CHAPTER IX
A FIGHT TO A FINISH
For the next three days the crew of the battleplane were kept busily employed in getting ready for active service against the Huns. With the utmost expediency thousands of bullets made to Desmond Blake's specification had been turned out in one of the British ammunition factories and dispatched across to the aerodrome. Here they were taken in hand by mechanics attached to the R.F.C. and fitted into ordinary Service rifle cartridges for use with the automatic guns.
Both Athol and Dick had to undergo a brief but efficient machine gun course, and were instructed in the art of aiming at rapidly-moving targets from an equally mobile platform. Several branches of the flying officers' art they were not at present to touch. Blake's battleplane was to be used for purely offensive purposes, so that there was no occasion for the lads to be instructed in registering, observation and reconnaissance work. Nor was there time to study wireless. An apparatus had, however, been installed, and to work it a fourth member of the crew was appointed—Sergeant Michael O'Rafferty.
O'Rafferty was an Irishman by birth, name and characteristics. He was a light-weight of eight stone seven pounds, as agile in body as he was mercurial in temperament. Already he had two Hun biplanes to his credit, and was one of the most reckless flying men of that particular squadron.
Amongst other alterations to the battleplane on becoming a Service machine a regulation bomb-dropping device had been fitted in the floor of the fuselage. Eighteen powerful bombs were to be carried, and, when occasion arose, released by the application of the pilot's foot upon a pedal, while for offence against bodies of troops boxes of "flêches" or steel arrows were stowed on board.
The arrival from London of their uniforms completed the lads' preparations, and fully equipped they eagerly awaited an opportunity of meeting the Hun airmen.
The chance came sooner than they expected, for late one evening, when most of the reconnaissance machines had returned to their hangars, four enemy battleplanes were observed to be approaching. They were flying high to avoid the anti-aircraft guns in the rear of the third line of trenches.
Enemy air-raids had been few of late. The Hun aviators for the most part contented themselves by merely patrolling behind their lines on swift Fokkers, swooping down upon the equally daring but under-powered aeroplanes employed by the British for observation purposes. On this occasion it was evident that a raid upon the aerodrome was in contemplation.
Instantly there was a rush to man the British aircraft. Three got away before Desmond Blake could collect his crew and drag the battleplane from her shed; but once the huge mechanical bird drew clear of the ground her marked superiority in climbing became apparent.
Athol stood by the foremost quickfirer; O'Rafferty was at the after one; Dick had perforce to tend to the motors since the slightest hitch might result in victory to their opponents. Blake, cool and collected, though it was the first time that he was opposed to a hostile airman's fire, piloted the swift battleplane, manoeuvring to gain the equivalent to the old time "weather-gage"—a superior altitude.
Observing the novel type of aircraft rising to meet them, two of the Fokkers circled and prepared to dart down upon their opponent. Either they misjudged the speed and power of the British battleplane or else they deprecated the skill of her crew until it was too late.
With her engines all out the battleplane darted across and far beneath the downward course of the two German aircraft. A sharp burst of machine gun fire from the Huns was futile, for under-estimating the speed of their antagonist they made insufficient allowance in their aim. Harmlessly a sheaf of several hundred bullets whizzed astern of the secret battleplane.
Round swung the Fokkers in pursuit. For the first time they realised that in a climbing contest they were hopelessly beaten. In twenty seconds Blake had secured an undisputable gain. He was nearly a thousand feet above his opponents, and almost immediately overhead.
In that position the British battleplane was immune from her opponent's fire. The machine guns of the Fokkers were mounted so that they could fire ahead between the blades of the swiftly-moving propellers—less than five per cent. of the bullets being deflected in their path through the arc of revolution. The guns could also be swung round to fire on either side, but training of the weapons in a vertical plane was considerably restricted. It was impossible to fire at any target that was anything like overhead; a contingency that the Huns had not provided for, since their hitherto superior speed enabled them to decide their own conditions of fighting.
"Stand by, Athol!" shouted Blake.
Considering that Athol had been "standing by" during the whole of the flight the order seemed unnecessary until the lad grasped the significance of his superior officer's bidding.
Like a kestrel the battleplane dived towards the nearmost of her opponents. The pilot of the Fokker saw the danger. Discharging a large smoke-bomb he strove to escape under cover of the dense pall of vapour. For a few seconds it seemed as if the manoeuvre would prove successful, until Blake turned his craft and brought her on a parallel course to the escaping Hun.
