Dastral of the Flying Corps

One incident that had occurred, however, caused no little excitement, and awakened the professional curiosity of the pilots, observers and air-mechanics of the squadron.

Late one afternoon a very small but swift aerial scout, in the shape of a new type of baby-monoplane, suddenly appeared over the aerodrome, and after circling round once or twice, made several rapid spirals and descended on to the grounds. It was no enemy machine, for the red, white and blue cocarde of the Allies was plainly visible upon the underside of the wings, and also on the rudder.

No sooner had the ferry-pilot who had brought her over from England, made a landing, and climbed out of his tiny nascelle, than every pilot and observer who was about the place, and not on duty, gathered round to welcome the newcomer with the usual greeting, and to flood him with questions as to the new machine. Amongst the rest the Flight-Commander of "B" Flight could be seen talking and arguing with his friends.

"Gee-whiz! But isn't she a beauty, boys?" he was heard to exclaim, as, with quite a boyish enthusiasm, he completed in less than two minutes his first brief examination of the machine.

"By Jove, but she's a gem!" replied Mac, to whom the question had been more particularly addressed.

"I've never seen anything like her," exclaimed another member of "B" Flight. "I don't think the Huns have anything to equal her."

"Not even their Fokkers?" ventured one of the pilots, who was already seated in the little cockpit, trying her controls, for he was just longing to take her aloft. "And you came from London in an hour and a quarter?" asked Dastral of the ferry-pilot, helping him out of his thick leather coat.

"Yes, quite easily," replied the latter.

"And you never even pushed her?"

"I never opened the throttle to the full till I rushed the Channel, half an hour ago."

"And then you let her rip?"

"Yes, I did then. She fairly seemed to leap over the English Channel. She touched one hundred and sixty miles, and for a while she quite frightened me."

"Phew! I should think so. What the deuce shall we get to next? One hundred and sixty miles an hour! Great Scott! I'd give ten years of my life to meet Himmelman on her, when I've fairly tried her," said Dastral quietly.

There was a note of silence when the Flight-Commander spoke thus, for he did not often express himself like that, though every one knew that the ambition of his life was to meet the German air-fiend on equal terms, and fate had decreed that before very long his wish should be gratified.

After this, they all adjourned to the messroom, and, for that evening, and the next, the ferry-pilot was their guest.

At dinner that evening, when John Bunny, the jovial, stout, stumpy, chubby-faced waiter at the officers' mess, had cleared away, and cigars were lighted, and chairs drawn to the fire-place, all the talk was about the baby-monoplane. For the time being even the war faded away, except so far as it hinged upon the coming deeds of the new machine. They discussed its merits and its possibilities, its high speed, its wonderful but powerful engine, capable of 200 horse-power and nearly two thousand revolutions a minute.

Next morning, as soon as it was light, Dastral was seated in the little nascelle, climbing into the azure. For an hour he tested it, and came down delighted with his new plaything. Again and again he tried it during the next two days, until he was thoroughly at home with it, and could handle it just as well as any other machine he had ever flown. Indeed, the ferry-pilot who watched him was amazed at the antics which the Flight-Commander performed with the trippy little thing.

On the third morning after the arrival of the new visitant, the aerodrome was startled by renewed activity on the part of the enemy. Just as dawn was breaking Lieutenant Grenfell, who was again on orderly officer's duty at the aerodrome, was called suddenly to the telephone by the Flight-sergeant in attendance saying:

"Advanced Headquarters Ginchy want to speak to you, sir."

An instant later he was holding the receiver, and heard Ginchy speak plainly.

"Is that Advanced II.Q. Ginchy?" he asked.

"Yes. Is that the orderly officer, Contalmaison aerodrome?"

"Yes. Anything the matter?"

"Enemy 'planes crossing our lines, and coming in your direction," came the laconic answer. "Want you to take necessary action at once."

"Right, old fellow. Action shall be taken at once. But I say–hullo, are you still there?"

"Yes."

"How many enemy 'planes were there?"

"Three have crossed over. A very big one, and two fast scouts. The others have all been turned back by our A.A. guns, but they are trying again, I think, as the guns are opening fire upon them once more."

"All right. Good bye!"

