The Boy Aviators with the Air Raiders: A Story of the Great World War

“Listen to all the racket, will you?” cried Pudge, and indeed the noise of so many motors and whirling propellers did sound strangely.

“It’s like a young Niagara, that’s what I’d call it!” declared Billy. “Why, sometimes you can’t hear yourself think for the Bedlam that’s broken loose. Say, tell me what the Germans up the coast will think has struck them when this flock descends on Zeebrugge, and batters away at the docks and the submarine bases.”

“They’re all under the charge of a central seaplane, too,” added Frank. “For, if you notice, the signals are always sent from that one just passing us now.”

One of the muffled figures in the other aircraft waved a hand at them. Something was said at the same time, which Frank took for granted must be a question as to whether they expected to accompany the raiders.

He nodded his head in the affirmative, at the same time displaying a little red, white and blue flag he carried, and which must have considerably astonished the pilot of the British seaplane, evidently the chief controller.

“I did that so he might know we didn’t expect to drop any bombs, or have a part in the raid itself,” Frank explained, turning to his companions.

“They’re all worked up over seeing such a whopping big seaplane here,” remarked Pudge, with a touch of the old pride in his voice. “They’re having the surprise of their lives right now, let me tell you. I’m glad they know that it’s a Yankee machine.”

“But, Frank, as we understand it, all these bomb-droppers don’t intend to go to one place, do they?” asked Billy, as he watched the whirring machines flit past like so many big dragon flies.

“No,” came the ready answer. “When up the coast a piece, there’ll be a division starting inland to damage the railway station and try to get at the supplies the Germans have gathered at Bruges, as well as some other points.”

“Well, what about us then?” asked Billy.

“Yes,” added Pudge, also deeply interested; “do we go on with the seaplanes and keep tabs of what they do up around Ostend and Zeebrugge, or else switch off and go over the land the same as you and Billy did yesterday?”

“I’ve fixed all that with M. Le Grande here,” Frank told them. “He expressed the wish that we might see fit to keep with the main body along the shore, because it is expected the most spectacular feats will be attempted there.”

“Gee! I was hoping you’d say that, Frank!” Billy exploded.

“Suits me to a dot, too!” Pudge followed by saying.

“I hope they are going to start right away,” added Billy.

“There’s a message being sent up by heliograph,” explained Frank. “Of course, we can’t read the flashes, but it’s meant for the man in the leading plane. I expect it will tell him everything is all right for the start.”

He proved a true prophet, for immediately afterward some signal was given that caused the entire assemblage of aëroplanes to cease their evolutions and head in a long double string up the coast.

The boys, despite the clattering of propellers and the humming of many striving motors, could catch the distant wild cheers that the assembled people of Dunkirk sent after them. It was a benison of good wishes, and a hope that the object of the great raid might be fully accomplished.

Frank kept somewhat above most of the aircraft. He had several objects in doing this, chief of which was the design to show that he was in a class by himself, and not to be included in those who had come forth to fight. Besides, it allowed them to observe all that was going on below; as well as being in a position to show the pilots of the fleet a few little things connected with the strange looking Sea Eagle that would cause them to feel more or less astonishment, and envy as well.

“Will you show them something, Frank, now that we have the chance?” asked Pudge.

“It will have to be before we get to the first place they expect to bombard, then,” Frank replied, meaning, of course, that once the work of the fleet began there would be no time for any of them to manifest any interest in the evolutions of the American built aircraft.

When Frank had moved a lever that called for all speed, and the motors were working at the astonishing rate of almost two thousand revolutions a minute, it seemed as though they had left the rest of the fleet far in the lurch. Green flames spouted from the exhausts, for Frank had opened the muffler in order to get every ounce of speed out of the motors.

They could see the pilots of the other seaplanes looking up at them in mingled wonder and admiration, for, like the jockeys of race horses, it is the ambition of every aviator to possess the fastest going machine on the market.

