At a hundred yards the "Bullet" sprang into the air, and soared upward at a tremendous speed, being quickly lost to sight, as the searchlights tried once more to find the raider, which had found things too warm, and had sought again the shelter of the clouds.
By short and rapid spirals, Dastral soon reached a thousand feet. Every now and then he turned his little shaded electric lamp on to the indicator, which seemed to vibrate merrily, and almost to smile, as its little rounded dial told the altitude. Up and up they went, and the indicator almost laughed with joy as it clicked out the figures:
"Two thousand, two thousand five hundred, three thousand feet!"
Still they seemed to be climbing all too slowly for the pilot. He had caught sight of the Zeppelin when she showed herself for a moment, and he had said to himself:
"Twelve thousand feet, and then there'll be a chance! But nothing less than that will do."
He was impatient therefore to get higher and higher, for he feared the raiders would discharge or jettison their cargo of bombs before he could get at them. They certainly would have done, had they known that at that very moment Himmelman's rival was climbing to meet them, on a Buckstead Bullet, which could do one hundred and thirty miles an hour when pushed.
Already a number of bombs had been dropped, and away to the northward several fires could be seen where the night-raiders had left their victims behind, in the shape of burning homesteads, where the victims were women and children, old men and invalids; but the avenger was at hand, and the hour of reckoning had come.
"Eight thousand, nine thousand feet!" clicked the indicator, though its voice was lost in the roar of the engine and propellor.
At eight thousand feet Dastral passed several of the 'planes which had preceded him, and at nine thousand he left the last of them behind him and entered into a bank of clouds. Never once had he ceased his rapid, climbing spirals, and now, through the misty, clinging vapour of the clouds he still soared heavenwards. Once or twice he stopped his engines just to listen for a few seconds, but he heard nothing except the whir-r-r-r of the 'planes beneath him.
He was ahead of them all now, for his engines were running beautifully, and the "Bullet" raced through the next layer of clouds as a fish darts through the waters. It was becoming lighter also, for he could catch glimpses of the stars, and the remaining clouds were thinner than those below. Soon, he would be above them all, and perhaps above the raider. It was cold too, bitterly cold, but his young blood coursed madly through his veins, and his heart beat quicker and quicker.
"Ten thousand. Eleven thousand," laughed the indicator, joining merrily in the hunt, for it seemed to Dastral now that he could hear those weird voices of the night, speaking to him and calling him up and up, ever higher and higher. Yes, the clouds and the stars were calling him, and the music and rhythm of that pulsating engine a few feet away, and the whir-r-r of those propellors just ahead, seemed to make him almost light-headed, so that he began to laugh and sing.
He thought of crooked Tim far down below, and what he had said about the romance and the music, and from the pilot's lips there fell involuntarily the words:
"Poor Tim! How he would like to be up here alone, and to listen to all these voices of the night!"
As Dastral thought thus, he looked down, far down into the blackness, and he saw the flashes of the searchlights. Sometimes they reached up to him long extended arms that seemed to unite him to the earth, but he could scarcely believe that he had ever dwelt down there in that abyss of murky darkness. Yet always he swerved aside, and evaded those long stretching pillars of light, for he knew that if he crossed their beams but once, other eyes would see him, and the raider above would be warned of his near approach.
Suddenly at twelve thousand feet the monoplane shook itself as though dashing the clinging moisture from its yellow wings, and leapt, like a fish out of the water, above the topmost layer of clouds.
And now with keen searching eyes Dastral looked above and around for the presence of the raider, but she was nowhere to be seen. Below him rolled the clouds, like dark, monstrous billows. Here and there through an opening he still saw the flashes of the searchlights feeling for their prey. But above his head the sky was aflame with millions of stars. Right across from east to west, like a silvery pathway to heaven, shone the Milky Way, luminous with light, and along that trail of diamonds shone the bigger stars, in the constellations of Perseus, Cassiopeia and Aquila. And far down in the east, Orion the Hunter chased the dancing Pleiades, as he did thousands of years before aeroplanes were ever dreamt of.
"But where is the Boche?" Dastral asked himself again and again.
He was beginning to fear that he had lost him. Perhaps the Hun had caught sight of him as he came through the clouds, and had now departed unseen, as he came.
