Dastral of the Flying Corps

The mine-sweepers were about a couple of miles away by this time, but the Commodore of the little fleet had seen the rapid nose-dive of the hornet, and knew that something unusual was happening.

He had already strung out the signal for a boat to detach its nets and proceed at full steam to the spot, for he thought that the machine was coming down with engine trouble.

It was his duty, therefore, to save the men, and, if possible, salve the aeroplane also. Dastral saw the signal through his glasses, and watched the vessel cast off her nets to come up. His immediate concern, therefore, was for the tramp steamer surging up Channel, and nearing the end of her long voyage from Valparaiso to London. At all costs to the aeroplane, she must be saved from the deadly mines towards which she was now heading directly. The tide was with her, and she was coming up rapidly. In another five minutes she would be in the cunningly laid trap.

For the moment, Dastral continued to circle over the mine bed, hoping thereby to warn off the tramp. Of this she appeared to take no notice, though undoubtedly a score of eyes were watching his gymnastic gyrations from the deck and bridge of the vessel.

"Try the gun, Jock. Quick!"

"Rip-r-r-r-r-r!" went the Lewis gun, as Jock pressed the button and fired off half a drum of ammunition.

Even yet, the tramp steamer did not seem to understand, for her captain did not charge her course.

"Is she fitted with wireless?" yelled Dastral.

"Yes," answered the observer, putting down his glasses into the socket for an instant.

"Then give her a message on the international code. It's her last chance. She'll be on the infernal things in another two minutes."

"Right-o! Here goes!" and, uncoiling the long aerial wire, he tapped out just one word on the sending key:–

"M I N E S!!!"

"Good. If that fails, the ship's done for!" ejaculated Fisker, as he watched eagerly for the ship to change her course.

On came the vessel, quite oblivious of the danger. She was less than a cable's length from the string of mines, and still steaming fast, when Dastral noted some movement about the deck, where a dozen or so of the crew stood just for'ard of the bridge, in the waist, gazing intently at the 'plane.

"Heavens! It's too late!" gasped the pilot, as he saw the steamer's bows running dead on towards the very centre of the floating mines.

"No, she may just do it," he ventured to his observer, as he saw the sudden commotion on board.

Suddenly, out of the wireless room, the operator, evidently carrying the message, dashed up the companion way to the bridge, flourishing a piece of paper in his hand, and shouted:–

"Mines in the vicinity, sir!"

Then it was that the captain realised the danger he was in, for the mine-sweeper coming up on the starboard bow was also flying the signal for her to heave to.

Dashing to the wheelhouse door, a few paces away from where he had been standing, the captain shouted to the man at the helm,

"Hard-a-starboard!"

And though the tide was with her, the good ship swung round smartly, only in the very nick of time, for, as she turned, one of the deadly mines was within two feet of her stern, and the wash from her screw and the rapid movement of her rudder as she came round, caused the nearest mine to come into contact with a piece of wreckage, at which there was a terrific roar, and a huge column of water was lifted up and hurled some two hundred feet into the air.

Then followed a more terrible spectacle, for one after another the whole string of mines went off, as though they had been countermined. It was just as if there had been a sub-aqueous earthquake, for a prolonged roar of thunder, earsplitting and nerve-racking, immediately followed, while the sea for hundreds of yards around rose up like a huge waterspout, and for some minutes the whole surface of the water, hitherto placid, broke into tumultuous waves.

The tramp steamer received fifty tons of water upon her decks, but save for a slight starting of the plates in her stern, she was untouched. Nevertheless, she had to keep the pumps constantly in use for the remainder of her voyage.

After circling round the spot for another few minutes to speak with the Commodore of the fleet of mine-sweepers, Dastral turned the hornet's head once again towards the enemy's coast, and the captain of the tramp steamer dipped his pennant and gave a long blast on the siren, as a token of gratitude for the service rendered.

The aviators were well pleased with themselves for the part they had taken in the little adventure, which had not been without its thrills, and a spice of danger.