Having secured a free section of space to himself, Frank proceeded to put the wonderful Sea Eagle through her paces. He showed what could be done in various ways, and while possibly most of those other craft were capable of accomplishing similar tricks, the fact was made patent that the superior size of the American made hydro-aëroplane did not act as a bar to the ability of the Sea Eagle to maneuver in a dexterous fashion while going at that tremendous rate of speed.

“Now we’ll have to stop, and mount a little higher,” Frank remarked, having circled around and found himself once more back of the leaders in the procession.

“There go several aëroplanes off to the right!” announced Billy. “I reckon that’s the detachment told off to tackle Bruges and other interior places.”

“We’re coming to Ostend!” Frank told them, pointing down to where the city of the celebrated bathing beach could be seen, with the houses and hotels close to the famous sandy stretch of shore.

There were boats in the harbor, and they must be German owned or they could not have come there. Billy, using the glasses, could see that the most tremendous excitement had seized upon every one in sight. People were rushing in every direction, soldiers as well as civilians; the rays of the sun glinted on cannon that were being hastily changed, so as to point upward.

“There goes the first anti-aircraft gun!” called Billy, as a faint boom reached their ears from far below.

“Watch what the fleet pilots do!” Frank told them.

Apparently the plan had been well worked out, and every pilot knew exactly what was expected of him. Maps of the region had been carefully studied in order that the position of each vulnerable point of attack might be known.

If there was a railway depot which the Germans used every hour of the day, and the loss of which would cripple their transportation facilities, that was picked out to be an object of attack. Here was a mole alongside of which possibly submarines tied up, and its destruction would deprive the enemy of a valuable station. Further on a large shed marked the spot where great stores had been gathered, and if a bomb could only be exploded in the midst, it was going to mean that there would later be a shortage of provisions. An oil tank, an ammunition magazine, a forty-two centimeter gun, such as battered the forts at Liège to pieces, all such were fair objects of attack wherever they could be found. The one order that had been given to every pilot was to avoid destroying the property of civilians as far as possible.

As Frank and his chums looked down from their higher level they saw a sight such as had never before been witnessed by human eyes. The air was filled with a flock of circling, dodging aëroplanes, with puffs of white smoke breaking above, below, and in some cases amidst them, as the guns on the ground were fired again and again in hopes of bringing one or more of the venturesome craft down.

Various explosions far beneath proclaimed that the bombardment from the sky was in full blast. Most of their ammunition, however, would doubtless be kept for the more important base at Zeebrugge, where raiding submarines were wont to start forth on their daring excursions through the waters of the Channel, seeking to destroy British and French merchant vessels or ships of war.

Already the leading seaplanes had passed over the watering place known as Ostend and which before the war had been a famous summer resort. Doubtless their departure would be watched with mingled feelings by the thousands of German soldiers who had been interested observers of this wonderful sight in the heavens. They would also doubtless wonder what was going to happen when the aërial fleet returned, as it surely must, to its base at Dunkirk.

“How about Antwerp?” asked Billy. “Think they’ll take a turn up there, and drop a few reminders on the railway station, or some of the forts they say the Germans have been building up again?”

“I hardly think so,” Frank replied. “This is a raid on sea coast places, as I understand it. They want to strike at the submarine bases so as to upset the plans of the Germans for next week, when the blockade of the coasts of Great Britain and Northern France goes into effect. They’ll do some damage at Bruges and Blankenberghe I expect, just as we shied a few at Ostend; but the main thing will happen when we get to Zeebrugge.”

“I think that must be the place just ahead of us right now, Frank!” called out Billy, who was again using the glasses, bent on seeing everything that occurred; for he realized that they were highly favored by fortune in being given a chance to witness such strange sights.

“Yes, that is Zeebrugge,” Frank admitted. “Now we’ll see something worth while, if no snow squall comes along to shut out our view!”

“Pirates and parachutes,” cried Pudge, “but I hope that doesn’t happen to us.”

CHAPTER XIX.

HOW ZEEBRUGGE WAS BOMBARDED

On their way up the coast there had been several occasions when, for a brief space of time, as a cloud was encountered, the onrushing fleet of seaplanes was swathed in a flurry of blinding snow. That was why Frank expressed the wish nothing of the kind might occur while the bombardment of the Belgian town on the edge of the Channel was in progress.

