The Secret Battleplane

by Percy F. Westerman

CHAPTER III

THE WONDERS OF THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE

"It's a long story," began Athol, having first given their questioner their names. "We don't want to bore you, Mr. Blake."

"Not at all," the host hastened to assert. "I am all attention."

"Suppose I ought to go back to the early stages of the war," said Athol. "You see, one yarn does for both of us, since we share and share alike. Fifteen months ago we were at a boarding-school in the south of England. It was only a small affair. We were prefects and all that sort of thing, and had practically finished our education before entering an engineering college. Dick's father is a major serving in Mesopotamia, my governor is a lieutenant-colonel and a prisoner of war at Meseritz. We have no relatives left in England. After a time we ran away from school and enlisted. You see, we are fairly big fellows and somehow we couldn't hang back. The training part wasn't half bad, although we had a couple of gypsies, an ex-convict, and a solicitor as billet-mates. Then we did five months in France, and got on jolly well until we were both offered commissions. That put the hat on the show."

"How was that?" asked Mr. Blake.

"The colonel sent us back to the regimental depot, and while our papers were under consideration the War Office made us produce our birth certificates. Then they found out that we were both under eighteen, so they pushed us out of the army—worse luck."

"Wouldn't even give us a chance to go back to the ranks," added Dick. "And we were having quite a good time. We'd stuck it through the best part of the winter, and the warmer weather was coming; but it was no use. They turned us down."

"And so we thought we'd have a fling before we settle down to engineering," continued Athol. "We both have a little money. We bought the motor-bike and side-car—got it dirt cheap from a fellow who was going to join up. We started off through the Midlands, were in the thick of the last Zepp raid in Northampton, went on through Newark, York, Halifax, and Lancashire, and then to Cheshire. From thence to Shrewsbury and here we are."

"What regiment were you in?" enquired their host.

The lads produced the documents that had effectually floored the recruiting sergeants at Shrewsbury. They were their discharges from the Loyal North Lancashires.

"Wonder, with your mechanical turn of mind, that you hadn't tried for the Royal Engineers or the Flying Corps," remarked Mr. Blake.

"We did have a shot at the R.F.C., but there were no vacancies at that moment," explained Athol. "We were rather cut up about it. But we did see some flying out there. Once we saw our monoplanes bring down a couple of Taubes one after the other; but sometimes we saw what we didn't want to see—our machines outclassed by those Fokkers. The brutes have the advantage, you know. They climb much more quickly than ours. It's not that they are more powerfully engined. It's the design. Our fellows are frightfully keen, but they are handicapped."

"You seem keen on aviation?"

"Rather," replied Athol, enthusiastically.

"Then, perhaps, my modest workshop may interest you," remarked Desmond Blake. "Pon' my word I don't know why I should allow you to inspect my work; I have kept it a strict secret so far, even dispensing with a staff of assistants in order to be untrammeled by the unwelcome visits of more or less incompetent factory inspectors."

He paused, pondering over in his mind some debatable point.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, noticing his guests' empty soup plates. "We're supposed to be at lunch, and I had forgotten the fact."

In answer to a summons on a bell the old servant reappeared, deftly removed the plates and served the second course. This done, he went out.

"Since you have given me a résumé of your career," said Mr. Blake, "perhaps you might like to hear mine, at all events since the momentous day, the fourth of August, 1914.

"At the outbreak of hostilities I was in South America, doing remarkably well in mining engineering. A particular hobby of mine was flying, and having made three or four successful experimental machines, embodying features not previously known to aviation, I naturally thought that my experience would be welcome to the War Office.

"Accordingly I settled my affairs out there with the utmost dispatch and hurried home. My first interview with the authorities at Whitehall was decidedly frigid. They were awfully polite, but somehow they failed to come to any practical decision. Wanted a scale model, as if that would serve the same purpose as the actual machine I proposed to submit. I offered to have a battleplane complete, including engines, for inspection and test within fifteen days, but I was informed that this was unnecessary until the plans had been inspected by a sub-committee.

"Altogether half a dozen sub-committees tried their hands with my plans and specifications. Afterwards I discovered that hardly a single member knew anything about practical flying. Some of them hardly knew the difference between an airship and an aeroplane—asked questions on a par with those of the Yankee senator at the 'Titanic' enquiry.

"Without going into details I may say that my offer to the War Office was finally declined with thanks. I had no better luck with the Admiralty, for directly they learnt that the War Office had 'turned me down' I was metaphorically shown the door.

