CHAPTER X
TRICKED
"Mornin', Blake," remarked the Wing Commander. "Feel like an out-and-home flight? Thought so. Well, give a glance at this map."
Three weeks had elapsed since the secret battleplane had worsted the two Fokkers—three weeks of strenuous activity. The battleplane bore many honourable scars, souvenirs of aerial combats. But as yet her rôle had been a purely defensive one; she had never gone over the German trenches, hostile anti-aircraft had not as yet sent their shrapnel shells bursting all around her. Already the Huns had learnt of the presence of a super-powerful aircraft of unique design, and with feelings akin to dismay they realised that risky as it had been to fly over the British lines it was no longer practicable anywhere within the radius of action of the mysterious mechanical bird.
"Look here," continued the Wing Commander, placing a long, slender finger on the unfolded map that lay on the trestle table, "that's Olhelt, a village or rather hamlet not far from Hasselt, and within ten miles of the Netherland Frontier.
"We've received information that the Bosches have a secret Zeppelin base there, and that their new airships that are to be employed solely for raids over England are finally tested there before passing to active service. The place is strongly protected by Archibalds, and there are a dozen planes constantly on duty. Now, I want you to make a reconnaissance. If possible, bomb the Zeppelins to blazes. Would you prefer to undertake the job alone or shall I send a supporting squadron of swift battleplanes?"
"We'll tackle it alone, sir, I think," replied Blake. "Our silent motors are a decided factor in our favour, which would be thrown away if we were accompanied by any biplanes."
"So I thought, but I felt that I ought to give you the option," rejoined the Wing Commander. "Now, there is another point. We have a Belgian officer here, a man furnished with the highest credentials from the Belgian headquarters. He's a Limburger, and knows the district around Olhelt remarkably well. His name, let me see,"—the officer referred to a docket—"yes, his name is Etienne Fauvart, a lieutenant of the 21st Regiment of the Line. This man, for patriotic and personal motives—it was he who first reported the Zeppelin base; had the information from a relative living near Hasselt—wishes particularly to take part in the raid. According to his story he has a heavy account to settle with the Bosches near his home. It occurred to me that he might be useful for pointing out the various landmarks. From all accounts the place is rather puzzling for a strange airman to find."
"Whether he is to come with us or otherwise is for you to decide, sir," said Blake.
"Personally I am inclined to favour the suggestion," continued the Wing Commander. "Since you are so good as to leave the matter in my hands, I think you'd better take Lieutenant Fauvart. I'll have him brought in."
He touched a bell. An orderly appeared in the doorway.
"Bring the Belgian officer here," ordered the Wing Commander.
Lieutenant Etienne Fauvart was a loose-limbed man of about thirty. He was of average height, broad of shoulder and dark-featured. Although he clicked his heels as he saluted he lacked the alertness of the typical British officer.
"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir," he said in English with a good accent when Desmond Blake and he were introduced. "Also I esteem it an honour to go with you in your magnificent invention. I hope that we are able to blow the Zeppelins to pieces. Ciel! I look to the hour."
"Certainly an enthusiast," thought Blake as the Belgian discussed with his British confrères the plan of attack.
It was eventually decided that the secret battleplane was to leave the flying ground at an hour before sunset, soar to a great altitude and arrive over her objective shortly after sunset. Elaborate arrangements were made for her return, the aerodrome to be brilliantly lighted on receipt of a wireless message from the returning battleplane. In view of the possibility of a failure of the wireless a red and a blue star rockets were to be fired by the airmen.
The Belgian officer formed a supernumerary member of the crew, since Blake was loth to leave either of his three airmen behind. Accordingly Fauvart was placed at the post usually occupied by Dick when his duty with the motors had for the time been accomplished. Young Tracey accepted the situation with the utmost good-nature. Although reluctant to miss the visual part of the fun he realised that it was "some" luck to be able to participate in the great raid.
For the rest of the day the airmen were busily engaged in overhauling the mechanism, studying maps and otherwise preparing for the task. Etienne Fauvart, evincing great interest in the battleplane, had taken a deep fancy to Dick, and followed him with keen zest, asking innumerable questions.
"The fellow bores me stiff," soliloquised the lad. "He seems a decent sort, but he does ask awkward questions. He looks too cute to be stuffed, and I don't like choking him off. The only thing I can suggest is to refer him to Blake."
The Belgian took the hint quite good-naturedly. He refrained from asking any further technical questions, but Dick noticed that he made no attempt to "freeze on" to the imperturbable inventor.
At length, at the appointed hour, the battleplane started on her adventurous flight, her crew being sent-off with the hearty good wishes of their brother airmen—wishes for the most part expressed in that bantering, happy-go-lucky style that characterises men who have more than a nodding acquaintance with death.
The thin air literally shook under the concussion of hundreds of heavy guns as the battleplane swung high over the opposing lines. A big "affair" was in progress—one of those furious exchanges of strafing that are airily referred to in the official reports as "an activity of some magnitude." Two mines had just been sprung, their positions marked by huge clouds of smoke and dust. But of the actual fighting none was visible to the crew of the battleplane. A dense haze hid the khaki and grey fighting men from view, although rifle firing and the rattle of machine-guns could be distinctly heard as the see-saw struggle for the possession of the newly-made craters continued with the utmost desperation.