Zeebrugge is at the terminus of a canal, and had no sooner fallen into the hands of the Kaiser’s forces than they realized it would make an admirable place from which to start their submarine vessels against the shipping accustomed to using the English Channel.

The submarines were sent there in sections and assembled in shipyards arranged for that purpose. In fact, as the war progressed, Zeebrugge was rapidly becoming a very important center of military and naval industry.

As Frank well knew, Antwerp might have served the purposes of the Germans much better, but to reach the sea, vessels would have to cross a section of Holland, and the pugnacious little Dutch country had declared she would resist such invasion of her rights to the last man and vessel. As the Hollanders have always been good fighters, with an army of half a million men to back them, Germany had wisely chosen to make use of Zeebrugge.

Billy reported that the same excitement existed as at Ostend. Everywhere there were men seen running, and pointing upward toward the flock of aërial war craft.

“And I don’t blame them a bit for being scared,” he went on to say. “Two or three aëroplanes at a time are bad enough, but thirty in a bunch – holy smoke! it would frighten any American community half out of their wits, I’m thinking.”

“There goes the first shot at us!” announced Pudge, and it was strange how he, unconsciously perhaps, seemed to include the Sea Eagle in the list of invading aircraft, though they did not mean to lift a hand against the defenders of Zeebrugge.

“It fell far short,” observed Billy. “They’re so worked up they hardly know what they are doing. This time I reckon the seaplanes mean to keep above the reach of the shrapnel.”

“In which they show their good sense,” Pudge replied. “It only takes a little hit to bring an aëroplane down to the ground; and if a pilot and his helper ever dropped from this distance it means good-by.”

Except when one of the shrapnel shells broke below them, the air was clear enough for the boys to see everything that went on. Billy soon began to complain, as usual.

“Say, it’s ten times worse than a three-ringed circus,” he declared. “You can’t, with so many pilots dropping bombs while they circle around, possibly watch more than a small part of what’s happening down there.”

“Keep an eye on that mole along the edge of the water,” advised Frank. “That is where the submarines stay when they’re in port, and it’s being pounded pretty lively, you notice.”

“But why waste so much ammunition on an empty dock?” asked Billy.

“It’s of importance that they destroy it,” Frank explained. “I’ve got an idea they expect there may be several submerged boats alongside the mole. Perhaps, when the Germans had word from Ostend that the terrible air fleet was headed this way they guessed that the main object of the raid was to destroy their undersea boats; so they would be apt to sink them of their own accord, and in the natural way.”

They hovered over the spot, making short circles so they could witness all that occurred. M. Le Grande had produced binoculars from some part of his person, and was keeping them glued to his eyes constantly.

No doubt, in time to come, the boy aviators would often picture that wonderful scene in their minds when lying in their peaceful beds at home. With the buzzing of the flying seaplanes that darted to and fro, the sharp bursting of the shrapnel in furious volleys, and the heavier sound of the guns themselves far beneath, it certainly was an event never to be forgotten by those fortunate enough to be able to experience it at first hand.

Now one of them would call the attention of his comrades to some special feature of the battle scene that had caught his eye; and hardly would they rivet their gaze upon this before something else quite as thrilling called for notice.

They could even tell when the bombs, which the aviators were dropping, burst or failed in their intended mission. Long practice had made the airmen fairly accurate, though many of their missiles would be wasted, of course, and others go wide of the mark.

The sea wall was battered out of shape under the hurricane of bombs sent at it. Further on cars and motors were smashed when another well directed shot burst in their midst, causing a wild stampede on the part of a company of gray-coated Bavarians. These men had been firing several of the guns that could be elevated at an angle of almost fifty degrees, and were made especially with the idea of bringing down aircraft.

Several of the hostile airmen seemed to have marked out an oil tank as the target of their aim. It was a small thing to strike at such a distance, and a number of shots had gone wild. As though provoked at such a waste of precious ammunition, one of the most venturesome of the pilots suddenly swooped downward.

