Part 5

As he ran up the ladder to the bridge, he heard a roar in the air, and a moment later a great sheet of flame leaped up just in front of the forward funnel with a colossal detonation. The blast of the explosion flung him to the deck. He picked himself up, bruised, dazed, but uninjured, and looked for the enemy. The turret had swung its two guns over to starboard, and as he followed their direction they discharged with a couple of almost simultaneous reports. He steadied himself and gazed hard into the distance. In the mist on the horizon he thought he distinguished a long, low band of brownish smoke, and at one end of it a dark spot and a tiny twinkle of flame. A minute later the roar of heavy projectiles tearing through the air came to his ears. Instinctively he flung himself flat upon the deck in the shelter of a gun-turret of the starboard battery. The sharp, splitting report of the gun in that turret was blotted out on the instant by a fearful upheaval that leaped from the centre of the ship with such a blast of noise as seemed to burst his ears. He had a glimpse, he knew not how, of a sheet of lurid flame and of a mighty upspout of water on the ship's flank. In the awful silence which ensued--a silence so profound that he wondered if he were permanently deafened--he staggered to his feet. The turret in front of him had been burst open, the gun protruded askew at a curious angle. He gazed at it, motionless, as though rendered imbecile with the shock. Then a chorus of agonised screams and shrieks came from the turret and continued. He heard them with a sense of relief, so terrible was that unbroken silence. Recovering his wits, he looked about him. The second gun-shield of the starboard battery had also been destroyed, the bridge was a hanging mass of contorted scrap-iron, the wireless "aerials" streamed away to leeward in the gale. The two forward funnels had disappeared and torrents of black smoke were welling up from the level of the deck, obliterating everything. In that smoke, tongues of fire licked upwards, whether from the furnaces or from a conflagration he did not know. Automatically he began to run towards the conning-tower. Without defining itself, the thought that the captain should be informed of the state of affairs impelled him. As he went he heard again the roar of projectiles. Again he flung himself flat. This time the enemy was not so successful. A shell burst somewhere on the fore-castle. The rest flung up spouts of water all around that fell again with a heavy splash. An instant later he was hammering at the lid of the manhole in the conning-tower.

The lid was unfastened from within. He pushed it aside and slid in, feet foremost. The round steel box was filled with fumes. Through them he perceived several bodies stretched out upon the floor. He stumbled over one of them, and the handkerchief over the man's face slipped aside. It was the commander. He heard the voice of one of the gunnery-lieutenants at a telephone communicating with a fire-control station, followed by rapid orders to the electricians turning the handles of the range indicators. At another telephone a man was making frantic but ineffectual efforts to get a reply from the wireless room. A junior officer at the steering wheel gave him a slow strained grin, almost like an expression of pain. The captain glared at him with eyes in which there flamed a Berserk madness.

"Well!" he shouted, sticking his red beard into the lieutenant's face.

The navigating lieutenant gave his information, staggering with the heavy lurches of the ship. It flashed on his mind while he spoke that she no longer rose so buoyantly to the waves. The captain listened, his face twitching insanely, puckering his fierce eyes. When the lieutenant spoke of the blur of smoke on the horizon he sprang round and peered out through the narrow slit between the wall and the roof. Then he turned with a cry of panic.

"They are all round us! Starboard your helm! West-by-north-west!"

The ship came round on her new course with a wallowing roll. The captain peered again through the observation slit.

Suddenly there was a fearful shock, a deafening roar, and the slit was vividly illuminated. The conning-tower had been again struck. The captain toppled backward on his heels, an object of sickening horror. The top of his head was gone. The gunnery-lieutenant sank quietly to his knees and slid over sideways. The officer at the helm was leaning over the wheel, motionless and staring. A splinter had gone through his brain. Lieutenant Bielefeld sprang to take his place. Three men beside himself, rangetakers and electricians, were left alive in the conning-tower. They seemed in a stupor, dazed by the shock.