"Great Scott, have I missed him after all?" he cried. "For months and months I have been longing to fight with a Zeppelin, and now he's slipped me."
And for ten minutes he circled about, stopping his engines once or twice to listen for the roar of the invader's engines and propellors. Suddenly something whizzed past him and burst into a jet of flame. It was a shrapnel with a time fuse. Then another and another. They were firing again, then, down below, and they must have picked up the airship once more.
"Good!" he exclaimed. "She must be somewhere near me too, for I am almost in the line of fire."
Looking down he saw what had happened. The clouds in which the Zeppelin had been hiding were breaking up and drifting away, for a fresh, cold wind had sprung up from the east.
"Ah! Ah! I shall see her soon. She cannot escape me now. I shall find her in a few minutes."
"Whiz! Puff!" came another time fuse, and burst not fifty feet away, several pieces of which pierced the left wing of the monoplane.
"By Jove, but that was close!" he cried, throwing out three balls, which burst into red flame as they fell towards the earth, and was the signal for the Archies to stop firing.
"Ah, there she is!" exclaimed the daring pilot, as, out of the clouds, a thousand feet below him, he saw a black mass emerge against the lighter background of the thinning clouds. At the same instant the searchlights found her, and a dozen long arms of streaming light focussed their united rays upon her.
"Gemini! What a target!" cried Dastral, as he pulled the joy-stick over and dived to the attack, without a second's hesitation.
His gun, already cocked and ready to fire through the whirling propellor, and loaded with the new flaming bullet, was brought to bear.
Down, down he went, firing rapidly all the while. Then underneath and alongside her he raced, pumping his second and third drum into the huge looming mass.
Far below his friends saw the whirling monoplane, in the glare of the searchlight, for now it was as bright as day. The A.A. guns had ceased their fire in response to his signals, but the men on the doomed Zeppelin brought three or four of their eleven machine guns to bear upon him, but it was too late. They knew the deadly peril they were in, and it was impossible for them with their unsteady nerves to hit any vital part of that waspish little fiend, which circled round, above and below them at a truly terrific rate.
Dastral, in his rapid nose-dive, had dipped five hundred feet below the monster and flattened out to return to the attack, but, as he commenced his climb again he saw that the silvery glare of the Zeppelin, as it had appeared to him but twenty seconds before in the lure of the searchlights, had taken on a ruby glow, which, as he mounted up, became a ruddy glare.
"Heavens! She is on fire already!" he gasped.
It was only too true. The engines had been set going, for the Zeppelin commander had tried to make his escape, just as he was discovered, but it was too late. He had never suspected that Himmelman's terrible opponent was overhead, having climbed up twelve thousand feet while he had been hiding in the cloud.
"Ach! Gott in Himmel! Wir sind verloren! Donner and Blitz!"
Never will Dastral forget the sight which he beheld that night, close at hand, for the Huns now realised that all was lost, and that a terrible and speedy vengeance awaited them all from which there was no escape. As the huge envelope kindled into fierce leaping flames, two hundred feet high, the pilot could plainly see the panic-stricken crew of the doomed airship, wringing their hands in terror and fright, as they dashed madly along the narrow footways that led from one gondola to another, trying to escape, till the last second, from the fierce flames that spurted out above and below, and licked up and consumed everything with their intense heat.
It was truly a terrible sight, and the burning mass lit up the countryside far below as well as the great metropolis away to the south. Never since the day when every hill-top in England was aflame with the fires that announced the coming of the Spanish Armada, in the days of the great sea-dogs, had such a beacon been lighted in this land of ours.
Down, down fell the flaming mass, lower and lower, while the daring pilot, bewildered at what he had done, followed her, circling round and round, till, when some eight thousand feet from the ground, one of her four hundred-weight bombs, with which her crew had hoped to wipe out some peaceful village, exploded with the intense heat.
"Boom-m-m! Crash!" came the terrible sound, and the flaming mass, shivered into a thousand fragments by the explosion, fell down to the peaceful earth below with the charred and mutilated bodies of its crew of baby-killers.
A few minutes later Dastral, guided by a score of still flaming fragments about the adjacent fields, landed safely on the level stretch of grass from which he had ascended to fight the midnight raider.
