering targets, nor spotting, till this air-fiend gets his coup-de-grace. What say you?"

For full twenty seconds Dastral waited before he replied. Again there was that faraway look in his blue eyes as though he could see Himmelman on his fast monoplane, coming up out of the mists of the eastern horizon beyond the German lines. Then, recalling himself with an effort he replied calmly:

"You are right, Graham. Twice already I have encountered him. Once when my drums were empty, and the second time when my controls were damaged, and I had to make a forced descent just behind our lines. I have felt myself a coward ever since. But fight him I will, before sundown to-morrow, if he is anywhere in the heavens within fifty miles of Contalmaison. And not a shot will I fire, even if attacked by half a dozen Taubes, till I meet my man. I know his tactics now, and am better prepared to fight him than ever I have been."

"Better not tell the O.C., for you know our orders are to fight every and any enemy 'plane we see, while we have a round in the drums," replied his comrade.

"I know, Graham; that's the trouble. When your drums are empty or your gun has jammed, then this wary old Boche comes down from a small cloud where he has been hiding at twelve thousand feet, and comes hurtling down through space at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, spraying your fuselage from end to end with his machine gun. All the same, he is brave and courageous, and something of a sport–far away the best man they've got. But my belief is that if once he is sent down in a crash, the spell will be broken, and we shall have things all our own way," said Dastral.

Then, turning to Fisker, his observer, who had not yet had his twentieth birthday, though he had been with Dastral since they first left England, and thoroughly understood his method and tactics, he said:

"What do you say, old fellow? Do you think we're a match for this high falutin' Prussian?"

"Dastral!" replied his chum. "I repeat what I said to you only the other day. If you'll only get the O.C. to give you a perfectly free hand, and then lay a nice little trap for the Boche, you're more than a match for him. There's more room for strategy in the air than either in trench warfare on land, or in a naval fight, when the sea is strewn with mine-beds. And if you'll only try that new fast S.E. that you had out the other day, with the Lewis gun mounted for'ard, you'll do the trick, and it wouldn't be merely the D.S.O. that the King and a grateful country would confer on you, for ridding the western front of a nuisance, but you'd get the V.C. and a C.B. as well."

"Yes, I'd probably get the C.B. all right, Fisker, but not the V.C.," laughed the pilot, for in the army the letters C.B. have a double meaning.

"I don't mean Confined to Barracks, old fellow. You'll get that when you make a forced landing behind the German lines one of these days, if you will drop down to within a hundred feet of their batteries, just to put one of their 'Archies' out of action, and kill a few of their gunners. I mean the other C.B. which is usually given from Buckingham Palace."

"You're a sport, Fisker. I never had an observer or aerial gunner who served me so well as you do. The credit is yours for the majority of the enemy's machines we've brought down this last six months. But, as you're game, and you've got far more brains than I have, we'll just spend the night inventing such a trap for the wily old Prussian as you've mentioned, and to-morrow, if we don't get the weather-gage of the Boche, then we'll never put our heads inside this old mess again. Are you agreed?" said Dastral.

"Agreed!" replied Fisker, grasping the extended hard held out to clasp his, and to seal the bargain.

"And here's to your success, Dastral!" exclaimed Wilson, who had just poured out for himself a glass of vin rouge.

At this moment the mess sergeant appeared to announce that dinner was laid in the pilots' mess, and away they all went, laughing and joking, as though they had been discussing nothing more or less than a county cricket match.

That night, however, as soon as the meal was over, instead of the usual rubber of whist, or game of chess, Dastral and Fisker went into the little bunk where they slept, and, locking the door, they brought out maps, sketches, and diagrams, and, until midnight, they were hard at work, by the kindly flicker of a little shaded lamp, evolving scheme after scheme, until at length they agreed upon a little plan, which they decided to put into operation on the morrow. Then they turned in, and slept for four or five hours, having given strict orders to the mess attendant to call theirs before reveille.

Half an hour before reveille Dastral was down in the hangar, where his new aeroplane was sheltered. Though it had been carefully examined overnight by the air-mechanics, yet he could trust no one but himself to finally inspect the machine. He examined every strut and wire, every nut and bolt, oiling and testing the engine, controls, and half a hundred other little things that make up the delicate mechanism of a modern aeroplane.