Then, turning to the Flight-Sergeant, the officer said:

"Quick, sergeant! Sound the alarm to call up the men, and get the machines out of the hangars ready for action. There is no time to lose. If they are fast machines they will be here in less than five minutes."

"Yes, sir," and the sergeant saluted and departed upon his errand, calling out the guard and giving the orderly sergeant instructions to rouse all the men at once, while he himself returned to the orderly officer, and assisted in calling the pilots from their bunks by telephone.

Rapidly as everything was carried out, before all the machines could be got ready, or the pilots prepared, the enemy had arrived and had begun to bomb the aerodrome.

"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m-m!" came the first bomb, which was quickly followed by others.

It was only just light enough to make out the machines, but Dastral, who was one of the first pilots on the spot, was already in his baby-monoplane, ready for the propeller to be swung, when the first bomb fell, not thirty yards away. His attention, however, for the past few seconds while the drums of ammunition were being brought, had been fixed upon the raiders.

He was amazed at what he saw. There were two small machines, evidently fast scouts and single-seaters, each fitted with a single-fixed gun, but the other visitor was a huge warplane, so big that for the moment he was astounded.

"Look, Jock!" he shouted. "Egad, but she's a tri-plane, a giant, with a double fuselage, two engines, and a protected or armoured car in the centre–at least, so it seems to me. And she's got two gunners at least. Great Scott! where are those drums? I must get off at once, or they will blow the place to bits. They've already hit No. 3 shed, and probably damaged half a dozen machines."

"Here is your ammunition, sir!" cried Corporal Yap, running up at that moment with the drums and placing them in the cockpit.

"Right. Stand clear there!"

"Rap-rap-rap! Whir-r-r!" came the sound of the engine and the whirring blades of the monoplane, for it could be distinctly heard above the roar of the anti-aircraft guns which were now furiously shelling the invaders. And while some confusion reigned for the moment at the aerodrome, the little hornet taxied off, and leapt up into the air.

Dastral was the first to mount up, but the Dwarf being a single-seater, he was compelled to leave Jock behind for the nonce.

Higher and higher he climbed, for the monoplane had the power to rise rapidly, and when at full speed to sit on her tail for a short period, that is, to climb nearly perpendicularly. She was so small, too, that she was difficult to perceive even from a short distance. Thus she was more fortunate than the others, which, on rising shortly afterwards, received the concentrated fire and bombs of all the three raiders.

Even Munroe had to land again, with his machine blazing, for one of the bombs had shattered his petrol tank, and set the machine on fire, so that the pilot himself was rescued with difficulty from the wreckage. Two other machines were also compelled to descend, for the enemy, having the weather-gage and being directly above them, had the advantage.

The Flight-Commander by this time was well away, and was careering round, climbing more rapidly than he had ever done before, and looking forward to the coming combat. He could see his own target, but, relying upon the small target that the Dwarf offered, he kept just sufficiently away to render his own machine invisible to the Huns, who were having the time of their lives.

Dastral was in a fighting mood; he felt ready to fight all the Boche airmen in the world, if he could only get at them. Higher and higher he rose, and marked the little register as it clicked out the altitude:–

"Three thousand–four thousand feet."

Its quiet voice was drowned in the roar of the engine and the whir-r-r of the propellers, but its face seemed to smile at the pilot and beckon him to victory.

He had got well over towards the enemy's lines, in his circling sweep, for he was determined to keep well between the enemy and his base. Besides, it was good strategy, for the day was breaking and already, up there, he could see the rim of the sun showing over the edge of the eastern horizon.

"I shall have the sun behind my back when the fight begins, and the Huns will have it in their eyes!" he told himself.

At six thousand feet he banked and swept round towards the enemy, still climbing rapidly, for the Boches were at about seven thousand feet. Again and again he made the whizzing Dwarf almost to sit upon her tail, so eager was he to reach seven thousand five hundred.

He felt perfectly happy, and braced for the conflict. His only anxiety was to get to business at once.

"Five thousand–five thousand five hundred feet," said the little dial, and Dastral laughed riotously.

"Seven thousand," came at last, though it seemed an age to the eager pilot.