Next morning the daring pilot was decorated by His Majesty King George, and ten days later, having bade farewell to his friend, Tim Burkitt, he was back with his Squadron in France, and leading "B" Flight over the German lines once again.
CHAPTER VII
COWDIE, THE "SPARE PART"
"REVEILLE! Show a leg there!" shouted Corporal Yap, one morning, as he went round the tents and hangars about the aerodrome near Contalmaison.
The sleepy air-mechanics of the Royal Flying Corps in the field opened their eyes and yawned, showing no immediate disposition to rise, for the fatigue of the previous day's work had scarcely passed away.
"Did you hear me, Cowdie, you, 'spare part.' Get up there smartly. I shan't call you again. If you're not on parade in fifteen minutes you'll be for the high jump."
"'S all right, Corporal," shouted the "spare part," trying to wriggle out of his roll of blankets and commencing to sing in a doleful monotone:
"Oh, it' snice to get up in the mornin'
But it' snicer to stop in bed…"
Corporal Yap turned and went off on his errand, shaking up a few more "spare parts," and threatening everybody more or less with "the high jump"; which, of course, meant an appearance before the Commanding Officer of the Squadron.
As soon as his woolly head had disappeared behind the flap of the tent door, Cowdie rolled back into his blankets for another minute-and-a-half's nap. As he lay there he looked for all the world like an Egyptian mummy, for he had a peculiar way of rolling himself up in his blankets at night which gave him that appearance. But although his eyes were closed his ears were wide awake for the soft, stealthy tread of the orderly N.C.O., who he knew would be sure to return in about the space of ninety seconds to try to find who had left his warning unheeded.
Cowdie, though a spare part about the aerodrome, was quite a genius in his way. His senses were so acute that the others said he could hear the "footsteps" of a snake in the grass, so they dubbed him the "listening post" and made him sleep next the door of the tent, so that he could always give the alarm in case of need.
At the present moment he was counting under his breath. He knew the orderly's round, and knew to a nicety how long it would take him to get back to tent No. 7. He allowed ninety seconds, and he had just got as far as "eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine," when he suddenly stood bolt upright in his roll of blankets, thereby performing a wonderful gymnastic feat, and looking, with his sleeping cap over his head and ears, not unlike a Turk preparing for his morning ablutions.
Evidently he had heard some soft stealthy tread on the grass outside, for exactly at "ninety" the woolly head of Corporal Yap appeared at the door once more, and his yapping voice called:
"Caught you this time, you trilobite. Out you come! Can't say I didn't give you warning, Cowdie!"
Then catching sight of his man in the grey morning light, the Corporal gasped, and fell back a pace or two.
"The deuce! Do you sleep standing up, man?"
"Sometimes," replied the Spare Part. "M.O.'s orders. Number Nine told me to do so the last time I reported sick."
"Where are you going to? About to have a Turkish bath, I s'pose; all right, my man, I'll catch you yet. If you're not on parade in twelve minutes, bath or no bath, you're for it. D'y'understand?"
"Yes, Corporal, but I'm not going to have a bath. They're dangerous. Number Nine ordered me not to. Said I'd got a murmuring heart, he did," replied the Spare Part meekly.
"Murmuring heart, have you? Then where are you goin' to in that rig?"
"Ain't goin' anywhere; Corporal. I'm standin' still."
"What are you standin' still for?"
"Waitin' for my turn with the shavin' brush," came the quiet answer.
At this the Corporal departed, swearing wrathfully, for he was no match for Cowdie. At his departure the rest of the company in No. 7 tent burst into loud laughter, for they enjoyed immensely this daily tug-of-war between the bullying orderly N.C.O. and the apparently meek but cunning Cowdie, who was a great favourite, despite the nickname of "Spare Part," and "Regimental Cuckoo," which had been bestowed upon him.
Though he had lost two minutes in the start yet Cowdie was dressed, washed and shaved first as usual, for somehow he had the knack of literally jumping into his clothes, even when the men received an alarm and were turned out in the dark of the night.
These little morning episodes did much to enliven the men and to help them to endure the dull fatigue and monotony which was part of the lot of every man ho went overseas with the British Expeditionary Force. All the time they were preparing for the roll call, dressing, shaving, rolling up their beds, tidying their kits, a running fire of sparkling wit and frolic was kept up.