“Oh! watch him!” cried Pudge. “Now there’s going to be something doing worth seeing. I take off my hat to that chap for daring!”

He stopped talking then, for he had to actually hold his breath with admiration and fear while watching the evolutions of the bold voyager of the air.

The birdman swung this way and that with an eccentric movement that effectually balked the designs of the gunners to burst a shrapnel shell close to him. His altitude changed constantly, so they were unable to regulate the fuses of their shells to meet the conditions.

It looked as though he were simply defying them to do their worst, or begging a Taube of the enemy to risk rising to engage in a duel with him.

“Why, he’s right over their heads now, for you can hear all sorts of rifles going off in volleys,” said Billy. “Let’s hope he keeps out of their range.”

“Dories and dingbats, but doesn’t it beat anything you ever heard tell of?” Pudge was heard to say as he leaned over and watched the exciting picture; though he afterward declared it made him dizzy to see so many seaplanes speeding this way and that like angry bees when the hive is being robbed.

“Watch!” called Frank, who guessed from the signs that the bold pilot must by this time have reached a point where he was ready to have his assistant make the next cast.

Yes, they could see that he was leaning over now and apparently balancing some object in his hand. The seaplane grew somewhat steadier in its motion, as though they were willing to take additional chances in order to obtain stability.

“There it goes!” shouted Billy, after which they all stared, and listened to ascertain what the result of the cast would be.

There came an upheaval, accompanied by a billow of flame and dense black smoke that rose in a cloud. The aviator had succeeded at great peril to himself in dropping his bomb directly on the tank, with the result that a large quantity of precious gasoline or oil was lost to the enemy.

Even as high up as the Sea Eagle chanced to be at the time, those who were seated in the car could feel the wave of air concussion. The seaplane from which the fatal bomb had been dropped was seen to rock and plunge very much as a ship would in a gale at sea; but the navigator who controlled the levers knew his business, and managed to keep from turning turtle, a fate that all aviators view with unpleasant sensations.

Having accomplished his part of the raid, and earned the commendation of his superiors, the gallant airman began to climb the spiral staircase again, seeking a safer altitude. If all the others could do one-half as well as he had this raid would not soon be forgotten by the defenders of Zeebrugge.

“Not a single Taube have we seen since starting out!” said Pudge.

“Well, can you blame them for keeping under cover?” demanded Billy. “What could they do against thirty big seaplanes such as we’ve got with us? A rain of bombs would be the portion of any German pilot rash enough to put up a fight. He’d be courting sure death if he as much as showed his head.”

In the beginning of the war the Germans were far superior to either the British or the French with their aircraft. Their Taubes and Zeppelins caused much alarm in many a French and Belgian city as they flew over and dropped destructive bombs in the endeavor to terrorize the enemy.

That time, however, had gone by, and the assembling of this fleet of big British seaplanes was a plain notice to the Kaiser that the day of his supremacy of the air had passed into other hands, and that henceforth his aviators were to find themselves outclassed for daring and skill.

Around and around the hostile planes circled, each spitting out from time to time a fresh supply of deadly missiles that rained destruction on the military works below. Of course, it would presently come to an end. Then the wonderful fleet, having exhausted their supply of ammunition, would take up the return journey, leaving to the defenders of Zeebrugge the unpleasant task of counting up their great losses, and trying to conceal much of the truth, as all sides invariably do under similar conditions.

Frank was anticipating seeing some signal flying from the chief seaplane, a sort of “cease firing” order. It was just at this time that Billy discovered another exciting event being enacted, and called the attention of his companions to the fact.

“I’ve been watching that chap trying to hit that magazine for some time,” he called out. “He seems to be in hard luck, and now he’s going down like the other one did to tackle the thing at closer quarters. I only hope he gets through as well as the first one did.”

“Yes, there hasn’t been a single accident worth mentioning so far,” declared Pudge. “I’d hate to see him dropped like a stone. Rafts and rattlesnakes, but listen to the row they’re keeping up. They just seem to know what he’s trying to do. Look at them running away from that magazine like rats deserting a sinking ship.”