The Fokker could now use her machine guns, although aiming was a matter of extreme difficulty. A hail of bullets clipping neat little holes in the tips of the battleplane's wings showed how close the shots were to securing telling hits.
Athol and Sergeant O'Rafferty opened fire simultaneously, since both machine guns could be brought to bear upon the German aircraft. Caught by the stinging hail of bullets the Fokker's struts and tension wires seemed to fly into fragments. Her shattered planes tilted upwards as she commenced to fall earthwards. Then, bursting into flames, the Hun machine crashed to the ground two thousand feet below.
A peculiar and disconcerting ping close to Athol's head warned him that the fight was not yet over. The second Fokker, finding that the mysterious aeroplane was directing its attention upon Hun No 1, had manoeuvred for its favourite position, and owing to the battleplane describing a circle the relative distance was now considerably decreased.
In a trice Blake banked steeply. As he did so O'Rafferty let loose a couple of dozen rounds. The Hun, hit more than once, turned and fled.
Giving a hasty glance round Blake took in the situation. The remaining Fokkers had been disposed of by the British biplanes, but not before one of the latter had to make an involuntary landing with its petrol tank perforated like a sieve and its observer badly wounded. There was now a fair chance of matching Blake's battleplane against the vaunted and possibly overrated Fokker.
The latter, with clouds of smoke pouring from her exhaust, was making off towards her own lines. Before gaining shelter she would have to pass over the British trenches less than thirty miles from the encounter, even if she were successful in throwing off pursuit.
Blake was equally determined to smash his opponent long before the latter came within sight of the German trenches. It was essential that in this early stage the secret battleplane should not show herself to the Huns over their own lines. The systematic disappearance of the "star" enemy airmen, without any hint of the nature of their destruction, would have a telling effect upon the morale of their flying men. It was a parallel case to the steady and unannounced decrease in the number of German submarines, scores of which left port never to return, and leaving no record of their disappearance save that known and jealously guarded by the British Admiralty.
"Now see what you can do, Athol," exclaimed Blake, as the battleplane, gaining upon her antagonist hand over fist, was in a favourable position to open fire.
Glancing along the sights Athol pressed the thumbpiece of the firing-mechanism. Some of the shots took effect, for the Fokker, in spite of the frantic efforts of the pilot to keep it under control, began to dive.
Athol ceased firing. The hostile aircraft was done for. Humanity urged him to let the Hun crew save themselves if it were possible to avoid being dashed to pieces upon the ground.
Erratically swaying, lurching and side-slipping, with one of the wings twisted like a broken reed, the German aircraft fell through a thousand feet of space before the pilot was able to check its descent. For ten seconds it seemed on the point of recovering itself, then the headlong flight was resumed.
Well in its wake followed the British battleplane. Blake was resolved to watch developments. He was curious to know the fate of the Hun crew.
Retarding the battleplane's flight the pilot kept her well under control, circling around the path of his defeated antagonist. Just as the Fokker was on the point of landing with an appalling crash the machine tilted acutely, then making a tail-dive alighted heavily upon the ground, throwing both pilot and observer from their seats.
In an instant the redoubtable Hun pilot regained his feet. Although fully expectant to be greeted by a discharge from the battleplane's machine-gun he staggered towards the wreckage and dragged his unconscious comrade further from the pile of tangled and twisted metal and canvas. Then striking a match and igniting his celluloid map he threw the blazing fabric into the petrol-soaked wreckage.
Bringing the battleplane to earth within twenty-five yards to windward of the burning aeroplane Blake descended, followed by Athol and the sergeant.
The Hun, revolver in hand, stood on the defensive, although no escape was possible, for already soldiers were hurrying up from their billets in a neighbouring hamlet. The Hun, not knowing what treatment he would be accorded, was evidently under the impression that no quarter would be given.
"Hands up!" ordered Blake.
"You no shoot, me no shoot," replied the German aviator, still brandishing his pistol. "Spare my life and surrender I will make."
"We respect a brave foe," exclaimed Blake. "But you are our prisoner."
The German dropped his revolver and folded his arms. Blake advanced with outstretched hands to compliment his opponent on his bravery, but as he did so the aviator reeled and fell senseless to the ground.
"They'll both pull through, I should imagine," declared an army doctor who with others had hurried to the spot. "They look a pair of tough birds. But, by Jove! what type of aircraft have you here?"
"Just an experiment," replied Blake modestly. "We haven't done so badly for a first attempt. Hop in, Athol, night's coming on apace, and I'd rather tackle half a dozen Huns than risk a landing in the dark."