"I warrant that if I were a renegade and had taken my plans to Berlin the German government would have snapped them up, either by fair means or foul. As it is, their agents have been giving me a deal of trouble.

"However, foiled in my patriotic efforts I determined to erect a private factory, build a really formidable battleplane and give a practical demonstration over the heads of the War Office. My first trouble was to find a suitable site. It had to be in a remote district, far from a prohibited military area, yet fairly accessible from the important industrial centres. I lighted upon this place, and found it answered my purpose.

"Everything I have to do single-handed. I dare not run the risk of getting mechanics to help, partly, as I said before, owing to the Factory Act restrictions, but more especially from a fear lest my ideas should be filched.

"And now the finished article lies in my grounds, ready for instant flight, except for one drawback——"

"The snow, I suppose," hazarded Dick.

"Does not affect it to any appreciable extent," rejoined Desmond Blake. "My battleplane does not require hard, level ground for a 'take-off.' It will rise almost perpendicularly. No, it is not the climatic elements. To be concise I need a couple of capable and willing helpers, and judging by what you have already told me, I think you fellows have sufficient patriotism to volunteer your services in that direction. Am I right?"

Dick gave his chum an enquiring glance. Athol, naturally cautious, knew that Dick would have jumped at the offer.

"Your tempting invitation needs thinking over," replied Athol. "We should——"

"Of course," agreed Desmond Blake. "Of course. Suppose you defer your decision until you have inspected my invention? You will, I feel sure, treat the subject as one of a highly confidential nature."

"Rather," agreed both lads simultaneously.

"I knew you would," continued their host. "In any case you will be here a week at least, for the snow lies about a long time, and the roads will be simply impassable for motor traffic during the thaw. That is, if you decide to continue your journey by motor. There is always a means of getting to Church Stretton on foot and taking train from there. On the other hand, if you decide to remain, my house is at your disposal."

"You are awfully kind," said Athol.

"With an ulterior motive," added Desmond Blake. "You are the very fellows I was looking for. I want to 'rope you in.' That's speaking bluntly. I believe in saying what I mean without beating about the bush."

"You mentioned that you had trouble with the German agents," remarked Dick.

"I have reason to believe so," replied Blake. "I have no conclusive proofs. I can only infer that spies are at the bottom of the trouble. On three occasions my grounds were broken into. My gatekeeper, Harvey, a tough old chap in spite of his years, was able to thwart two attempts to break into my workshop. On the third instance I scared the intruder pretty badly by means of a shock with a high tension wire. At the same time the automatic shutter of a camera was released in the hope of getting the likeness of the gentleman in question. Unfortunately the magnesium flashlight failed to explode at the same moment as the exposure of the lens. What I ought to have done was to leave the lens uncovered. I shall know better next time."

"Wouldn't the plate become fogged?" asked Dick, who was a successful amateur photographer.

"Oh no; you must remember the attempt was made at night. The sudden flash of the magnesium acts much the same as the brief exposure of the plate in daylight."

The meal proceeded slowly, while conversation flowed briskly. Desmond Blake knew the value of a good lunch as an incentive to amiability, and had played his cards well. "Now for the hangar," he said, at the end of the meal. "You smoke? No, good; I'm glad to hear it. It's an expensive habit, although I have a great weakness in that direction. In fact, I sometimes find myself on the point of smoking a pipe in the petrol store."

"We've seen fellows in the Royal Flying Corps drop the glowing ends of their cigarettes in petrol just for sheer mischief," said Dick. "Nothing happened."

"But it might have," rejoined their host. "'Fraid it doesn't speak for the good quality of the petrol or the common sense of the men who fool about with it. It isn't the liquid petrol that is dangerous, but the vapour it gives off. I've been experimenting in that direction, trying to get a spirit that is non-inflammable under normal atmospheric pressure and only exploded when under compression."

"Have you been successful?" asked Athol.

"To a certain extent; that is to say, I have treated petrol so as to make it unresponsive at ordinary pressure except to a very hot spark."

Still conversing Desmond Blake led the way from the house, through a dense belt of pine trees, to a small clearing. The greater part of this space was occupied by a galvanised iron shed, at one end of which were large double doors. Between the threshold and the nearmost trees there was a distance of roughly ninety feet, the trees themselves exceeding a hundred and twenty feet in height.

"Here's the hangar," announced their guide, indicating the shed.

"Curious situation, if you don't mind my saying so," observed Athol. "You'll have to cut down more of those trees before the biplane is able to take flight."

