The Secret Battleplane by Percy F. Westerman
CHAPTER X
TRICKED
"MORNIN', Blake," remarked the Wing Commander. "Feel like anout-and-home flight? Thought so. Well, give a glance at this map."
Three weeks had elapsed since the secret battleplane had worsted thetwo Fokkers--three weeks of strenuous activity. The battleplane boremany honourable scars, souvenirs of aerial combats. But as yet herrôle had been a purely defensive one; she had never gone over theGerman trenches, hostile anti-aircraft had not as yet sent theirshrapnel shells bursting all around her. Already the Huns had learntof the presence of a super-powerful aircraft of unique design, andwith feelings akin to dismay they realised that risky as it had beento fly over the British lines it was no longer practicable anywherewithin the radius of action of the mysterious mechanical bird.
"Look here," continued the Wing Commander, placing a long, slenderfinger on the unfolded map that lay on the trestle table, "that'sOlhelt, a village or rather hamlet not far from Hasselt, and withinten miles of the Netherland Frontier.
"We've received information that the Bosches have a secret Zeppelinbase there, and that their new airships that are to be employedsolely for raids over England are finally tested there before passingto active service. The place is strongly protected by Archibalds, andthere are a dozen planes constantly on duty. Now, I want you to makea reconnaissance. If possible, bomb the Zeppelins to blazes. Wouldyou prefer to undertake the job alone or shall I send a supportingsquadron of swift battleplanes?"
"We'll tackle it alone, sir, I think," replied Blake. "Our silentmotors are a decided factor in our favour, which would be thrown awayif 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 aBelgian officer here, a man furnished with the highest credentialsfrom the Belgian headquarters. He's a Limburger, and knows thedistrict around Olhelt remarkably well. His name, let me see,"--theofficer referred to a docket--"yes, his name is Etienne Fauvart, alieutenant of the 21st Regiment of the Line. This man, for patrioticand personal motives--it was he who first reported the Zeppelin base;had the information from a relative living near Hasselt--wishesparticularly to take part in the raid. According to his story he hasa heavy account to settle with the Bosches near his home. It occurredto me that he might be useful for pointing out the various landmarks.From all accounts the place is rather puzzling for a strange airmanto 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 theWing Commander. "Since you are so good as to leave the matter in myhands, I think you'd better take Lieutenant Fauvart. I'll have himbrought 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. Hewas of average height, broad of shoulder and dark-featured. Althoughhe clicked his heels as he saluted he lacked the alertness of thetypical British officer.
"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, sir," he said in Englishwith a good accent when Desmond Blake and he were introduced. "Also Iesteem it an honour to go with you in your magnificent invention. Ihope that we are able to blow the Zeppelins to pieces. Ciel! I lookto the hour."
"Certainly an enthusiast," thought Blake as the Belgian discussedwith his British confrères the plan of attack.
It was eventually decided that the secret battleplane was to leavethe flying ground at an hour before sunset, soar to a great altitudeand arrive over her objective shortly after sunset. Elaboratearrangements were made for her return, the aerodrome to bebrilliantly lighted on receipt of a wireless message from thereturning battleplane. In view of the possibility of a failure of thewireless a red and a blue star rockets were to be fired by theairmen.
The Belgian officer formed a supernumerary member of the crew, sinceBlake was loth to leave either of his three airmen behind.Accordingly Fauvart was placed at the post usually occupied by Dickwhen 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 realisedthat 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 overhaulingthe mechanism, studying maps and otherwise preparing for the task.Etienne Fauvart, evincing great interest in the battleplane, hadtaken a deep fancy to Dick, and followed him with keen zest, askinginnumerable questions.
"The fellow bores me stiff," soliloquised the lad. "He seems a decentsort, but he does ask awkward questions. He looks too cute to bestuffed, and I don't like choking him off. The only thing I cansuggest is to refer him to Blake."
The Belgian took the hint quite good-naturedly. He refrained fromasking any further technical questions, but Dick noticed that he madeno attempt to "freeze on" to the imperturbable inventor.
At length, at the appointed hour, the battleplane started on heradventurous flight, her crew being sent-off with the hearty goodwishes of their brother airmen--wishes for the most part expressed inthat bantering, happy-go-lucky style that characterises men who havemore than a nodding acquaintance with death.