Even when the aerodrome was bombed by the German aeroplanes, which happened two or three times each week, almost always just as dawn was breaking, these brave men joked just the same, amid the bursting bombs, and the blinding flashes of the explosions, the ensuing crashes, and the rattle of the anti-aircraft guns with which the aerodrome was defended.
While the shaving was in progress this morning and three of the men were trying to shave by the aid of one little cracked mirror about three inches by two in size, Brat, the despatch-rider attached to the squadron, said to the inimitable Cowdie,
"I hope you finished that letter last night, old man. You finished up all that two inches of candle I lent you. It must have been a long letter you wrote."
"No, I didn't quite finish it," replied Cowdie quietly.
"Was it another letter to your little girl in Old Blighty?"
"No, it was a short letter to mother," replied the Spare Part in a choking voice.
"Dear me! And you didn't finish it?"
"No," came the quiet answer, as Cowdie began to attack his upper lip, which was all quivering with apparent emotion.
"What did you say, then?"
"I said, 'Dear Mother,–I am sending you five shillings, but not this week.'"
At this a burst of laughter from the whole party called forth the ire of Old Snorty, who was passing by, for he had been up early, with several squads of air-mechanics, seeing off "B" Flight, who were paying another early morning visit to the enemy.
"A little less noise there, Number Seven, or some of you'll be in the guard room. How the deuce can we hear when 'B' Flight's coming in, if you kick up a row like that?"
"Old Snorty seems to have something on his mind this morning, doesn't he?" said some one. "'B' Flight won't be back for a couple of hours yet."
So the men were quiet for a whole minute after that until the sergeant-major, having passed out of earshot, and there still being three minutes left for parade, the men returned to their chaff and titter, Brat leading off again by saying:
"That letter of yours, Cowdie, reminds me of another chap who worked alongside of me near St. Pierre with the –th Squadron. He once wrote a letter to his mother as follows:
"'Dear Mother,–Enclosed please find fifteen shillings. I cannot.
"'Your affectionate son, John.'"
And the joke was reckoned so good in our squadron that we raised the money for the poor chap, and he sent it after all."
"Fall in!" came a stentorian shout, as Brat finished telling this yarn. And the men of Number Seven doubled up to fall in on the left, and answer their names to the early morning roll, for another day had begun, and more than one man of that small crowd was to prove himself a hero before another sun should come up out of the German lines beyond Ginchy, and set in blood-red clouds behind the British lines.
Some two hours after that, as the men busy about the labours of the day, which in an aerodrome, under active service conditions, range from the rigging of a defective aeroplane, mending struts, replacing controls, preparing ammunition dumps, to the taking down of a R.A.F. engine, and while "A" Flight was returning from a reconnaissance, and "C" Flight was preparing to go up and over the lines on a bombing raid, Grenfell, the orderly officer at the aerodrome 'phone, received a broken message from somewhere near Ginchy.
The message had to do with the crash of a British 'plane somewhere in front or just behind the first line trenches, but a terrific bombardment being concentrated on the place at the time the message suddenly ceased, as though the wires had been broken, or the speaker at the other end put out of action.
A minute later Snorty came dashing down towards the spot where Number Seven squad were working.
"Where is Brat?" he shouted.
"Over there, sir, in the transport shed," replied Cowdie.
"Fetch him at once!"
And Cowdie dashed off to find his chum, bringing him back a moment later.
"Bratby!" shouted Snorty, giving the despatch-rider his full name for once, as he saw the two doubling up.
"Yes, sir," came the answer smartly.
"You know the observing officer's dug-out near Ginchy?"
"The place where I carried the despatches the other day, sir?"
"Exactly."
"Yes, sir, I know it."
"Good! Go there at once. The wires are snapped again, and we have received a broken message through which stopped in the middle. One of our 'planes has come down. It must be part of 'B' Flight, for they're not in yet. Go there at once, take this message to the officer or senior N.C.O. in charge, and get the full message from him. Learn what you can while you are there, and come back at once, so that we may send out a breakdown gang for the machine, if not too late."
"Right, sir."
"Mind, we want the exact location of the machine, and you must try to find out if it is a bad crash, and what has become of the pilot and observer."
"Yes, sir."
"Now get off at once. It is five minutes since the machine crashed. And be careful now. There are some nasty corners there, and the Germans are shelling the Ginchy lines 'hell for leather' this morning."