"On the contrary there is more 'taking-off' space than is absolutely necessary, and, I might add, the machine is not a biplane. It is fashioned, as far as possible, on the principle of a bird, and unless my memory plays me false, I know of no bird possessing more than two wings. But here we are."

Desmond Blake rolled back one of the doors of the shed. The other, actuated by means of a flexible wire running over pulleys, slid back too.

"Merely a labour-saving device," said Blake. "I based my calculations upon a one-man show. But what do you think of her?"

In the dazzling reflected light from the snow the battleplane stood revealed to the lads' eager gaze. At first sight it hardly resembled a flying machine. It was more like a huge cigar raised at an angle of forty-five degrees and supported by a pair of trellis girders each of which in turn terminated in a couple of pneumatic-tyred wheels. The planes were folded against the fuselage; there were no signs of aerilons, horizontal or vertical rudders and other contrivances common to aeroplanes. This creation had the appearance of a gaunt, featherless bird standing erect on a pair of spidery legs.

"What propels it?" asked Dick. "Where is the propeller? And the planes? You said it was not a biplane. To me it looks like a nonplane. Hope I am not asking too many questions," he added apologetically.

"Fire away; as many as you like," rejoined Desmond Blake. "In the first place there is no propeller, that is, if you mean a rotary one. To go back to the simile of birds; they don't cleave through the air under the action of a two-bladed propeller. That, after all, is a tacit admission by aeronautical engineers that they are unable to copy nature; so they make a substitute that fails to perform the relative task that a bird's wings do with seemingly little effort. I have dispensed with a propeller and substituted mechanical planes that approximate very clearly the natural method of flying. Before I explain further we must get aboard; I'll show you the way. One could make use of a pair of steps, but they would be awkward things to carry about, especially at the Front."

With remarkable agility the inventor swarmed up a light aluminium ladder built into the girder-legs of the battleplane. Thirty feet up he disappeared from view through an aperture in the underside of the fuselage.

In a trice Dick followed, Athol ascending with more deliberation. The latter was puzzled at the great rigidity of the aluminium girders. Evidently Desmond Blake had solved the task of making the metal as tough as steel without any marked increase of weight. Another thing Athol noticed was that all the cross sections of the latticed girder were pear-shaped, the blunt end facing the direction of flight, the tapering end being aft. This was expressly for the purpose of reducing the friction of the air.

Squeezing through the trap door the lads found themselves on the floor of the chassis, which was composed of a succession of broad steps on inclined planes in order to afford a firmer footing when the battleplane was at rest. Between the floor and the curved roof or deck there was sufficient space for a tall man to stand upright. Against the concave sides were folded cots, in which those of the crew "off duty" could sleep during prolonged flights, while at approximately one-third of the length of the fuselage from the blunt nose was the motor room, a veritable nest of intricate, lightly-built and powerful machinery.

"Do you work the battleplane entirely from under cover?" asked Athol.

"Oh no," replied Desmond Blake. "It is essential to have a wide field of outlook. Here is the pilot's seat. Get in and see what it is like."

He indicated a circular seat perched about a foot beneath the deck, from which an oval-shaped opening provided with a raised coaming had been cut. Overhead was a light metal canopy which, when required, could be lowered flush with the top part of the chassis. To gain the seat from the floor of the fuselage it was necessary to make use of a metal ladder.

"Steady yourself by that horizontal bar," cautioned the inventor, indicating a short rod on the fore side of the coaming.

The warning was necessary, for, as Athol slid into the seat, the seat slid from him. It was only by hanging on to the bar and allowing his feet to dangle in the air that the lad saved himself from falling four or five feet to the floor.

"Don't say that I didn't give you fair warning," exclaimed Desmond Blake, while Dick laughed at his friend's predicament. "Now, have another shot at it. Lift yourself fairly into the seat. That's it."

"What's the idea?" enquired Athol.

"There are four seats like that, and each one is gimballed. That is, it is suspended in a similar manner to a compass on board ship, so that in spite of the motion the sitter is always 'right side up.' No matter how the battleplane banks, nose-dives, or even 'loops the loop,' the crew, seated in their allotted stations, are always in a natural position."

"That I can see," said Dick. "But how is a fellow to see where's he going when the plane is upside down? In that event his head and shoulders are inside the fuselage."