So intense were the undulations of the atmosphere over the terrific cannonade that the battleplane rocked violently. Her wings, beating the disturbed air with tremendous speed, seemed hardly able to support the main fabric. While the flight over the scene of the fighting lasted the mechanical bird was plunging and banking like a ship in a heavy following gale. So severe was the strain that had any of the metal-work been the least defective the weakness would have shown itself with dire results. Even Blake gave vent to an exclamation of relief as the machine drew safely away from the disturbed area.
"The spires of Hasselt," declared Lieutenant Fauvart, when, half an hour later, one of many of the numerous Belgian towns appeared in view, showing up clearly in the slanting rays of the setting sun. "You see those forests to the north? Beyond them lies Olhelt. It is in a valley, with trees all around. Already the valley is in shadow. The time for vengeance is at hand."
Evidently vengeance was the uppermost thought in the man's mind. Both lads had been curious to know the reason for the Belgian's oft reiterated words, but with their typical English reticence had refrained from asking him for enlightenment.
"I am cold," exclaimed Fauvart a moment later. "A man who is cold cannot do his work well. I go and get my heavy coat."
"And he wouldn't take my advice before we started," thought Athol, as the Belgian slipped from his seat and disappeared within the fuselage.
"We are in sight of Olhelt," announced Fauvart to Dick, who was sitting on the floor by the side of the motors.
"Are we?" replied the lad. "Think I'll have a look out."
He made his way to the Belgian's vacated post, and, leaning over, took in the expanse of country far beneath. Blake was circling the battleplane, since it was yet too early to volplane to the work of destruction. At that immense height, and thanks to the almost total absence of sound, the battleplane was safe from observation from the earth.
"I feel like a stoker in a naval engagement," thought Dick as he returned to his post. "Nothing to see, and all up if anything goes wrong. Another ten minutes will see the job through."
It seemed an interminable time before an acceleration of the motors announced that Blake had disconnected the wing mechanism and had locked the wings for a spiral volplane.
Dick promptly throttled down, and stood ready at the first sign to open the motors all out. As he did so he became aware of a peculiar smell. It was something like but not the same as that of burning oil. Then with disconcerting suddenness the motors ceased firing.
"Engine failure," reported the lad.
"Hang it all!" ejaculated Blake. "Couldn't have occurred at a worse time."
The Belgian started and whipped out a revolver.
"For me there is no surrender," he exclaimed dramatically. "I shoot myself rather than be a prisoner of war to the Bosches."
"Stop it!" exclaimed Blake, releasing his hold of the controls and gripping the Belgian's arm. "We are not done in yet. Far from it. Put that thing away and be reasonable. Look out and see if you recognise a good landing-place."
Fauvart, rallied by Blake's manner, did as he was told. By this time the battleplane was less than two thousand feet up. Somewhat to the airmen's surprise no shells came from the invisible anti-aircraft guns known to be somewhere in the vicinity.
"There!" exclaimed the Belgian, indicating a clearing in the woods, where even in the twilight the grass showed distinctly against the darker green of the treetops. "It may be safe to land there. If the Bosches have not already seen us we may escape detection."
"Any luck yet, Dick?" called out the pilot anxiously.
"No, sir," replied the lad, still deftly juggling with the magnetos, where apparently the fault lay.
With his customary skill Desmond Blake brought the battleplane to earth in the clearing pointed out by the Belgian lieutenant. His first act after landing was to fix a detonator and time fuse in position. Rather than allow the machine to fall into the hands of the enemy Blake had resolved to blow her to fragments.
"Be ready to slip it when I give you warning," he cautioned. "Stick it, Dick, but don't stop a moment after I give the word."
Some minutes passed but there was no sign of outside interruption. Athol, Sergeant O'Rafferty and the Belgian alighted, leaving Blake in the pilot's seat and Dick toiling at the motors, since the lad preferred to work alone in the confined space between the engines. The Belgian, having seemingly recovered his self-composure, began to stroll towards the edge of the clearing, carrying a large can.
"Where are you off to, Monsieur Fauvart?" asked Athol.
The lieutenant half turned his head and put his finger to his lips. Then signing to the lad to follow, he hastened his footsteps, although treading as softly as before.
O'Rafferty was about to accompany Athol when Blake called him back to bear a hand at slewing the battleplane round head to wind.
"They've gone to get some water for the radiator," said the pilot reassuringly. "Fauvart knows of a spring close handy. Getting on all right, Dick?"
"I'm doing my best," answered the lad guardedly.
The sergeant, lighting a cigarette, paced to and fro, with eyes and ears alert to catch the first sight or sound of anything of a suspicious nature.
Suddenly, to Blake's intense satisfaction, the motors began to purr smoothly.
"You've found out what was wrong, then," he said, at the same time motioning to the sergeant to take his place on board. "What was it?"
Before Dick could reply a revolver shot rang out. Then came the sounds of several men crashing through the brushwood. An instant later twenty or more grey-coated figures appeared in sight, led by the supposed Belgian officer.
"Surrender instantly!" he shouted. "Lieutenant Hawke is our prisoner. Do further damage to the battleplane and no quarter will be given. Hands up and you will receive honourable treatment."