Chapter 26

Disabled in Mid-air

Ross climbed agilely into the observer's seat, and, at his flying companion's suggestion, buckled a broad leather strap round his waist. At his right hand was the wireless transmitter, together with a pair of prismatic glasses and map. The latter was held in a transparent celluloid case, while the glasses were secured by a cord sufficiently long to enable the observer to use them in any direction. Everything was attached to the sea-plane so that in the event of the machine having to "loop the loop" nothing would be lost.

The Sub, who for the present was to act as pilot, took his place in the forward part of the body. Giving a few preliminary touches to the mechanism, he announced that everything was in order.

The self-starter was released and the motor fired, causing the twin propellers to buzz smoothly and powerfully.

Ross waved his hand to his chum as the sea-plane glided away from the _Capella_, and from that moment his whole attention was centred upon the work on which he was engaged.

For nearly a hundred yards the sea-plane "taxied", rising lightly over the waves; then almost imperceptibly it glided upwards with an even motion. Ross could hardly believe he was flying until he saw the sea apparently receding from him.

"All right?" asked the Sub through the telephone that formed the only audible means of communication between pilot and observer. "Not feeling giddy?"

"Not a bit," replied Ross. Without experiencing the faintest sensation of vertigo, he found himself able to lean over the side of the chassis and look down at the scene two thousand feet beneath him.

The sea-plane was rising in a direction diverging obliquely with the coast. She was, in fact, almost over the line of empty transports that looked little bigger than a fleet of toy boats. Farther away could be discerned the _Capella_ and her consorts, moving with apparent slowness upon a perfectly calm sea, for at that altitude the waves were merged into a flat surface. Small splashes of white--the spray thrown up by falling shells--could be seen all around the patrol-vessels, which, in obedience to a signal, had now taken up a position rather nearer to the monitors.

Presently the Flight-Sub, having gained the desired altitude, moved the steering-plane ever so slightly. Quickly the machine answered her helm, swinging round until she pointed towards the land.

Three minutes later Ross found himself immediately above the British monitors. The sea-plane was now pitching slightly in the disturbed air, for the concussion of the heavy weapons was distinctly felt even at seven hundred yards above the bombarding ships. Although the roar of the concerted cannonade was deafening, Ross heard not a sound of it. To all intents, as far as he was concerned, the guns might have been fired with silencers attached to their muzzles. The whirr of the sea-plane's motor and the rush of air past his ears out-voiced every other sound.

Five miles beyond the line of monitors, could be discerned the Belgian coast, composed for the most part of undulating sand-dunes dotted with clusters of buildings.

As the sea-plane approached the land Ross could, with the aid of his binoculars, distinguish other objects--wavy lines, dotted with ant-like figures bunched together round something that looked like stumps of a lead pencil. The lines were the German trenches, the "ants" grey-coated artillerymen, and the "stumps" the heavy howitzers.

"That's our pigeon!" spoke the Flight-Sub through the telephone. "The battery a hundred yards to the north of that ruined church tower. Our fellows haven't knocked it out yet. Wireless them; fifty yards over."

Ross sent the desired information. The sea-plane, having flown over its objective, turned, describing an elongated figure eight. As she swung round, Ross noticed a mushroom-like cloud of white smoke a short distance beneath, and to the left of the fuselage. Then another a hundred feet immediately in front. At each "mushroom" the sea-plane curtsied. Something zipped close to the lad's ear. A wire snapped, the severed portions circling themselves into erratic spirals. A fragment of fabric from one of the main planes flew past him, like a scrap of tissue-paper in the grip of a boisterous wind.

Then Ross tumbled to it. Those silent mushrooms of smoke were shrapnel shells bursting unpleasantly close. For a moment, the young observer felt himself seized by an almost irresistible impulse to take refuge under the coaming surrounding his seat. He uttered an involuntary exclamation of unwelcome surprise.

"What's up?" asked a voice in his ear. It was the Flight-Sub, to whom the telephone had transmitted Ross's exclamation.

"Nothing," replied the lad.

"Thought so," was the laconic reply. "Don't worry."

