CHAPTER XXI
ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
For another three days the battleplane rested on Russian soil, the climatic conditions remaining unfavourable for the much desired return journey.
During that period Athol saw a good deal of his father, for the rescued prisoners were quartered in a little village within three versts of the flying-ground.
There was every possibility of the colonel's wish being speedily gratified, for arrangements were already in progress for sending the released officers and men back to England by ship from Archangel.
Private Tom Smith elected to go with them, although not until he had spent many an anxious hour deliberating the matter in his mind. He was already a keen airman; he realised his debt of gratitude to Dick and the battleplane's crew for getting him out of a most unpleasant situation. On the other hand he was deeply attached to his old master, Colonel Hawke. With him he had shared the horrors of the Meseritz Prison Camp, and the private's sense of loyalty to his chief, coupled with his desire to share in the colonel's resolution to "get his own back" upon his former captors, decided him to throw in his lot with his master.
At five o'clock in the morning of the seventeenth day of their visit to Russia the battleplane's officers were aroused by Sergeant O'Rafferty announcing that the wind had veered and was blowing steadily from the north-east and seemed likely to remain so.
Wireless reports from Russian warships far out in the Baltic confirmed the statement. There was every indication of the favourable air-drift continuing for some days.
Already the battleplane was in readiness for flight. Her tanks had been replenished with petrol, her motors overhauled. There was still an ample reserve of machine-gun ammunition, while the Russian authorities had supplied a dozen bombs filled with a super-powerful Japanese high-explosive. The rents in her wings and in the body of the fuselage had been made good, numerous neat patches bearing a silent testimony to the ordeal through which she had successfully passed.
In accordance with the perfect array that existed between all the Allies Blake had given the Russian aeronautical engineer every facility to study the constructive details of his invention; and it was more than likely that before the war had come to a victorious conclusion, battleplanes after the model of the mechanical bird would be seen operating under the control of Russian airmen.
Having taken farewell of their hospitable hosts the crew of the battleplane prepared to set out on the return journey. This time they flew alone, for the remaining British biplanes that had taken part in the raid had already left. Acting under previous orders they had flown southward, and after a rest at Odessa, had passed over Constantinople, arriving safe and sound at the Allied Camp at Salonika.
Amidst salvoes of cheering from the swarm of grey-coated Russians the battleplane—"secret" no longer—rose steadily and faultlessly, and shaped a course towards the Baltic.
"I've decided upon an alteration of plans," announced Blake. "The deciding factor is the petrol question. If we fly direct and over German territory, we may run short of fuel and have to descend. You see, the spirit we are now using is different from the prepared petrol that brought us here. Whether we can cover the whole distance or not without replenishing remains to be seen. So I propose keeping over the Baltic and thence over the Cattegat and Skager Rack. By the time we are in the vicinity of the Skaw I shall be able to determine whether there will be enough petrol to carry us the rest of the way."
"And if not?" enquired Athol.
"Details already arranged," said the inventor, with a grim chuckle. "The Admiralty have instructed a tank-vessel, escorted by cruisers and destroyers, to lie off the Norwegian coast, well outside the three mile limit. That's a pretty tangible proof that we hold the sea."
At a rate approaching one hundred and eighty miles an hour the battleplane was soon out of sight of land. She had at first held a north-westerly course in order to avoid passing over Libau, then in the possession of the Germans. Blake, although he would not have declined another aerial fight, was anxious to traverse the Baltic before the Huns were aware that he had left the Russian frontier. There was work awaiting the battleplane in France—work of far more importance than engaging individual hostile seaplanes in the neighbourhood of the Cattegat.
Fifty minutes after leaving Riga the Swedish island of Gothland was sighted. At this point the course was altered to the south-west, until the island of Bornholm was discerned.
Although numerous Russian warships and patrol-boats had been sighted at the entrance to the Gulf of Riga the Baltic was almost deserted, except towards the Swedish shore, where several enemy merchantmen were hugging the coast in order to avoid the studied attentions of the British and Russian submarines. But of German warships there was no sign.
Presently Blake's trained ear caught a disconcerting sound that was repeated time after time with increasing frequency. Dick, sliding from his seat, made his way to the motor-room; then, after a brief examination, approached his chief.
"She's firing badly," said Blake gravely.
"Yes," assented Dick. "It's not the ignition this time. It's the petrol. It is my belief that either the stuff is very inferior or else that it has been watered. Whatever it is the rotten stuff is now passing through the carburettors. Hitherto we've been running on the petrol we brought with us."
"Was it strained?" asked Blake anxiously.