Swooping down, the Allies’ aviator was seen to head almost directly over the object of his particular attention. Calmly he measured the distance with his practiced eye, while the pilot slowed the seaplane down to a moderate speed.

They were in a perfect storm of bursting shrapnel, and at times the smoke fairly concealed the moving machine. Once Pudge gave a low cry of dismay, for he thought he had seen the seaplane plunging earthward a wreck, when there would be no question about the fate of its venturesome occupants.

Then he took fresh heart as a puff of air blew the white and gray smoke aside, and it was discovered that the aëroplane was still afloat.

“Oh! why doesn’t he do it?” cried Pudge. “It seems as if my heart would climb up in my throat, I’m that worried. Throw now! There, he’s going to do it, boys, don’t you see? I wonder if that shot will be any better – ”

Pudge did not finish his sentence, for just then there was a frightful roaring sound. The magazine was seen to fly to a million pieces, while up rose a vast cloud of smoke. The atmosphere was made to fairly quake under the tremendous concussion, so that Pudge clutched hold of Billy, who was alongside, as though he actually feared they would be overturned and hurled into space.

Frank’s heart also seemed to stand still, but it was not on account of any fear for himself. When through the rising billow of black smoke he saw that the daring author of this last blow at the invader’s army was apparently uninjured, Frank breathed freely again.

CHAPTER XX.

CAUGHT IN A SNOW SQUALL

“Oh! they did it after all!” Pudge cried out as they saw the reckless British birdmen in the seaplane start to run the gantlet of gunfire preparatory to rising once more to a safe height.

That was about the feeling of relief that seized upon them all. The deed had been so wonderfully daring that Frank and his two chums would have cheered its successful culmination no matter whether a Frenchman, a Britisher or a German had piloted the aircraft that carried it out – it was the men they applauded, not their nationality.

“How long is this terrible bombardment going to keep up, do you think, Frank?” asked Billy, for it seemed to him he had been gazing on the astounding picture for an hour, so many things had followed fast on each other’s heels.

“I expect that was the crowning stroke,” replied Frank, making himself heard only with some difficulty, owing to the clamor all around them from bursting shrapnel, accompanied by the duller sounds coming up from the distant earth.

“Then the aviators are getting low in their stock of ammunition,” affirmed the observant Billy, “because I can see lots of things they’d still like to smash.”

“Most of them have already stopped throwing bombs,” Pudge declared. “That looks as if they’d reached the end of their resources.”

“Yes,” added Frank, “there goes a signal from the chief, and it must mean the time has come to start on the return journey.”

Even the seaplane that had undertaken the perilous task of dropping down so as to make a sure job of blowing up the magazine had by now managed to climb to the level of the other fliers. A general movement was noticed, heading toward the south, and which must have been observed with great satisfaction by the sadly harassed defenders of Zeebrugge, who could now proceed to count up damages.

“It’s been a wonderful trip for us,” remarked Billy, as they again soared above the fleet, and kept up “without half trying,” as he himself would have said.

“The greatest thing about it, according to my mind!” Pudge declared, “is that not a single plane was brought down with all that firing. Why, even up where we were I heard a queer singing noise several times, that must have been made by parts of the bursting shrapnel shells. They’re filled chock full of bullets and all that sort of thing, I understand. How about that, Frank?”

“Yes,” the pilot told him, “as far as I know what is called shrapnel to-day is pretty much the same as grape and canister used to be in the time of our Civil War. It scatters in every direction, but is driven now by a much more powerful explosive than in the old days when gunpowder alone was used.”

“Now that you mention it, Pudge,” said Billy, “I heard some of those whining noises myself. It must have been our swift movements that kept us from being struck; and that’s what makes it so hard for ground guns to fetch an aëroplane down.”

“Yes,” Frank continued, “anyone who has tried to stop a duck speeding past at the rate of seventy miles an hour knows what small chances he has to wing the quacker. It takes nice judgment and a quick eye to do it.”