"Telephone to Lieutenant von Waldkirch that he is now in command!"

An electrician roused himself, attempted to obey, and reported:

"The communications are broken, Herr Leutnant."

"One of you go and fetch him--he is in the after fire-control station."

A man wrenched at the lid of the manhole.

"It will not open, Herr Leutnant--it is jammed."

The lieutenant glanced at the observation slit. The aperture was no longer regular. In front of him it gaped, behind him it was closed.

"So!--then we will carry on!" His face had gone deathly pale, but his lips were tight-pressed. "Telephone to such guns as you can--independent firing!" He himself leaned over to the voice-funnel from the engine-room. "Wollenmetz!--Wollenmetz!"

The reply came in a gush of fluent curses, evidently roared with full lung-power at the other end and terminating with: "What is it?"

"Are you all well down there?" shouted the lieutenant.

"All well! We have a shell in the engine-room, the men in the forward stokeholds are all suffocated--and we have dropped to 100 revolutions--what is happening with you above? Tell me for God's sake! It is hell here!"

"We carry on--_für Gott und Kaiser_!" yelled the lieutenant in reply.

At the helm, he kept the cruiser steadily on her new course. Every moment he expected to feel the shock of more hits but none came. Evidently they were getting out of range. It seemed curious with the known lessening of the ship's speed, but there was the fact. Encouraged, he shouted down the tube to the engine-room to get all the speed they could. "We are running out of danger!" he added cheerfully. "Find out what has happened to the ship if you can--all communications are broken." For a long time he waited for a reply, but none came. His shouts down the tube elicited no response. Thus isolated from the life of the ship of which he was actually in command he kept on his course, bearing every now and then a little more to the west in his fear of the ships towards the north-east. How long he continued thus he could not tell. Every now and then he glanced at the clock in front of him. It marked always the same time. It was broken.

Rolling heavily, the cruiser ran onward, unmolested. The three men began to converse cheerfully. The possibility of escape now seemed to them a probability. The lieutenant also began to indulge the same hope, but the whereabouts of the ship which had engaged them worried him.

Suddenly there was a terrific shock, another red illumination of the slit at the top of the armour-wall, another tremendous roar. Two men who had been leaning against the wall fell dead without a scratch. The impact had killed them. The other man had sprung to the lid of the manhole, was beating against it with his fists and screaming like a maniac. Presently he sank down and hid his face in his hands, moaning like a terror-stricken child. The lieutenant ignored him in an agony of apprehension. Were they overtaken?

Outside, explosion followed explosion. The floor of the conning-tower listed steeply to starboard, and with every lift and drop of the vessel the bodies about his feet slid towards the wall. Suddenly, to his horror, he saw a wisp of smoke issuing from the voice-tube leading to the engine-room. What had happened? Had they stopped? As the ship dived down a wave he tuned himself to sensitiveness. He felt the momentary race of the screws threshing the air, just perceptible. Thank God, they were still moving! The succession of detonations outside never ceased. He could only guess at their effect and the direction from which the projectiles came. Assuming the enemy to be still to starboard, he put the helm hard over in a last despairing effort to run out of range. The compass card whirled round in the wrong direction! The steering-gear had gone.

The ship no longer rose to the seas. She rolled heavily from side to side in the trough of the waves. The lieutenant looked around helplessly at the bodies on the floor, at the wrecked indicators, at the useless wheel, at the man who rocked to and fro with his head in his hands. His continuous pitiful moaning exasperated the lieutenant to madness. He drew his revolver and commanded him, with frenzied vehemence, to be quiet. The man stared wildly at the muzzle of the revolver, opened his mouth as though about to shriek, and collapsed in a dead faint.