"I stood by and saw it done," reported Dick. "Of course some one might have tampered with the tanks during the night. There are spies with the Russian troops as well as there are in the French and ours, worse luck. There she goes again," he added, as the motors faltered badly for several strokes and then spasmodically fired again. "Ought we to turn back?"
"I don't believe in turning back," said the inventor. "No, the sea is calm, there are no vessels in sight. We'll volplane down, rest on the surface and re-strain every drop of petrol on board."
Preparations were quickly made for the venturesome enterprise. The hatchway in the floor of the fuselage, which was already shut, was now hermetically sealed by means of wing-nuts that jammed the metal flap hard down upon an indiarubber seating. A similar watertight covering closed the aperture through which the bombs were dropped in action. The exhaust, which generally led through a pipe on the underside of the rear part of the chassis, was diverted by means of a two-way union so that the former escaped from an outlet and projecting well above the deck. Thus, in less than five minutes the hull of the battleplane was made absolutely watertight and ready to float upon the waves.
Being unprovided with floats like those fitted to naval seaplanes the machine took the water clumsily. The sudden resistance of the girders carrying the landing-wheels as they encountered the water, caused the body to tilt nose downwards. With solid water well over her forepart, the battleplane shook herself free, bobbed violently several times and finally rocked easily upon the placid waters of the Baltic.
Leaving Athol to keep watch all remaining hands set to work. First the contents of the carburettors were strained. Globules too heavy to pass through the fine meshed gauze confirmed Dick's suspicions. The petrol had been heavily "doctored" with water.
It was a lengthy and disagreeable task draining each of the tanks and refiltering the liquid fuel. The atmosphere of the confined space reeked of petrol fumes; the unusual motion of the hull as it pitched and rocked to the action of the sullen waves added to the discomforts of the highly necessary work. Sergeant O'Rafferty, almost overcome with nausea, stuck gamely to his job, while both Dick and Desmond Blake felt their heads whirling under the powerful influence of the volatile gas.
Suddenly Athol perceived two pole-like objects forging slowly through the water at a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. Only the feather of spray caused by the resistance of the vertical objects betrayed their presence. They were the twin periscopes of a submarine.
At his shout of alarm Blake and the rest of the crew left their task and hurried to their respective flying-stations. Anxiously they awaited developments. Was the submarine a friend or foe?
Flight, under present conditions, was impossible.
Until the whole of the petrol in the tank nearest the carburettors was completely strained, it would be impossible to get the motors to fire.
Quietly Athol and the sergeant fitted ammunition belts to the two automatic guns. Although the bullets did not possess sufficient penetrative powers to perforate the shell of a submarine the hail of projectiles would be sufficient to prevent any attempt on the part of the vessel's gunners from using their quick-firers—provided they kept within range. Nor could the submarine make use of a torpedo, for the lightness of the battleplane's draught—floating she drew but four or six inches—offered no target to an under-water missile unless the weapon struck the girder-work of the landing-wheels which projected several feet underneath the surface.
Nevertheless the situation was a perplexing one. Should the submarine prove to be German, she could either shell the battleplane from a distance or else summon, by means of wireless, Zeppelins and seaplanes to finish off the helpless aircraft by means of bombs.
Several long-drawn-out minutes passed. The eyes of the periscopes were steadily fixed upon the battleplane as the invisible submarine slowly approached. At length, apparently satisfied with her investigations, the submerged craft housed her periscopes and made off, leaving a tell-tale swirl upon the surface of the water.
"She's off, sir," exclaimed O'Rafferty.
"Yes, for the present," replied Blake. "She'll be at it again, I fancy. Come on, lads, let's carry on. Another half hour will see us straight."
Leaving Athol still on watch the rest of the crew resumed their labours, but before they had been at work for another five or ten minutes the submarine appeared upon the surface at a distance of nearly two miles.
"The brutes!" ejaculated Blake. "They've spotted our automatic guns. We'll be having some three pounder shells this way before long."
Bringing their glasses to bear upon the low-lying hull of the submarine the airmen found that their fears were realised. The vessel was a large unterseeboot flying the Black Cross ensign of Germany. She was lying broad-side on and forging ahead at a rate of about five knots. The two quick-firing guns were already raised from their respective "houses" or watertight troughs, and were being served by their gunners.
A flash followed by a dull crack announced that the submarine had opened the ball.
"You'll have to do better than that, old sport!" exclaimed O'Rafferty disdainfully, as the projectile struck the water at a hundred yards beyond the target, and ricochetting with a tremendous splash, finally disappeared a mile and a half away.