They were now almost in mid-Channel, and could see both shores. There were the white cliffs of Old Albion behind them, while in front, a little on their left, Cape Grisnez rose out of the water. Below them several liners, transports and colliers, could be seen making either up or down Channel, or for one of the ports on the English or French coasts. Turning round to Fisker, the pilot shouted through the speaking tube:–

"Sorry it wasn't a German submarine, old fellow. There'll be no D.S.O. for us for picking up a string of floating mines."

"Ah, well. Better luck next time," called back the observer.

"The place is too well patrolled now for the Huns' submarines to show themselves about here. Gemini! but I'd give my brevet and six months' pay to spot one this journey. It would be some find."

The observer did not reply immediately. He was keenly searching the opposite shore to find the breakwater at the entrance to Boulogne harbour.

"Can you see it yet?" called the pilot, noting an anxious look on Jock's face. "Yes," replied the latter. "Better give her another two points south, and then we shall just about hit the canal below the town. Our instructions were to follow it to the main aerodrome."

"Aye, aye," answered the pilot, altering the controls slightly, and bringing her head round upon a more southerly course.

Shortly after this, the town and harbour of Boulogne came into full view to the naked eye. Their intention was to leave it a little on their left, and, then making a landfall of a certain railhead and canal, take a short cross-country flight to the big aerodrome behind the British lines. They now began to regard themselves as nearly at the end of their journey, and had no expectation of a still greater adventure before them–an adventure which would prevent them reaching their destination, at any rate, that day.

Only some five or six miles of sea now lay between them and the land, and they were right over the track of the transports, which made a continuous line of traffic between the two shores, when Fisker, who had taken up his glasses again in order to watch a batch of troopships, escorted by a couple of destroyers, suddenly turned them on to a large four tunnelled hospital ship, which, coming out of the harbour, crowded with wounded and war-worn men, was ploughing its solitary way towards Old Blighty, without any other escort or protector than the Red Cross flag.

Suddenly, as he watched the stately vessel moving along at twenty-five knots, with the huge combers falling away from her bow, and a long milk-white trail from her stern, he started suddenly, and lowered his glasses, almost shrieking at the top of his voice:–

"See there, Dastral! Quick!"

"Where away?" cried the pilot, turning round sharply, and catching a glimpse of Fisker's horrified face.

"There!" exclaimed the observer, laconically, pointing with his hand in the direction of the hospital ship.

Dastral looked in the direction indicated.

"The brutes!" he gasped. "Not if I can prevent it."

That which had called forth these horrified expressions was nothing more or less than a lurking German submarine, hidden beneath the water, but with a few inches of periscope above the surface, manoeuvring to bring the huge hospital ship within its range. It had evidently watched the procession of transports pass by, but, fearing that it might be rammed by one of the destroyers if it revealed its presence, it had waited for some other tasty morsel to come along. Unfortunately, there was nothing she could touch but this hospital ship.

With any other nation, a vessel flying the sacred emblem of humanity, which floated from the masthead of the ship, would have been immune from attack. But to the Hun no code of morals seems to hold good. Nor was any crime to be regarded as such if only some damage could be inflicted upon the enemy.

"Ach, wohl, mein herr!" the German ober-lieutenant in the submarine was remarking to his superior officer at that moment. "The verdomt transports are gone, and there's nothing but a big 'hospital ship steaming by. Shall we loose a leetle tin fish at her? You can't trust these English; they're probably transporting materials of war. There are sure to be some staff officers on her decks anyhow. What say you, mein herr?"

"Sink the blamed hooker, Fritz! We can say that she tried to ram us, when we make out our report. No one will be any the wiser, for dead men can't tell tales. He, he! Ho, ho!"

And already the commander's hand was upon the lever in the conning-tower which controlled the torpedo tubes in the bow. Hesitating just for a second, as though battling with the last shreds of a lingering conscience, he pulled the lever.

"Swiss-s-s-h!" came the sound as the deadly missile left the tube and entered the water.

"Good heavens! She's fired!" exclaimed both the aviators, as, in the very middle of a dangerous nose dive they saw what had transpired, and followed for an instant, even in that downward dive, the wake of the deadly torpedo.

Fortunately, at that very moment the captain of the Galicia, the big four-funnelled boat, having had his attention attracted to the spot by the nose-dive of the warplane, saw the periscope of the enemy's submarine, and, starboarding his helm, swung the huge vessel just sufficiently to port for the first torpedo to miss his stern by a few feet.