At length he was satisfied, and lit a cigarette, while Fisker shipped the Lewis gun, packed the drums of ammunition, fixed the baby wireless, saw to the bomb carriers, maps, charts, and everything else that concerned him.

Soon, they were ready, and, having snatched a hurried breakfast, they wrapped themselves in their warm leathern coats, and were helped into their pilot's boots by one of the air-mechanics, whose duty it was to guard the machines. They drew their leathern helmets tightly about their cars, and encased their hands in thick gloves, then climbed into the 'plane.

Half a dozen air-mechanics wheeled the "wasp" out into the open, where the level ground of the aerodrome offered a good "take-off." Then they waited for a moment, while the O.C. himself came down, and handed to Dastral an envelope containing his special permit to leave his flight, and to act as a free lance for that day; the matter having been arranged between them.

"Good-bye, Dastral, and a good day's sport to you, my lad!" said the major, who stood on tiptoe to shake hands with the pilot and observer.

"Good-bye, sir," replied Dastral, his hand already on the joy-stick.

"Start the propeller," came the order from the cock-pit.

"Yes, sir," cried an air-mechanic, who sprang forward and swung the propeller once or twice.

"Zip-p-p-p–Zip–Whir-r-r-r!" came the sound, as Dastral started the engine, and the air seemed to vibrate with the song of the aeroplane, which has a music all its own.

"Stand clear!" came the final order, and as the mechanics leapt back, and withdrew the wooden chocks, the buzzing, waspish little thing taxied swiftly across the level stretch of grass, then leapt into the air.

Higher and higher it rose by swift spirals, sometimes banking over so rapidly as it turned in its circuit that those who stood watching it from below feared it had touched an air pocket. But never did fiery steed answer the touch of the huntsman's rein so quickly, and never did gallant ship, as she rode the combing waves, answer her helm more readily than did the air-wasp respond to the slightest movement of her controls this morning, as she mounted up into the dawn. For the daring and brilliant youth who held the joystick was a master-pilot, who understood every whim and fancy of his machine.

And now for a while let us leave Dastral climbing up into the azure, then traversing a dozen miles behind the British lines, so as to disappear from the enemy's view until the moment came for him to hunt his prey.

Soon after he had disappeared from view Major Bulford gave the order. "Squadron, prepare for action!" for this was to be a day of great things, and the Squadron-Commander himself, having now recovered from his recent injuries, was going to lead the whole of the three Flights, which composed the squadron under his command, over the enemy's lines.

Within an incredibly short space of time all the machines were ready on the level stretch of grass. The bomb carriers were filled and drums of fresh ammunition were shipped. And within half an hour of the departure of the air-wasp, the squadron started off in regular formation, and crossed over the enemy's lines.

The secret had been well kept. Only the pilots themselves, after they had taken their seats behind the propellers, received the whispered orders for the day. A great bombing raid was to be carried out behind the German lines with the express purpose of drawing out Himmelman and his crowd to counter-attack, while Dastral, hidden away in the clouds at 12,000 feet, was to enter the fight at the critical moment. Then the most daring air-fiends on the battle-fields of Europe were to meet in single-combat, and decide for ever to which side the supremacy of the air should be given.

The whole squadron crossed the lines at 7,000 feet, and received a baptism of fire from the anti-aircraft batteries, while thousands of combatants in the trenches far below stayed their fighting for a moment to watch the stinging hornets sail calmly by, as though utterly oblivious of the hail of bursting shrapnel, which made little jets of fire and cirrus-clouds of white smoke all about them.

One or two Taubes and Aviatiks which had been out on a reconnaissance and for a few photographs, rapidly retired before the hornets and fled to find shelter somewhere beyond. Meanwhile, the telephones in the German lines were busy and the presence of the raiders was quickly reported to the various commands, and from thence to half a dozen aerodromes. Machines were rapidly run out, and got ready to mount up and meet the invaders, for it was evident that the perfidious Britishers had resolved to carry out another great bombing raid on railway communications, billets, and ammunition dumps.