Then, catching sight of Cowdie, for whom he had rather a soft place in his rugged heart, the Sergeant-Major added,
"Better take the 'Spare Part' with you. You may need a second man."
"Right, sir."
The next moment the two chums, happy as schoolboys because they were entrusted with a dangerous commission, had the "New Triumph" out of the shed. Then, with Cowdie seated on the carrier, Brat on the saddle, away they went, past the aerodrome sentries, out at the gate, and down the road towards the trenches.
"Zinc-zinc-a-bonck-rep-r-r-r-r!"
But, alas, it was an adventure which was to prove something more than a joy ride, before another two hours were past.
It was a clear sunny morning as they pattered along, wondering much what new venture it was that awaited them. Over there towards Ginchy the air was thick with bursting shells, and the clear, blue sky was marked in a score of places at once by aeroplanes and kite balloons, whilst round about them were splashes of fire, and floating milk-white cloudlets where the shells burst, as the Huns tried to bring down our "birds."
An air-fight was in progress already over Ginchy; two Fokkers which had ventured near the British lines were being countered and chased by several of our Sopwiths. They were two of the very same Fokkers which had chased Dastral and the remnant of "B" Flight after their drums of ammunition were all used up.
But Dastral, where was he at this moment? This was the thought that was uppermost in the minds of the two men as they whizzed down the Ginchy road, leaving Bazentin on their left. For of all the pilots of the –th Squadron, Dastral was the greatest favourite with the men. He was so brilliant and daring that they felt they could not afford to lose him.
"I hope it isn't Dastral who has crashed, Cowdie," said Brat.
"I hope not," replied Cowdie, feeling at the time somehow that it could be no one else.
"'B' Flight ought to have returned some time ago now. I'm very much afraid they've met their match this time. We could afford to lose half a dozen men rather than the Commander of 'B' Flight."
"Perhaps he's met Himmelman," urged the man on the carrier, steadying himself for the next heavy jolt, for the last one had nearly thrown him off, and the bad places were becoming more and more plentiful as they neared the lines.
"He will meet him some day, and there'll be a deuce of a fight. Just mark my words. There isn't room for two lords of the air, not in these parts, and one of them will go under."
"Well, I hope it will be the Boche."
"So it will be if they meet on equal terms, but the German air-fiend is a wily brute."
"Whiz-z-z! Bang-g-g!" came a shell at that moment, striking the ground not thirty yards away from them, and sending both men and motor-cycle spinning into the ditch by the very concussion.
"Not hurt, are you, Cowdie?" asked Brat, as he scrambled out of the ditch first, and ran to help his friend.
"No, but it was a very near thing that. Another few inches and that would have been the end of the regimental 'spare part.' Look here!" and Cowdie showed a rent in his tunic where a piece of shrapnel had torn away six inches of it behind the left shoulder.
Fortunately, though both were shaken, neither of the men had been actually hit It was a marvellous escape, however, one of those things one cannot account for. Though the machine had been badly knocked about and splintered, it had received no vital injury, and, after straightening out a few spokes, and cutting away a few more they mounted again and proceeded a little further.
"Halt Who goes there?" came the shout as they pattered up to the support trenches.
They halted and dismounted, and after telling their business were allowed to proceed, but they were cautioned that the road ahead was full of shell holes, and that they would not be able to ride much further. They would certainly be stopped at the reserve trenches.
Once more they started, their heads throbbing and aching with the noise of the terrific bombardment which was proceeding, for they were now in the super-danger zone, and shells were screaming overhead every few seconds, and many were bursting on their left and on their right.
Again they were halted, this time by a sentry near the second line trenches, and were absolutely refused permission to proceed further till they explained to the officer of the company commanding the trench what their errand was.
"Wires broken, did you say?"
"Yes, sir."
"Nearly all the wires to the front line trenches in this sector have been broken. We have had the engineers out all the morning mending them."
"There is news of one of our fighting 'planes having crashed somewhere over there, half an hour ago, sir," said Bratby, "and we have been ordered to proceed as near as possible to the place, to find out what has happened, as the aerodrome wire has been snapped."
"An aeroplane crashed, did you say?" asked the officer.
"Yes, sir."