The lieutenant turned from him and went to the observation slit. As the ship lifted clumsily sideways on a wave he had a view of a dark grey cruiser driving through the mist, quite close--on the port side! This was a new unsuspected enemy. Water was streaming from her decks as she rose buoyantly on the sea. A string of flags fluttered along a halyard from her mast. She seemed as normal as a ship on manoeuvres. Suddenly half a dozen spurts of bright flame broke from her dark sides. The lieutenant felt the ship under his feet shiver and stagger in a deafening roar. Then he felt the weight of his body heavy against the wall of the conning-tower. He was lying almost horizontal against that wall. Through the slit he looked out upon confused water only, in the place of sea and sky. A great wave rolled straight towards him, splashed against the conning-tower, poured through the slit in a torrent. He sprang back in pitch darkness, fighting with both hands in a last instinctive struggle for life. The solid floor went from under him, human hands clutched at his legs, blindly feeling up his trousers. He kicked--choking--in a rayless night.

* * * * *

Hull-down on the horizon a German battle-cruiser was reporting a strange vessel that had suddenly appeared, challenged and received her fire, and then run back into the midst of British cruisers which had immediately sunk her. Emden sent disquieting answers to urgent enquiries.

The great wireless station at Nauen received the news of another inexplicable disaster.

THE AIR SCOUT (1914)

A large level meadow bit squarely into the edge of the woodland. The centre of the space enclosed on three sides by trees as by a wall was an empty stretch of turf, browned by much traffic and littered with scraps of paper which are the inevitable deposit of any congregation of human beings. The left-hand side was occupied by a neat row of slate-grey motor-lorries. The right showed an equally neat array of tents and sheds over which hung a faint film of wood-smoke. At regular intervals along the third side a series of placards was affixed to the tree-trunks, each exhibiting a conspicuous number like stands at a cattle-show. The stands, however, were vacant. In front of the sheds on the right stood a little group of men in khaki, and near them two men in shirt and trousers were busy at a portable forge whence issued the film of smoke. The hammer-strokes of those men were visible and evidently delivered with force, yet, curiously enough, at a little distance they appeared to fall in silence.

[This description must not be taken as representing the vastly developed organization of the flying services to-day (1917). The incident is, of course, quite imaginary. The story was written some time before the war.]

A vast noise that came from beyond the wood swallowed all other sounds. The drowsy air of the hot noon trembled with concussions so rapid that they merged into one deep-throated, deafening roar. The field was the aeroplane depot of the Army. The roar was the roar of the battle which that Army was fighting.

Despite the apparent nearness of the strife, there was little of military spectacle about the depot. At the corner of the wood a squadron of dismounted troopers stood by their horses. A little further back, along the rough lane which led into the field, a gun mounted on a motor-lorry stuck its nose perpendicularly into the air. Three or four men sat on the lorry in easy attitudes and one stood up, glasses to his eyes, scanning the blue sky. The group of khaki-clad men paid no more attention to them than they did to the battle-din which swelled over the woodland. They were absorbed in contemplation of a large curious-looking bush which stood a few yards in front of them.

A closer look at that bush revealed that it was artificial. It was, in fact, a largish shed whose walls and roof were composed of green boughs. Men were busy within it and a shaft of sunlight that penetrated the leaves fell in a patch of gold upon some yellow fabric. The object thus illuminated was the wing of a small, single-seater monoplane.

A little apart from the other members of the group a slightly-built young fellow, garbed for the ascent, stood in earnest colloquy with a tall, lean staff-officer. Behind them the others conversed in tones just loud enough to be heard in the incessant roar. They were discussing the disaster of the dawn.

The blow of the enemy had been terrible. The Army had been smitten in its eyes. It was now only a blind giant striking at an adversary whose vision was unimpaired. The entire air-squadron of the force, rising from its harbourage at the break of day, had been suddenly assailed by a superior fleet that dropped out of the clouds upon them. Watchers from below had seen short lightning flashes stabbing the grey mist, had heard a sharp outbreak of firing, had seen phantom aeroplanes rising, circling, swooping, colliding in thin cloud, had seen the machines one after another tumble and dive, lapped by flames, in a sickening rush to earth. Not theirs alone now lay, crumpled and contorted masses of scrap-iron, over the countryside, but of theirs none had escaped. The rear of their battle-line was a picture that his scouts could report upon at leisure. What lay at the rear of his? None knew, but the vehemence of his fire told that he was pressing his advantage. The presentiment of defeat lay heavy on the little group as they disputed on the blame to be allotted for the catastrophe.