Glancing down and away to the west, he could see his comrades climbing up to his assistance, for he had left them far behind. The Boches had seen them too, and were diving to attack them, dropping bombs and firing incendiary bullets.

"Capital!" shouted Dastral in high glee, as he saw the enemy make several rapid dives, giving him exactly what he wanted, the weather-gage.

"The beasts haven't seen me, or they wouldn't do that!" Dastral told himself, and he was right, for the enemy had not even suspected his presence yet, or, if they had seen him leave the ground, they had lost sight of him, owing to the tactics he had adopted. They were soon to have a knowledge of his presence, however.

"Now for it," said Dastral between his teeth, as, having reached seven thousand feet, he whizzed away to the attack of the nearest 'plane, one of the enemy's fighting scouts which had accompanied the huge warplane.

"Whir-r-r-r!" went the hornet, as Dastral opened the engine throttle to the full.

The speed of the hornet was terrific, and the sound of the wind rushing past him sounded to the pilot as loud as the noise of the engine.

"One hundred and sixty!" laughed the speedometer.

"They can't beat that," replied Dastral, as though the little dial-face understood. He felt that he must talk, though he had no observer this morning.

Now he was over the fighting scout, and she saw him for the first time. She was the highest of the three, but she was a thousand feet below him, and, relying on her speed, she banked, turned swiftly, and tried to escape, actually leaving the warplane to look after herself.

Dastral pulled over the controls, and down, down he went in a thrilling nose-dive as though he would crash her to the earth with his own fuselage, but that was not his intention. At five hundred feet he opened fire, and gave her three drums in rapid succession, and never was sound more agreeable to his ears than that "rap–rap–rap–rap–rap!" of his machine-gun as he sprayed the enemy from end to end of his fuselage with incendiary bullets.

Before the third drum was exhausted he noticed the flames leap from the doomed German, for Dastral had sent three flaming-bullets through his reserve petrol-tank, and in that moment he knew he had only two enemies left to fight, for the first enemy 'plane went down blazing in a plunging dip, which ended in a spinning nose-dive and a terrible crash, right over the eastern end of the aerodrome.

Dastral looked down, his eyes gleaming with victory, glad he had finished number one, but sincerely hoping in his heart that his comrades on the ground would be able to save the pilot from the burning wreckage, for of all deaths that the daring aviator dreads, to be burnt is the worst of all, and few English pilots, having sent the enemy down, wish him such an end.

There was no time for sentiment, however, this morning, for the next moment Dastral was startled by the sound of a machine-gun behind him:

"Rat–tat–tat!"

Yes, one of his own friends was already attacking the warplane. It sounded like Mac, and the tactics seemed suspiciously his, for he had been creeping up behind Dastral, following his leader, as he had so often done before, and he was now engaged in a battle royal with the monster, wilst another 'plane was tackling the second scout, though at a disadvantage.

For a second Dastral was halting which way to turn, but pilots have to make rapid decisions every day, and when he saw Mac's danger, for the enemy would assuredly send him down in a few minutes unless help came, the Flight-Commander banked quickly, and, still having the advantage of nearly a thousand feet in altitude, he swept on to help his man.

It was well he did, for though Mac fought bravely, as Dastral had taught him to do a score of times, he was no match for the huge German, with her armoured car, and two machine-gunners in addition to the pilot.

As Dastral swept back to his comrade, he saw the two machines raking each other, but though Mac got in several shots at the fuselage and the engines, he hit no vital part.

"Ye gods, what a huge brute she is!" ejaculated the Flight-Commander as he drew near, and sailed over the top of the monster, just seeking for some weak spot.

Before he could clamp in his drums he saw Mac's machine reel, and spin round once or twice, as though the controls had been broken by some questing bullets. The German continued to fire, however, and the next instant Dastral saw the reason of it all, for he saw Mac's observer stretching over towards the pilot.

"Heavens! The poor chap's hit!" he exclaimed. Then shouting almost fiercely, as though he fancied Mac could hear him, he cried:

"Never mind, they shall pay for it, Mac!"