Reasoning with himself, Ross came to the decision that the advice was thoroughly sound. Worrying would not help him in the least; neither would cowering inside the frail body of the sea-plane. Twice within a very short space of time he had experienced a sensation of "funk". Twice he was surprised to find how quickly he recovered; for, at the next shot from the monitor for which he was "spotting", he found that the sensation of "cold feet" had given place to one of exhilaration when he was able to record a "direct hit".

By this time the initial operations were terminating. The German fire had almost ceased to be troublesome. Most of the big howitzers and long-range guns had been knocked out. A few were still firing, but very erratically.

At a signal from the senior officer, the monitors drew out of range, and steaming at the maximum speed--a bare 11 knots--kept a course parallel with the shore, accompanied by the patrol-vessels and transports.

Well above effective shrapnel range, the squadron of sea-planes headed for Zeebrugge. A number of aviatiks, which were flying over the German new sea base, hurriedly turned tail. Previous experience had taught them that naval air-craft could hit hard, in addition to carrying out observation work.

There were, however, plenty of evidences that the Germans were rushing up thousands of troops in order to deal with the supposed landing in force. Train after train made towards the town, crammed with soldiers.

The sea-planes let the trains pass unhindered. It was not their purpose to stop Germans from pouring into Zeebrugge. Once the troops were there, then would be the time to cut their lines of communication.

Again the monitors opened fire. Their reception was hotter than it had been in the neighbourhood of Ostend, for, in spite of frequent and destructive molestation, the Germans had succeeded in throwing up numerous heavily armed and cleverly concealed batteries.

At almost extreme range the British ships maintained a rapid high-angle fire. In a few minutes fires had broken out in several places. Fifteen-hundred-pound shells dropped in the canal basin, blowing to atoms several submarines that were in the process of fitting out. The harbour works were swept by the huge projectiles. The long curved breakwater suffered heavily. Huge gaps appeared in the solid masonry. Everything lying afloat in the enclosed water was either set on fire or sunk. In an hour the havoc wrought at Zeebrugge had wiped out the work of months.

Ross had little time to notice the work of destruction. His particular business was to observe the fire directed upon a large redoubt to the north-east of the town. The first shell from the monitor fell short, blowing an enormous crater in the grass-grown dunes. The second fell beyond, completely demolishing a house. The third dropped fairly in the centre of the redoubt, causing a terrific explosion that was not due solely to the lyddite bursting-charge. The magazine had exploded.

Skywards rushed an enormous cloud of black and yellow smoke. Caught by the blast of the violently displaced air the sea-plane rocked, then began dropping like a stone.

For the moment Ross imagined that the end had come. He was no longer afraid. A sensation of intense curiosity as to what the machine and its occupants would look like seemed to obsess his mind.

Then, with a jerk that reminded the midshipman of the sudden starting of a lift, the sea-plane "flattened out" and began to climb out of the enveloping cloud of smoke.

The Flight-Sub turned his head and grinned broadly. His manner could not do otherwise than inspire confidence. Although not a pilot, he was master of the frail machine. Side-slips and nose-dives troubled him but little, provided he was flying at a safe altitude.

"A jolly good wipe-out!" he exclaimed. "There won't be many Bosches left within half a mile of that battery, I'm thinking. Now watch when the next shot lands: that will give you the objective."

A sharp buzzing in the receiver attached to Ross's flying helmet announced that the monitor was "calling up" her observer. Quickly the lad seized the pencil, and gave the signal that he was ready to take down the message.

The Morse signal, when translated into writing, was as follows:--

"Register Position 47."

"Good!" exclaimed the Plight-Sub when Ross had telephoned him the message. He consulted his map, which was similar to the one at the observer's disposal "Position 47: that's a railway junction."

In the course of their work of fortifying Zeebrugge, the Huns had constructed a double-track railway, passing within a few yards of the Dutch frontier for several miles before heading straight for the new submarine base. Two miles from Zeebrugge the line joined the existing railway, the junction being recorded on British airmen's maps as Position 47.

The time was now ripe for the monitor which had successfully demolished the redoubt to attempt a similar exploit, namely, to destroy the junction.

The sea-plane's appearance was the signal for a furious fire from the numerous anti-aircraft guns mounted in the vicinity of the station.

At six thousand feet the risk of being hit was small, while the height did not prevent the observer making a fairly accurate register of the hits.