"There have been half a dozen of them down in front of us since seven o'clock this morning; most of them German, I think."
"This was one of ours, sir."
"Yes, I saw it. There were two of them came down about the same time, but the other one fell by our support trenches and the pilot and observer were saved."
"And the other one, sir?"
"Oh, there is no hope for that one. She came down over there near our front line trench, and she was blazing when she crashed. We could not get at her, or at least we kept the men back who volunteered, as the Germans turned their machine guns on her directly she hit the ground and swept the spot for twenty minutes."
"The devils!" ejaculated Brat, looking more serious than he had ever looked in his life, while a strange light shone in Cowdie's eyes.
"We were told that we must get to the dug-out of Captain Grenfell, somewhere in the front line trench."
"Oh, very well; but you fellows go at your own risk. The Boches have been shelling the place like hell most of the time since daybreak."
"We're quite prepared to take the risk, sir!" replied Cowdie.
"Come this way, then, and mind that corner. We call it Hell-fire Corner these days, for we have lost more men there than at any other point," replied the officer.
A few minutes later he handed them over to a sergeant, with instructions to conduct them to the dug-out where Captain Grenfell and his two operators still held on to the end of the broken wires. No messages had come through for some time, but several squads of Royal Engineers were busy crawling out in the open and trying to find the loose ends in order to restore communication.
When they arrived there Captain Grenfell gave them the full text of the message which he had tried to get through, and pointed out to them the place where the ruins of the aeroplane lay, for they were still smoking.
"But the pilot, sir, where is he? And where is the observer? They were the best men in the Squadron, and their loss will be felt greatly, for Lieutenant Dastral was reckoned the best pilot in France, and great things were expected from him in the near future," said Brat.
For answer the Captain shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture which seemed to indicate that he feared the case was hopeless.
"Their bodies must be somewhere over there. Several of our men volunteered to go over to rescue them, but every man who went over the top went to his death, until the O.C. refused permission for any more to attempt it, for he said he could not spare the men."
While they were thus discussing the matter, one of the sentries a little further down the trench gave an alarm:
"Cloud of gas or fog coming over, sir, from the German lines!"
Brat and Cowdie, at these words, peeped over the edge of the parapet, and saw, about a quarter of a mile away, a dense yellowish vapour coming slowly onward from a point where the enemy's lines curved round and faced the British lines from almost due south-east. The order was passed quickly down the lines for the men to don their gas-helmets, but the C.O. coming along the trench shortly afterwards, remarked that it could not possibly be gas, for, from the direction whence it came, it would pass onwards over a portion of the enemy's lines at a spot where the trenches curved back again and made a salient. At this point the lines twisted and bent themselves into many curious salients, for the last advance had not thoroughly straightened out the position.
"The Germans are not such fools as to gas their own men, Grenfell, what do you say?" remarked the officer commanding the trench to Grenfell, who had come out of his dug-out to get a view of the cloud.
"No, sir. There must be some other reason."
"Yes, and the reason is, I think, a change of wind which is bringing on a dense fog."
"You are quite right, sir," added the other, after regarding the air and sky for some ten seconds. "There has been a sudden change of wind, and a dense local fog is coming up from the valley. The whole landscape will be blotted out in a few minutes."
"You're right, Grenfell," replied the officer. Then, turning to his orderly-sergeant, he called out:
"Pass the order for the men to stand-to! There is no telling but that the Boches may come over the top with the fog, and try to surprise us."
"Yes, sir," came the reply smartly, and the sergeant, saluting, disappeared along the trench, calling out the men from the dug-outs, and ordering a general "stand-to."
The chance was too good to be lost. Cowdie gave Brat a dig in the ribs, and whispered to him,
"Now is the time. See, the fog thickens, and it is nearly up to the wrecked aeroplane. Let's go over, or the Boches will be there first. They're sure to try it on. What say you?"
"I'm with you, old man, but it will be an awful job. Have you got your revolver loaded, for we've got nothing else?"
"Yes," replied his chum, feeling that his weapon was safe in the leather case, which hung at his left side.
"Come on, then; we haven't a second to lose."
The next instant they were over the top, and making a dash for the spot already hidden in the fog.
"Come back there, you fellows!" cried a sergeant of the Wiltshires, whose company lined the trench. "Where the deuce are you going to?"