Again Dastral jammed the controls hard over, and though he knew he was fighting a different creature altogether this time, he tried his old tactics. He swept down as though to collide with the enemy and crash with him to earth, for he knew this was the best method of unnerving the Hun. With his feet on the rudder bar, and the joy-stick between his knees, and his hands clear for his gun, he fired two drums, but seeing no immediate effect, he flattened out suddenly, when only fifty feet from the Bosche, and pulling the switch of his bomb release, he dropped a twenty-pound bomb fairly on to the central armoured car of the monster.

Scarcely had he swept past his adversary when the thing exploded at close quarters, causing him almost unconsciously to loop the loop twice in rapid succession, for the very atmosphere seemed to be blown away from his propeller blades, and the air was so full of air-pockets that for a moment this daring aviator was in imminent danger of a side-slip and a fearful crash to the earth.

It was over in a minute, however, and the "Boom-m-m-m!" of the explosion and the smother of gas, smoke and flame being past, he looked round him, and saw the German three hundred feet below him, with half his central armoured car blown away, and with both gunners apparently lifeless, and the pilot, bleeding, still sticking it grimly, trying to volplane his machine to the ground.

The Flight-Commander looked down, and sweeping round till he had gained his old position, he was about to drop a second bomb to finish the warplane, but he withdrew his hand from the bomb release, saying:

"Poor bounder! He's bound to go down. He cannot get her over the lines. I'll let him alone."

Then, looking around for the third machine, he was just in time to see her disappear eastward towards her own lines, and saw two English 'planes, which seemed to have come from nowhere, following her.

"Ah, well, I'll go down and receive that chap's surrender–that is, if he can manage to get down without a crash."

There is, apparently, more honour in aerial fighting in these days than in any other field of warfare, and, when a pilot has brought his man down, should he fall, say, into the conqueror's lines, very often the victor will descend and receive the surrender of the vanquished.

Dastral's professional curiosity also urged him to do this. The huge machine was of a new type, for in all his experience he had seen nothing like it, and he was eager to examine it.

Keeping his eye, therefore, on the descending German, who was trying with the utmost care to navigate the aerial monster to the ground, Dastral banked, then spiralled, and after one or two rapid nose-dives, planed swiftly down to within a few score of yards of the place where the monster must ultimately descend; and three minutes later, having landed, he waited calmly on the ground for mein herr to complete his landing.

Down, down she came, lobbing first one way and then another, finishing up with a bump which completed the wreckage of one of her huge outstretched planes, and hurling the lifeless form of an observer-gunner to the earth.

"My word, what a size she is!" cried some one from the group of officers and men standing by.

She was a mass of wreckage, and how the wounded pilot had managed to bring her down so calmly was a miracle.

"Where are you hurt, Captain?" asked Dastral, helping the wounded man from the wrecked car.

"Here and here, Flight-Commander!" replied the German in good English, leaning heavily on the pilot, who a few minutes before had been his deadly enemy.

"Fetch Captain Young, the M.O., at once!" ordered Dastral, and immediately one of the air-mechanics ran off to find Number Nine.

"You were a marvel to bring her down without a crash!" said Dastral. "I'm sure I could never have done it."

The German smiled. He was a fair-haired Prussian, not at all of the Hun type, and there was moisture in his blue eyes as he replied,

"I thank you for the compliment, Flight-Commander. You also are some pilot, as you English say."

"And she is some machine, too!" urged Dastral, trying to keep up the man's spirit until the medical officer arrived.

"Ah, my poor machine, and my poor gunners! They were brave fellows and they died for the Fatherland. And the machine?–yes, she was a beauty, and it was her first trip. Now she is a ruin, and I must surrender her to you, but you will never be able to use her. See!"

Dastral turned round to look, and noticed that the German warplane was in flames, for the pilot, mortally wounded as he was, knew his duty, which was, if he could not bring his machine back, to destroy it. And his last act, which had been unnoticed, ere he left the machine, was to set her quietly on fire, only waiting to make sure that the second gunner was really dead.

"Ah! My poor machine, but you English–will–never–use–her!"

As he uttered these words slowly, gasping and clutching at his heart, the German turned ghastly pale, and, staggering, fell into the arms of Dastral just as the medical officer came running up.

For a moment Dastral held him, but the blood began to gush from his mouth and nostrils, and then his head fell back, for he was dead.