The staff-officer tugged impatiently at his little grey moustache. His teeth champed at a bit of grass that was no longer there. In his anxiety he had not noticed that it had fallen from his mouth.

"I wish those chaps would be quick," he said. "The General is most anxious to have that flank cleared up."

"They are being quick, sir," replied the aviator, with a smile. His keen, thoughtful face showed that he was not indifferent to the urgency of the situation, but his calm mouth told of nerves that nothing could shake. Within that green bower lay the one hope of the Army--its lightest and swiftest monoplane, damaged in landing the day before, now being repaired as fast as skilled hands could do the work.

"You quite understand, don't you?" said the staff-officer, repeating himself for the tenth time. "The General thinks that a movement is in progress against our right flank. A screen is extending there which he cannot penetrate. If they are moving a large force round us he can detach the Sixth Division to hold them, and with a massed attack he'll crumple up their left centre which they must have weakened. He'll repeat Salamanca, that's what he said--I don't know what happened at Salamanca," he concluded irritably, "but anyway he daren't move a man till he's sure. I wish your chaps would get finished." He looked up into the air above him with a circling glance. "How many have they got now?"

"Four, I make it," replied the aviator equably. "They had ten yesterday. Five were smashed up this morning. One got winged an hour ago."

At that moment a dirty and perspiring man came out of the bower and, approaching them, saluted.

"Ready, sir," he said.

"Right. Get her out, then," said the aviator. "No! Wait!" His gaze had gone up to the sky. "There he comes again."

"D--n!" said the staff-officer, staring upwards also.

High in the air an aeroplane was coming towards them, parallel with their own battle-line. In the swollen roar of the conflict, the hum of its engine was inaudible. It seemed to drift onward leisurely enough, sinking slightly as it approached but well above effective gun-fire. Tiny white dots of smoke that sprang into the air below it were a proof of that. Slowly, as though making a careful examination, it passed overhead. Suddenly it turned and dropped still lower, coming back towards them. Something had awakened suspicion in the men up there. The reason for that artificial bush became apparent. The staff-officer gazed at the aeroplane, now rapidly enlarging itself in his vision, as though mesmerised. Anxiety for that precious machine under the leaves paralysed him.

The aviator had turned to look at the gun on the motor-lorry. The group about it sat in quiet expectation. Its muzzle moved gently, came a little out of the perpendicular. The aviator looked up again at the machine drifting overhead. He heard a sudden heavy detonation on his left and almost simultaneously he saw a bright flash appear in the dark body of the aeroplane. The machine lurched, toppled, dived, and, falling rapidly, turned bottom up in the air. A couple of dark figures fell out, raced it in its rush to the ground. A long minute later it struck the centre of the field. Flames burst out of a shapeless wreck. The aviator did not heed it. He ran towards the bower.

"Quick!" he cried. "Get her out!"

Torn down by twenty pairs of eager hands, the bower fell apart. The little monoplane was run out, lay like a dragon-fly resting lightly on the earth.

The aviator climbed into his seat between the wings, sent a glance from the compass to the map held open in its frame, saw that the message bags were ready to his hand, tested the strap of the field-glasses hanging from his neck with a sharp tug. He was ready. In front of him two soldier mechanics stood holding the long blades of the tractor screw. Over there, beyond the wood, the uproar of the battle mounted in violent paroxysms each of which surpassed its predecessor. The tall staff-officer approached and held out his hand.