Again and again the Huns fired, each shell approaching with uncanny and methodical exactness nearer and nearer the crippled battleplane. They were blazing away with plugged shell, and that fact, combined with the evident reluctance of the submarine's crew to score a direct hit, told the airmen pretty plainly that the Germans wished particularly for their surrender and the capture of the battleplane intact.
From time to time Athol and the sergeant let loose a few rounds of ammunition, but in spite of the extreme elevation of the sights of the automatic weapons the bullets all fell short.
Suddenly Athol ducked his head as a projectile hurtled through the air less than ten feet above him. He could distinctly feel the windage of the missile, while the screech was appalling. The Huns, getting out of patience with the resistance of the British battleplane, were trying to shell it in grim earnest.
But before another shell could be fired from the U boat, a column of foamy water shot up a couple of hundred feet into the air. For a brief instant the bow and stern of the submarine showed, tilted up at different angles to the surface of the water. Then, as the muffled roar of an explosion was borne to the ears of Blake and his companions, their antagonist simply vanished, leaving a maelstrom of boiling water to mark her tomb.
"Hurrah!" shouted Dick, the first of the delighted and astonished men to find his voice. "She's gone. Wonder what's happened?"
"One of her torpedoes gone off by accident, I expect," hazarded his chum. "It seemed like an internal explosion."
"At any rate, she's gone," observed Blake thankfully. "Now, lads, let's get on with the business, before there are a swarm of patrol boats on the scene. I shouldn't wonder if the noise of that explosion were heard fifty miles away."
Leaving Athol again on watch the others continued their interrupted labours; but before another ten minutes had elapsed came the watcher's doleful shout:—
"Another submarine!"
The new-comer had appeared upon the surface apparently without any preliminary investigation. At least Athol had not noticed the periscopes until the vessel rose at a distance of a cables length away.
She bore no number or distinguishing marks, but hardly was she awash when the conning-tower hatchway was opened, and a seaman dressed in a thick "fearnought" suit, appeared. Making his way aft he tugged at the halliards of a short flag-staff, and instantly a flag was "broken-out," fluttering proudly in the breeze.
It was the glorious White Ensign.
Others of the crew now appeared, as the submarine, forging gently ahead like an enormous porpoise, closed with the battleplane that she had so timely rescued. Then, slowing down, she came to a standstill ten yards to windward of the crippled aircraft.
"Heave us a line if you have one on board," shouted a boyish-looking lieutenant-commander, who, as he smiled displayed a set of white teeth that contrasted vividly with his deeply bronzed complexion. "We'll have all on board in a jiffey."
"We haven't a line," replied Blake courteously, "and we don't want to come on board, thanks all the same. We're effecting repairs and then we're off, I hope."
"Thought that Hun was strafing you," remarked the young officer.
"He was about to, when—I suppose you bagged him."
"We did," agreed the lieutenant-commander with pardonable pride. "We're out of your debt now, I take it."
Blake was genuinely taken aback.
"You've a bad memory, I'm afraid," continued the skipper of the submarine. "T'other day a Zepp was strafing us, and you strafed the Zepp. We came to the surface in time to see you sheering off. Nasty quarter of an hour while it lasted, by Jove! So now we're quits. Well, what's wrong?"
The difficulty with the watered petrol was explained.
"Don't bother about the rest," said the lieutenant-commander. "We've plenty on board. Only replenished at Cronstadt yesterday, and we don't do much surface running. We'll soon fix you up."
In a brief space of time a delivery hose was passed from the submarine to the battleplane, and with a prodigal generosity gallons of petrol were pumped into the latter's tanks.
During the operation Athol was engaged in conversation with the sub-lieutenant of the submarine, each, with pardonable pride, maintaining that his branch of the respective services afforded the greater excitement. While the lieutenant-commander of the submarine paid a visit to the battleplane, Athol went on board the naval craft, and was shown most of the wonders of the latest type of under-water warship.
Just then the skipper of the submarine made a flying leap from the deck of the battleplane to the platform of his own craft.
"Back with you!" he exclaimed, addressing Athol, who was in the act of emerging through a hatchway. "Sharp as you can, unless you want a trip with us. There's another strafing match about to commence."
High up and several miles away to the south-westward at least a dozen black specks were visible against the cloudless sky. A fleet of hostile seaplanes was approaching with the evident intention of making it hot for the British submarine.
"Sure you can start?" shouted the lieutenant-commander as he slid down the conning-tower hatchway.
Blake gave an affirmative reply, which was confirmed by the engines being set in motion.
"S'long!" was the naval officer's farewell greeting as he slammed the rubber-lined hatchway cover. Then, forging quickly ahead the submarine dipped her nose and slid swiftly beneath the surface.