Within an incredibly short space of time, Himmelman himself had started to meet the the enemy. But the raiding party swept on, beyond Bazentin, Ginchy and Longueval, bombing, as they passed, Combles and the Peronne railway. Soon, they sighted the aerodromes at Scilly and Etricourt, and bombarded them, receiving another crackle of fire from the A.A. guns posted to defend the hangars and sheds. Then, wheeling north they scattered a large transport column which was proceeding slowly along the main road from Le Transloy to Bapaume.

Shortly afterwards, a swift circling movement and a smoke bomb from the leading 'plane gave the signal:

"Enemy 'planes approaching!"

All this had been accomplished within half an hour of crossing the enemy's lines, and the Germans had been caught fairly on the nap. But now Himmelman had got his machines in motion, and a fight in mid-air could not be much longer delayed.

The English pilots looked down, and far below they could see from half a dozen places Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands creeping up to the attack. By this time all the heavy missiles had been dropped, and the machines, with their engines running superbly, had gained something in buoyancy from the release of the half dozen 20-pounder bombs, with which each aeroplane had started.

Guns were now cocked and loaded, and the discs were clapped into place, while extra drums were placed where they would be most handy, for when the fight commenced, a delay of five seconds might prove fatal. Then a bold attempt was made to get the weather-gage, and to use their advantage in altitude to place the sun behind their backs, so that the enemy would have it in his face.

Every type of aeroplane approaching was carefully scrutinised, and, with sundry circling dips, short nose-dives and smoke bombs, the Squadron-Commander told off various machines to fight them, for every type of machine has its own special capabilities and limitations. At the same time the heavens were eagerly scanned for a sight of the hated Fokker.

"Where is Himmelman? Where is Dastral?" every keen-eyed pilot was asking himself. And every little cloud above and beyond was searched, but no sight of the air-fiends was vouchsafed. Ah, well, they must fight without Dastral if he had not yet picked them up.

This manoeuvring for position continued for some minutes, but all the while the combatants were drawing nearer and nearer. The enemy had evidently received strict orders to fight at all costs. Certain advantages were his. The chosen battle-ground was in his favour, as every British 'plane hit and compelled to make a forced landing, owing to damaged engine, petrol tank, or deranged controls, would be captured with its crew, while only the German 'planes which crashed would be lost.

At last the time had come for action, for the air seemed full of specks, both small and large. Nearly three whole squadrons had climbed to the attack of the British, who, however, had by this time gained the weather gage.

"Engage the enemy closely!" came the signal, as three more smoke-bombs were hurled from the commander's machine. Only one more order was given, which was:

"Reserve your fire till within two hundred yards!"

The rattle of the machine-gun fire had already commenced, for the enemy had begun to fire as usual at 1000 yards, but the British, reserving their fire, followed their leader's tactics, for immediately he had flung out his last signal, he dived down upon his nearest opponent, a big fat yellow 'plane with black crosses upon the doping.

"Spit–spit-t-t–spit-t-t-t!!" went the C.O.'s machine gun, as he pumped a whole drum of ammunition into his opponent, raking his fuselage, engine, and petrol tank from end to end. The next instant, the huge German machine, which mounted two guns, went down with blazing petrol tank, and crashed from 8,000 feet.

And now commenced an indescribable scene; a terrible fight in mid-air, which would have been deemed to be impossible but a few short years ago. The sky, to those watching far below, must have seemed full of wild, swooping and circling birds of prey, spitting fire and smoke, while every now and then a machine went down blazing, or wildly zig-zagging to destruction. No less than four enemy 'planes had thus gone down, when No. 2 machine of "C" Flight, with crumpled wing, went down with a fatal nose-dive in a terrific crash.

But still the fight went on, until more than half the British machines had gone under, taking down with them at least twice their number, and yet neither Himmelman nor Dastral had appeared. Numbers were telling upon the English, and those machines which were left had nearly consumed their ammunition, when, suddenly out of a little cluster of clouds at 12,000 feet a dark speck appeared.

The little speck at first appeared like a tiny bird, but the aviators knew only too well what it meant. Whistling through the air in a terrific nose-dive which reached the rate of 150 miles an hour, the dreaded Fokker appeared to strike his chief opponent. Straight for the Squadron-Commander's machine he came, like a fierce bird of prey.