"Only for a few moments," replied the inventor. "The plane is self-righting, provided, of course, there is 'air-room.' Just give a glance at your friend's feet. No, there's nothing wrong with them. That's not what I meant. His feet are resting on a step, behind the step is a sheet of burnished metal inclined at an angle of forty-five. Now, in the event of the 'plane turning over on its major axis that mirror would project below the inverted deck of the chassis, and thus the pilot would still be able to 'look ahead.'"

Facing the pilot's seat were a few indicators and levers, whereby the altitude and speed of the plane could be determined and the aircraft steered on her course. A voice-tube communicated with the motor-mechanic who occupied the third seat. The second and fourth seats were raised slightly above the others, and were intended for the machine-gunners.

"The offensive armament is not yet on board," explained the inventor. "I have turned out a couple of automatic weapons firing eight hundred shots a minute. Here is one of the cartridges," he continued, drawing a metal cylinder from his pocket. "The calibre is 303, the same as that of the small arms of the British Army, but you must observe that the bullet is longer and different in other respects."

"It certainly is longer," agreed Dick, as he handled the cartridge. "But beyond that I see no difference."

"Do you notice a minute line round the bullet?" asked Blake. "The projectile is made in two parts. On leaving the muzzle the parts fly apart, but are held together by a length of flexible wire. Thus each bullet resembles a miniature chain-shot of the days of the old wooden walls. A hostile plane would stand little chance if under the fire of a hail of these bullets. There would be no clean holes in the fabric; struts and tension wires would be severed and the whole contraption would fall like a stone."

"Then what propels the plane?" asked Dick, his interest in the motors claiming precedence above all other constructional details.

"This pair of engines, each of two hundred horse-power," was the reply. "See, I actuate this lever and the wings—I prefer to call them wings rather than planes—unfold."

Swiftly, yet with an even movement, wings, hitherto lying snugly against the chassis, were outspread. Taking into consideration the length of the battleplane from nose to tail—barely fifty feet—the space from tip to tip of the wings looked disproportionately small. Each wing projected fifteen feet from the side, and curved backwards like that of a bird. The fabric from which the wings were made was composed of thin, specially-treated aluminium, in plates overlapping each other like tiles on the roof of a house.

"Now, Tracey," continued Desmond Blake, "see if you can coax the motors to start. If you can manage a car-engine you will be able to get them to fire. There's no danger of the bird taking flight. She's pinned down to the floor securely. At the same time I don't think I would run the motors all out, if I were you."

Deftly Dick set to work turning on the petrol and flooding the carburettor.

"Is it necessary to prime the motors?" he asked.

"They ought to fire without," replied the inventor. "There's the self-starter—that lever on your right."

At the first attempt the engines fired easily. In spite of being in a confined space there was very little noise, thanks to the efficient silencer. It was doubtful whether the purr of the motors could be heard beyond the limits of the grounds.

Yet, although the fabric of the battleplane trembled under the pulsations of the motors, the wings remained motionless save for the vibration imparted to the whole contrivance. Seeing Dick's look of enquiry the inventor pointed to a lever close to the lad's right hand.

"Gently with it," he cautioned. Depressing the lever Dick was aware of a terrific air-current rushing overhead. Dead leaves and pieces of aluminium sheeting that were lying on the floor of the shed were whisked up and flung about with great velocity. Peering over the edge of the coaming Dick could see that both wings were now beating the air with terrific violence, being actuated by a number of rods working on concealed cams. Supplementary rods imparted a second motion to the wings, the innermost and rearmost edges of which moved up and down independently of the primary movement of the fore part.

Stretching out his hand the inventor cut off the electric current, and the motors came to a standstill.

"Cannot afford to waste petrol in these hard times," he said with a smile. "You've seen enough to form an idea of how the plane flies. The mere up and down flap of the wings is insufficient; it is the peculiar twist of the after part that does the trick—something after the principle of a man sculling a boat by means of a single oar working over the transom. If he were to waggle the blades of the oar to and fro without giving a dexterous twist nothing would result except a see-saw motion of the boat. It certainly would not move ahead through the water, except for the tortuous movement of the oar."

"I should have thought that the wings were far too small," observed Athol.

"On the contrary they are just the right proportion compared with the weight and power of the motors," replied Desmond Blake. "I have not modelled my invention on the lines of an albatross, whose spread of wings is enormous. I had the lark in my mind's eye. That little bird, as you know, soars almost perpendicularly, yet the wings are small in proportion to the size and weight of its body. Now you have had a general idea of the secret battleplane. To return to the attack: are you fellows willing to sign on as crew?"

"Rather!" replied both lads without hesitation.