"Good-bye--and good luck," he said, "and for Heaven's sake let us know what's happening on that flank. Don't wait to get back--drop the message." He looked at his watch. "It's now twelve--if we don't know something within an hour it's all over with our chance. Can you manage it?"

"I'll try, sir," said the aviator, checking the hour with a glance at his own clock.

The staff-officer turned an anxious pair of eyes upward for a swift look into the sky, seemed about to make a remark and then obviously refrained. "Good luck!" was all he could trust himself to say.

The aviator smiled and nodded cheerfully. Then he ejaculated a sharp order to the mechanics. They flung the blades of the tractor into revolution. The machine, emitting a series of riflelike reports, commenced to run across the field. The tractor became a blur.

The woodland appeared to rush towards him and then suddenly dropped away in a diagonal underneath. His eyes on the dial of the barograph, the aviator warped the machine round and set the planes to an acute angle of elevation. Confident in the power of his engine he mounted steeply in a spiral. The record on the dial rose with every second--100 feet--200--400. In two and a half minutes he had risen 1000 feet. He cast a swift look below him. He was still over the field, had a glimpse of a group of tiny figures clustered in front of the sheds. The rim of the horizon came up, the earth fell into a great concavity. It was like looking down into a vast bowl containing woods and fields and flattened hills. From the bowl clouds of yellow-grey dust arose like smoke and out of the dust came a multiplicity of heavy crashes that detached themselves from a background of unceasing clatter mingled with one long rolling thunderous roar.

It was but a hasty glance the aviator threw below him. Still mounting, his eyes searched the blue air on a level with himself, above him. The enemy's three machines where were they? Far off to his left a dark speck hung in the sky. He watched it intently as his machine climbed. It was a biplane. It appeared to be drifting away from him, engaged in a reconnaissance of their left flank, he decided. At any rate as yet they seemed not to have perceived him. The others were not visible. He shot a glance at the barograph--3000 feet. He had been climbing for five and a half minutes. Almost immediately he saw a trail of smoke ascending with incredible velocity in the air a little below him to his right. The trail finished abruptly in a vivid flash, a burst of white smoke and a violent detonation. The monoplane rocked from side to side in the sudden disturbance of the air but continued to climb. A second later a similar trial ended in an explosion at a level with him on his left. He saw a gash appear suddenly in the fabric of one of his planes, and the needle of the barograph switch back 50 feet with a jerk. Then the altitude record mounted again steadily--3250--3500--4000. The noise of the battle diminished as he rose, dropped to a point where it was all but obscured by the roar of his own engine. Below him the smoke trails leaped up at him and burst viciously in vain.

Four thousand five hundred--he glanced at the hostile biplane to his left and saw that it hung larger in the sky. Even in the moment for which he watched it it dilated. It was approaching at top speed. He was discovered, pursued. Instantly he turned off to his right and raced across the battlefield in the direction of the threatening flank. As he did so, he perceived another aeroplane rising from the enemy's lines. It climbed swiftly in bold swoops and then shot off towards him in a great upward slant. Two! Where was the third? He failed to discover it and held on his course.

His direction was at an angle across the battlefield which took him towards the enemy's left flank rather than to their own right. As he sped over it, he looked down upon a broad miles-long belt of yellow-grey dust that rose raggedly into the air, and was spotted with an innumerable multitude of white puffs that renewed themselves as fast as they were dissipated. In many places these puffs congregated thickly and, as they broke, linked themselves with others until they floated like little narrow clouds in the air below him. As he looked down into the great concavity of the earth he seemed to be over some enormous smoking fissure in a crater whose circumference was the horizon. The rumble and roar which ascended from it assisted the illusion. Tiny sparks of flame darted and flickered in the fumes of that inferno, and here and there flashed a number of glittering points, the reflection of the sun from advancing bayonets. To distinguish men was impossible, but in occasional rifts in the dust curtain he could make out brown patches of varying size, and, over to his left, on the enemy's side, similar though darker patches.