"You are too late, doctor," said the Flight-Commander sadly, as he laid the dead captain down on the grass, and looked at his pale face and wide open eyes, still staring up at the azure blue of the opening day, as though even in death the skies were calling him up there, as they did in life; for he had been one of the most brilliant of the German aviators, second only to Himmelman, who indeed had been his teacher.

"Too late, doctor! There was no chance for him from the beginning. He was mortally wounded."

"Yes, poor fellow, he has fought his last battle!" replied the M.O.

"Poor fellow! I wish he could have lived," muttered Dastral, and a feeling of unutterable sadness came over him, and he cursed the war which had made him this man's enemy.

Again he looked at the Prussian's face, and, stooping down, closed the man's eyes in their last long sleep. Then, turning to an air-mechanic, he said:

"Bring a German flag, and wrap it round him," and so he strode away towards his bunk, depressed by a feeling of profound melancholy.

CHAPTER X

HIMMELMAN S LAST FIGHT

IN the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, a blue-eyed, dark-haired youth of about twenty-two stood with his back to the fire. He was alone, for the others had not yet come in from the marquees and sheds where the aeroplanes were being stored. On his left breast he wore the double brevet of a fully-fledged pilot.

This was Flight-Commander Dastral of "B" Flight, of the –th Squadron, –th Wing, Royal Flying Corps, known to the whole of the British Expeditionary Force, and to the British public also, as "Dastral of the Flying Corps."

Just under his pilot's brevet was a couple of inches of blue and white ribbon, the insignia of the D.S.O. For, though but a lad, he had fought with more Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands, and had more thrilling exploits over the German lines, than any other youth of his age.

To-night, however, the pilot seemed sad; there was a shadow of disappointment over his fair, young face. There was also a dreamy, far-away look in those usually piercing blue eyes. What was the matter with the lad? He was generally gay and even frolicsome. More than once the O.C. had found it necessary to take him to task for some of his jovial pranks.

At his feet lay the previous day's issue of the Times, which he had just been reading, and that which had made him sad was a paragraph telegraphed to London by the Amsterdam correspondent of that paper, which ran as follows:–

"Yesterday, at the German Headquarters behind the western front, the Kaiser in person conferred upon Himmelman, the famous German air scout, the insignia of the Iron Cross. It is claimed by the enemy that this air-fiend has brought down more than forty British and French machines, and that his equal in skill and daring does not exist upon the battle-fields of Europe. Quite recently he fought with and vanquished three British pilots single-handed in one day. This famous pilot flies a new type of machine called the Fokker, and the Germans claim for this machine that for climbing and rapid manoeuvre there is no other aeroplane which can be compared to it."

Dastral picked up the paper and read the paragraph again. Then, speaking half aloud, he said:

"So that's what happened to Benson's Flight the other day. I felt sure he had encountered Himmelman. Ah, well! A pilot's life is only a short one at the best, but there's one thing I beg of Dame Fortune, and that is, that I may meet Himmelman before I go down."

Again he cast the paper from him, and as he did so, the door flew open, and Fisker, his observer, accompanied by Graham of "A" Flight and Wilson of "C" Flight entered the room.

"Hullo! What's the matter that you look so glum, Dastral?" exclaimed Graham, as he caught sight of his friend. "Has the O.C. been giving you another reprimand over that last rag, old fellow?"

"What rags?" laughed Dastral, regaining his usual cheerfulness with an effort.

"Ho! ho!" laughed the others. "Of course you know nothing about it, Dastral, gut all the fellows are laughing over it, and the whole squadron puts it down to you, naturally," replied Wilson.

"Naturally?" echoed Dastral with raised eyebrows, and a query note in his voice.

At this there was another burst of laughter. For this pretended ignorance of Dastral, and above all, the intoned, sepulchral voice he adopted for the occasion, reminded them of the "sky-pilot" as the chaplain was called, who, on this occasion, had been the victim of the rag.

"Tell you what," exclaimed Wilson. "If the O.C. hasn't yet heard of it, you'd better go out and have another of your scraps with a whole German flight, before he does. That would soften him a bit when you're called for the 'high jump.'"