Then commenced a stern chase, for the Galicia, seeing the imminent danger that she was in, sought refuge in flight. Placing her stern towards the oncoming submarine, she fled down Channel, hoping thereby to save her precious cargo of wounded heroes.

"Donner and blitz!" exclaimed the commander to his lieutenant. "We have missed her. That will never do. We must sink her now at any cost, or the American cables will be full of the affair, and the anger of the neutral world will be turned against us once more."

"What shall we do, mein herr?" asked the lieutenant of the submarine. "She can do twenty-five knots and we can only do seventeen while we are submerged."

"We must run her awash, and give her three-inch shells with the deck guns. The transports and patrols are some distance off now."

"She will be calling back the destroyers by now with her wireless, mein herr."

"Gott in Himmel! but we must risk it. There may just be time. I wish we had let the blamed hooker go by."

Then, with a few round oaths, he switched down the periscope, pulled over the lever that drove the water out of the ballast tanks, and, as the boat came to the surface, he had the hatch unshipped, and ordered his gun crew to stations, calling them dachshunds, and a few more vile names.

As soon as the submarine came to the surface, the electric motors were stopped, and the surface engines started so that every knot could be got out of them.

"All clear!" had been reported to him by the lieutenant, and as regards the narrow horizon which can be surveyed from the periscope of a submerged vessel, all was indeed clear, for they had not seen the hornet which was buzzing overhead, silently dipping and nose-diving with her engines shut off, and rapidly manoeuvring like an angry wasp, waiting but an opportunity to get at its victim.

So intent was the submarine commander upon his prey, with one eye on the hospital ship and another on the horizon, watching for the patrol boats, which he knew would be sure to return, that he had even got his deck-gun to work, and was firing rapidly at the Galicia, when to his dismay he heard, just over his head, the whir-r-r-r-r of the aeroplane, as Dastral started his engine again.

"Mein Gott, was ist das?" he cried.

"Ach, Himmel, but we are lost!" came the cry from the gunners and the ober-lieutenant.

"Dachshunds!–you verdomt fools, turn the gun on the aeroplane!" yelled the irate commander, but he realised that he had lost the game.

Nearer and nearer came that dreaded enemy, with its angry buzz, till but a hundred feet above the broad, whale-like back of the submarine, for Dastral, having but the two twenty-pound bombs in his carrier, determined not to miss his chance.

"Be careful, Jock!" he shouted. "Drop it right on her conning-tower. Take no risks."

"Right-o, old fellow!" Jock had replied, his hand on the bomb release. "She's giving us shrapnel, though. Look out!"

"Spit . . . Bang! Spit . . . Bang!" came the bursting shrapnel from the quick-firing gun on the deck of the submarine, and a shot hitting the left aileron of the warplane, just as the observer was releasing the first bomb, caused her to roll and bank so much that the bomb fell into the sea, just a few inches from the starboard beam of the boat.

"Great heavens, you've missed him!" shouted Dastral, as the bomb, which was fitted with a contact fuse, sank down harmlessly into the sea.

Jock bit his lips, which were white with anger at his failure, and placed his hand once more on the bomb release. It was his last bomb. If they failed this time they were done, for already they had lost several struts and wires, and the planes had been holed in a score of places.

Even Dastral's face was pale, though not with fear, as he jammed the rudder bar over with his feet, and using the joy-stick as well, came round swiftly once more, dropping down to within fifty feet of his enemy.

"Great Scott! She's preparing to submerge, Jock. For heaven's sake don't miss her this time!"

Jock did not reply, but taking true aim just as they were directly over the boat, he dropped his second and last bomb fairly and squarely on the conning-tower.

"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m!" came the sound as the bomb descended swiftly and exploded right amidships, splitting the conning tower open, just as it was being closed ready for the boat to descend.

A blinding sheet of flame shot up into the sky, scorching both the pilot and the observer, and a crashing noise followed the explosion, as the submarine, her deck split open and rent in twain, opened out, then sank like a stone, carrying down with her the twenty-two men who manned her.

A few minutes afterwards the only trace of the pirates was an ever-extending patch of oil which floated on the surface of the water, punctured here and there by the air bubbles which forced their way through the patch.