It was a very long range, but the monitor's 14-inch guns did excellent work. Seven shells sufficed to reduce the station to a heap of ruins and blow whole sections of the line to atoms.

Again came a wireless order:

"Sea-plane to proceed to Zwilhuit. Attempt destruction of bridge across canal."

Once more the Flight-Sub smiled. This was work that suited him immensely. For the nonce "spotting" was finished with. The sea-plane had to drop her cargo of bombs upon an important strategic position.

"All right!" exclaimed the Flying officer. "Keep a cool head. When I give the word, press that pedal under your right foot. Bend down and you'll find a safety pin just above the floor. Remove it, but be jolly careful not to touch the pedal until I give the word."

Underneath the fuselage were six bombs hanging from an inclined steel rod. These were released by means of a rachet operated by the pedal to which the Flight-Sub had alluded. To prevent a premature release the pedal was "locked" by a safety device. When this was removed, each depression of the pedal would result in the liberation of a potent missile of destruction.

The sea-plane was not alone on her errand. In her wake flew two more, for the actual bombardment had now ceased, and the air-craft were at liberty to engage upon a raid several miles inland.

The Huns had not constructed their strategic railway close to the Dutch frontier without a cunning reason. Extreme care had to be exercised by British airmen, since it was an easy matter for a bomb to drop across the border. Nothing would please the Germans better, for at once there would be a case of violation of Dutch territory. On the other hand, the Huns had no scruple in mounting a battery of anti-aircraft guns, training them in such a manner that the earthward flight of spent shrapnel would assuredly fall upon the Dutch village of Venterloos, which was separated from Zwilhuit by a distance of less than four hundred yards.

In twenty minutes the sea-plane's objective came in sight: a broad line of railway crossing a canal by means of a steel bridge. It was evident that the Germans meant this base to be a permanent one, for the bridge was of massive construction, strong enough to bear the transport of the heavy 42-centimetre guns, and yet sufficiently high above the waterway to admit the passage of large lighters with towering deck-cargoes.

"Stand by!" cautioned the Flight-Sub. "Keep cool. Do as well as you have already done, and everything will go like greased lightning."

Volplaning at an acute angle, the sea-plane swooped down upon her quarry. Shrapnel shells burst over, in front, behind, and underneath her. It seemed impossible that such a frail object could escape destruction.

At five hundred feet the Flight-Sub checked her downward course.

"Now!" he ordered. "And again!"

Two puffs of white smoke marked the points of explosion of the powerful bombs. One had fallen fifty yards short of the bridge; the other had burst almost at the junction of the railway lines.

Round spun the sea-plane. As she turned Ross could discern the second of the aerial raiders gliding down, while the third was still at a great altitude. Before the one in which Ross was flying could again soar over its target the second sea-plane had dropped three of her missiles. All fell close to the bridge. The work of demolition was accomplished, for when the smoke and dust cleared away the substantial fabric had been precipitated, a mass of twisted steel, into the canal.

"Two more on the station and then we've finished," exclaimed the Flight-Sub. "Ready?"

"Ay, ay!" replied Ross.

He turned his head to watch the progress of the other sea-planes. One was still maintaining a terrific altitude, and showed no signs of making a volplane.

The other was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was as well that the midshipman had not noticed what had befallen her, for a few seconds previously a shrapnel shell had burst close underneath the chassis. The explosion had communicated itself to the remaining bombs, with the result that utter annihilation had overtaken the plucky British airmen in the moment of their triumph.

Ross's companion had witnessed the catastrophe. More, his trained eye had discerned half a dozen small specks in the western sky. Quickly he brought his binoculars to bear upon them. No mistake now; the specks revealed themselves as German aviatiks intent upon cutting off the retreat of the two remaining British air-craft.

Not until Ross had dropped the remaining bombs did his companion speak.

"We've a bit of a shooting match on," he announced. "Get that rifle ready. It's under the coaming on your right hand. Sight at three hundred yards, and let rip when I give the word."

Ross took up the weapon almost as a matter of course. After the excitement of bomb-dropping and being shelled by shrapnel, the approach of a fleet of Zeppelins would hardly disturb his equanimity.

Already the third sea-plane, having gained a favourable altitude, was making straight for her numerous opponents.