For an instant the fight slackened, and the enemy machines even drew off a little space, to leave a clear path for the air-fiend, who had never been known to fail in his desperate strokes. A thrill of intense excitement held the combatants, as the Major made a daring counter move, and jammed his last drum of ammunition into place.

"Spit! Bang! Spit! Bang!

"Whir-r-r-r!" Himmelman had opened fire while nose-diving at terrific speed. Already the victim seemed to be in his clutch, when, just as suddenly, from the same cloud in which the German air-fiend himself had found ambush, another speck appeared, swooping like a hawk with its talons ready to strike. It was Dastral, who had waited and waited, in the biting cold and the clinging moisture of the wet cloud; waited at 12,000 feet near the edge of the cloud.

He had seen Himmelman coming, had watched him like a tiny speck seeking shelter in the same misty vapour. How Himmelman had failed to discover his enemy was a mystery. They were both invisible to the combatants, it is true, and Dastral had used a dozen devices to keep himself out of sight of the Boche, though ready at any moment to fight with him.

There can be little doubt, however, that Himmelman had been watching the fight so closely that he had never even dreamt of finding his chief enemy so close at hand. Besides, no one had ever dared to imitate his tactics before, and his first intimation of Dastral's presence was when, during his wild swoop, having half emptied his first drum at the Squadron-Commander, he suddenly heard machine-gun bullets whizzing about his own ears, and felt a stinging sensation in his right arm. Looking round, he saw that the dark cloud in which he had been hiding had given birth to another air-fiend, and in that moment Himmelman knew that he was no longer the Master-Pilot of the Skies.

"Gott in Himmel!" he gasped, and made one last effort to manoeuvre.

With his hand upon the gun, and his feet upon the rudder bar, he flattened out, and tried to fight his enemy from below, leaving his last victim to limp away to safety.

But Dastral was too quick, for he had time to give the Fokker two full drums before he also flattened out just above the monoplane. He knew the Fokker had its gun fixed forward, rigidly fixed, so that it could only fire ahead through the propeller. All this he had coolly calculated beforehand. Unless, therefore, Himmelman could manoeuvre to get his enemy directly ahead, he could do nothing. Still, though wounded, the German fought on. Round and round spun the machines, over and under they went, like a shoal of porpoises, each trying to get the advantage.

Up there at 9,000 feet they performed the most amazing gymnastic gyrations and contortions. Once the German got the advantage, and was about to open a new drum of fire, when Dastral, pulling over the joy-stick, and with clenched teeth, muttered:

"No, you don't! By all the saints, no!"

And, with that, he dived under the air-fiend, and emptied his seventh and last drum into him from beneath.

It, was the end of the great fight, for with his fuselage ablaze from end to end–for his petrol tanks had been pierced–and with a bullet through his brain, Himmelman went down in a spinning nose-dive to the earth.

Even then the chief of the air nearly took down his opponent with his wreckage, for Dastral being underneath, only just slithered, rather than banked, in time to let the blazing mass hurtle by. Another dozen feet, and the heroes would have gone down together.

The next moment the daring young pilot gazed almost ruefully down upon the tangled wreckage far below. He was amazed at his own work, riding up there alone, for he was now the Master-Pilot of the Skies. Even so, somehow, his chivalrous young heart was sad, for a brave man never finds pleasure in the death of another brave man, and your true hero has always a gentle soul.

Then touched by a gust of sudden pity, he circled down to within three hundred feet of the burning mass in which the remains of the brave pilot lay, and, heedless of the risk he ran, he detached from its place, where he had secured it that morning, unknown to all but himself and Jock, a wreath of laurel, with these words attached to it, penned in his own hand:–

"To Himmelman–the bravest of the brave–the Pilot of the Western Skies. A tribute ofrespect from his Conqueror.

Dastral of the Flying Corps."

Then he climbed back again, joined the remnant of his squadron, which with broken struts and wires, and bearing strong evidence of the great fight in every part of their delicate frames, struggled back to the aerodrome near Contalmaison.

Thus did Himmelman meet his end, going down bravely, and, with Himmelman, the Germans lost the mastery of the air.

But Dastral himself was wounded in that last fight, and his machine, the new "wasp," was so badly damaged that even his wonderful skill could not save her, and she crashed behind the British lines, quite close to Contalmaison.