So suddenly did she disappear from view that even the airmen, scorched and bruised and bleeding from slight shrapnel wounds, were amazed at the work of their hands. Dastral was the first to recover speech, however.

"Well done, Jock!" he cried. "Thus may all pirates perish who fire on the Red Cross flag."

The observer did not reply, however, for he had fallen forward in a dead faint, from sheer excitement and loss of blood; perhaps most of all from sheer fear of failure with his last bomb. And now his head was resting against the wind screen just in front of the cockpit.

"Jock! Jock! What's the matter?" Dastral called to him.

The observer made an effort to rouse himself, for he had only momentarily lost consciousness. He lifted up his head, tugged at his leather helmet, and managed at last to pull it off.

"Great Scott! You're wounded!" exclaimed Dastral as he saw the blood streaming from his companion's face.

"It's all right now. I feel better, Dastral. Carry on! The petrol tank overhead here is leaking, and we're about run out. But I've sent a message to the destroyers on the wireless and here they come."

Dastral turned sharply, and looked in the direction which Jock had indicated by slightly raising his hand.

"Yes. Hurrah! Here they come!" he cried.

And indeed there was no mistaking that long trail of black smoke just a couple of miles away, nor the white trail of foam as the combers broke and fell away from the two snake-like boats, which were coming up full pelt, for they had been drawn to the spot by the sound of the firing even before they had picked up Jock's message.

Nor did they come a moment too soon, for the aeroplane was wounded as well as her crew. Her work was done, at any rate for the next few days, until she had been overhauled by the smart air-mechanics, fitters and riggers of the Royal Flying Corps. The engine was missing too, very badly, for the petrol tank was pierced in several places, and the supply had almost run out. The planes and struts were damaged and in parts shot away, so much so, that, as Dastral jammed over the controls and banked to bring her round, with her head towards the rapidly approaching patrols, one of the wings collapsed, and she slithered down, slipping sideways into the sea, now only some thirty feet below her.

"Jump, Jock! Jump!" cried Dastral. And both the aviators, having managed to free themselves, leapt out as the singed and broken air-wasp lightly struck the waves.

Fortunately the life-saving jackets, which all the ferry pilots are compelled to wear when crossing the Channel, ensured their safety, once they managed to disentangle themselves from the wreckage of the 'plane.

"This way, Jock. Let us keep together. Here come the destroyers!" shouted the pilot. And the next instant, they heard a strong voice shout out–

"Hard-a-starboard there! Jam her over, man!"

And immediately after the same voice shouted to the man at the engine room telegraph–

"Full speed astern!"

Two minutes later both the aviators were safe on board the destroyer. A signal from her slender masthead caused the other boat to sweep round, pick up the wrecked warplane, which was already settling down, and to tow her into port.

So ended the adventure of the ferry-pilot and his companion. And next morning, after a good night's rest at the Hotel de l'Europe in Boulogne, a short message in a pink envelope, which was placed on the breakfast tray, informed the youthful and daring heroes that–

"His Majesty, King George the Fifth, desires to congratulate and to thank Lieutenants Dastral and Fisker, of the Royal Flying Corps, for, when on active service, their gallantry and courage in attacking and sinking the enemy submarine U41, and to confer upon them the COMPANIONSHIP OF THE DISTINGUISHED SERVICE ORDER."

CHAPTER III

OVER THE GERMAN LINES

"WE must have been born under a lucky star, Jock, to win the D.S.O. as well as the thanks of the King, for that trifling little incident which occurred yesterday," said Dastral as they sat down to a substantial breakfast that morning, in the dainty little coffee-room which looked out on to the English Channel.

"It was a stroke of luck, anyhow, to encounter that U boat just when we did. We should have made a landfall in another five minutes, and then we should have missed her altogether," replied his companion, pausing for an instant in his attack on the coffee and hot rolls.

"And the hospital ship?" queried the pilot.

"Ah, the brutes! But we were one too many for them," replied Jock. "I had the time of my life during that short fight. I'd just love a scrap like that every day. Almost wish I'd joined the R.N.A.S. now. What say you, old fellow? Besides, the odds were all on our side. The Hun never so much as suspected our presence, else he wouldn't have shown himself as he did."