The Flight-Sub now began to speed his machine up, climbing in short spirals, so as to gain what was equivalent to the "weather-gauge" in the sea battles of Nelson's days.

Ross unslipped the rifle. Mechanically he set the back-sight, and jerked open the bolt-action to assure himself that the magazine was charged. As he did so he became aware that the cartridges were bent and buckled. A piece of shrapnel, passing through the side of the fuselage, had lodged in the magazine of the rifle. In addition, although it was possible to withdraw the bolt, the striking-pin had jammed. As a weapon the rifle was useless. By stopping the shrapnel bullet the rifle had saved Ross from a serious and perhaps mortal wound.

The midshipman was on the point of reporting the disablement of the weapon, when the motor gave vent to a peculiar cough and abruptly stopped. Unknown to the pilot the petrol-tank had been pierced almost at its lowest point. The remaining petrol had been used up during the spiraling process. The sea-plane was now at an altitude of three thousand feet; propulsion, except under the force of gravity, was no longer possible.

The Flight-Sub was quick to act. Before the hitherto climbing air-craft began diving tail downwards, he regulated the elevating planes, and a long volplane ensued. The sea-plane was bound to come to earth, but it was not on hostile soil that the airman hoped to alight. His goal was the ground beyond the seemingly endless line of barbed wire that marked the frontier between Belgium and Holland.

The anti-aircraft guns had now opened fire, blazing furiously away at the rapidly descending sea-plane. The rapidity of her descent saved her, for, before the time-fuses could be altered to suit the ever-varying range, the air-craft was well below the bursting-point of the missiles. Nothing but a direct hit--a most difficult matter--could harm her now.

At a thousand feet she passed the border-line. Still the Archibalds barked. Ross could see the Dutch frontier guards bolting for shelter as the hall of bullets fell on neutral ground. Not until the sea-plane was well over the boundary did the guns reluctantly cease fire.

The earth appeared to leap up and meet the descending machine. It looked as if a terrific smash were inevitable. A sea-plane alighting upon solid ground has a thousand chances against her, for, being unprovided with landing wheels, she is not adapted to withstand successfully the impact with the earth.

Cool and collected, the Flight-Sub "flattened her out" to a nicety. At forty miles an hour the floats struck the ground. For twenty yards the sea-plane skidded, then with a rending crash the floats and a network of struts and tension-wires gave way under the abnormal strain. The next instant Ross found himself sprawling on the sandy soil, the sudden jerk tearing his securing-belt from its fastenings.

He sat up. A multitude of dazzling lights seemed to flash before his eyes. He was dimly aware of a tangle of wreckage, out of which a practically undamaged plane rose at an oblique angle, lumbering the ground quite twenty yards from where he found himself. Men were hastening towards the wrecked sea-plane from all directions, but, thank Heaven, they did not wear the uniform of the Hun.

With his head still whirling, Ross was supported by two Dutch soldiers, while a third poured a quantity of raw spirits down his throat. Blood was streaming from a gash on his forehead, and his knees, grazed and discoloured, were visible through rents in his trousers.

Of what happened during the next quarter of an hour, the midshipman had but a very hazy idea. The men had laid him on the ground, propping him against a large stone. He felt horribly sick. The pain across his chest, caused by the strain upon the leather belt, was acute--far worse than the wound on his forehead which the kindly soldiers were bathing with handkerchiefs dipped in water.

The men were talking excitedly. He could not understand what they were saying. He felt inclined to tell them to shut up. They irritated him beyond measure; if only they would go away and leave him in peace he would be deeply grateful.

Suddenly it dawned upon him that he had been in an awful smash. The wrecked sea-plane had not hitherto led the train of his thoughts to the subject of the accident. Now he realized his position.

"Where's my companion?" he asked, "Is he knocked out?"

"Do not yourself fret," said a voice that sounded far away. "He is hurt, but badly not at all. We him have carried away. I am a doctor. You quiet must be, and zen recovery rapide will be."

The doctor--a Dutch army surgeon--ran his hands lightly over the lad's limbs.

"Goot!" he ejaculated. "Nodings broken is."

He gave directions to the men in attendance. A stretcher was laid on the ground beside the lad. Two men lifted him gently upon it. Even as they did so, Ross gave a low groan and passed into merciful oblivion.