"Just wait a few days, Jock, till we join our fellows down at the Squadron, and you'll have all the excitement you want."

"You mean?" went on the observer, looking up into the pilot's face as he helped himself to another portion of grilled ham and fried eggs.

"I mean," Dastral continued, without waiting for Jock to finish his sentence, "I mean, wait till we get orders from the new Squadron Commander to go over the German lines. The odds will not be so much in our favour."

"H'm! I wonder what it's like to be over there with the shrapnel bursting all around you, and miles and miles of trenches below you, with the 'Archies' spitting at you all the time with continuous bursts of fire, and the very heavens full of air-pockets."

"And half a dozen Fokkers coming up out of the horizon to scuttle you, and give you a spinning nose-dive of ten thousand feet into No Man's land, with your petrol tank blazing, and your engine missing, eh? Go on, you veritable misanthrope!" and here both the young heroes burst into a fit of laughter at the woeful, nerve-shattering picture which they had both been drawing.

Thus they continued to talk about the future which lay immediately before them. Yet all these things they were to see, and much more, ere they were many months older. They were full of life and vigour, and in action they were to prove daring and resourceful; yet they were wise in this, that they did not under-estimate either the task that lay before them, or the enemy they were to meet.

Their chief concern for the present, however, was centred on the broken aeroplane, with which they had started from England on the previous day for their first flight overseas. "I wonder what's become of the hornet," said Dastral, a few moments later, as they sat by the fireside, and settled down to a smoke.

"We shall hear shortly, as you have wired to the O.C. reporting the incident. Besides, the destroyer is sure to have brought her in, even if she is badly damaged."

Shortly after this the telephone bell in the corridor rang. A maid appeared, and after a very pretty French curtsey, said:–

"Monsieur le Commandant Dastral, s'il vous plait?"

"Ah, oui, Mademoiselle, qu'est-ce que vous voulez?" asked Dastral, rising to his feet, and returning the pretty maid's curtsey.

"C'est pour vous, ce message téléphonique."

"Merci, mam'selle," replied Dastral, as he hastened to the telephone box.

"Hullo! Who is that?" asked a voice some twenty or thirty miles away.

"Lieutenant Dastral, of the Flying Corps. Who is that, please?"

"Major Bulford, Squadron Commander, speaking from the aerodrome at St. Champau."

"Yes, sir!" replied Dastral smartly, springing unconsciously to attention, although the voice was so far away from him.

"Good-morning, Dastral. Congratulations, my boy. I have heard all about your adventures yesterday from my Adjutant. You've started well! You're just the man we're wanting here. We're having warm work with the Boches this week. You're a lucky dog to run into a German submarine on your first trip over."

"Oh, it was my observer, sir. He spotted the blamed thing, and bombed her. It was as easy as winking. Just a stroke of luck, sir, that's all."

"Well, I hope your luck 'll keep in. We shall be glad to see you as soon as you can come over. Are you both all right?"

"Yes, sir. Quite all right, 'cept for a slight chill through being in the water for a few minutes."

"Well, better stay where you are a couple of days if you are comfortable, and then come on here."

"Thank you, sir. Yes, we're quite comfortable here, and we'll report at the aerodrome in a couple of days."

"Right. Good-bye. Oh, I say! Are you there?"

"Yes, sir."

"I was going to tell you that the machine arrived here about an hour ago. It's some 'bus' and I like the look of her, except that she's badly smashed, and will be in the hands of the riggers and mechanics for four or five days before she can be used again."

"Oh, that's not so bad. I feared she would be useless after the crash she got, sir. How did you get her there so quickly?"

"Oh, we received word from the harbourmaster that she had been brought in by a destroyer, and we immediately sent down a couple of tenders with trailers and brought her on here this morning. Good-bye. The fellows here are all anxious to meet you."

"Good-bye, sir."

As soon as he had rung off Dastral rushed back into the room to tell Jock all about his chat with the O.C. of the Squadron at St. Champau, and especially about the two days' extra leave.

"Good!" ejaculated his friend. "Seems a decent sort of chap, eh?"

"Rather a sport, I should say, old man."