The thin air literally shook under the concussion of hundreds ofheavy guns as the battleplane swung high over the opposing lines. Abig "affair" was in progress--one of those furious exchanges ofstrafing that are airily referred to in the official reports as "anactivity of some magnitude." Two mines had just been sprung, theirpositions marked by huge clouds of smoke and dust. But of the actualfighting none was visible to the crew of the battleplane. A densehaze hid the khaki and grey fighting men from view, although riflefiring and the rattle of machine-guns could be distinctly heard asthe see-saw struggle for the possession of the newly-made craterscontinued with the utmost desperation.
So intense were the undulations of the atmosphere over the terrificcannonade that the battleplane rocked violently. Her wings, beatingthe disturbed air with tremendous speed, seemed hardly able tosupport the main fabric. While the flight over the scene of thefighting lasted the mechanical bird was plunging and banking like aship in a heavy following gale. So severe was the strain that had anyof the metal-work been the least defective the weakness would haveshown itself with dire results. Even Blake gave vent to anexclamation of relief as the machine drew safely away from thedisturbed area.
"The spires of Hasselt," declared Lieutenant Fauvart, when, half anhour later, one of many of the numerous Belgian towns appeared inview, showing up clearly in the slanting rays of the setting sun."You see those forests to the north? Beyond them lies Olhelt. It isin 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. Bothlads had been curious to know the reason for the Belgian's oftreiterated words, but with their typical English reticence hadrefrained from asking him for enlightenment.
"I am cold," exclaimed Fauvart a moment later. "A man who is coldcannot do his work well. I go and get my heavy coat."
"And he wouldn't take my advice before we started," thought Athol, asthe Belgian slipped from his seat and disappeared within thefuselage.
"We are in sight of Olhelt," announced Fauvart to Dick, who wassitting 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 thebattleplane, since it was yet too early to volplane to the work ofdestruction. At that immense height, and thanks to the almost totalabsence of sound, the battleplane was safe from observation from theearth.
"I feel like a stoker in a naval engagement," thought Dick as hereturned to his post. "Nothing to see, and all up if anything goeswrong. Another ten minutes will see the job through."
It seemed an interminable time before an acceleration of the motorsannounced that Blake had disconnected the wing mechanism and hadlocked the wings for a spiral volplane.
Dick promptly throttled down, and stood ready at the first sign toopen the motors all out. As he did so he became aware of a peculiarsmell. 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 worsetime."
The Belgian started and whipped out a revolver.
"For me there is no surrender," he exclaimed dramatically. "I shootmyself rather than be a prisoner of war to the Bosches."
"Stop it!" exclaimed Blake, releasing his hold of the controls andgripping the Belgian's arm. "We are not done in yet. Far from it. Putthat thing away and be reasonable. Look out and see if you recognisea good landing-place."
Fauvart, rallied by Blake's manner, did as he was told. By this timethe battleplane was less than two thousand feet up. Somewhat to theairmen's surprise no shells came from the invisible anti-aircraftguns 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 thedarker green of the treetops. "It may be safe to land there. If theBosches 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 toearth in the clearing pointed out by the Belgian lieutenant. Hisfirst act after landing was to fix a detonator and time fuse inposition. Rather than allow the machine to fall into the hands of theenemy Blake had resolved to blow her to fragments.
"Be ready to slip it when I give you warning," he cautioned. "Stickit, 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 inthe pilot's seat and Dick toiling at the motors, since the ladpreferred to work alone in the confined space between the engines.The Belgian, having seemingly recovered his self-composure, began tostroll 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 tobear a hand at slewing the battleplane round head to wind.
"They've gone to get some water for the radiator," said the pilotreassuringly. "Fauvart knows of a spring close handy. Getting on allright, Dick?"
"I'm doing my best," answered the lad guardedly.
The sergeant, lighting a cigarette, paced to and fro, with eyes andears alert to catch the first sight or sound of anything of asuspicious nature.
Suddenly, to Blake's intense satisfaction, the motors began to purrsmoothly.
"You've found out what was wrong, then," he said, at the same timemotioning to the sergeant to take his place on board. "What was it?"
Before Dick could reply a revolver shot rang out. Then came thesounds of several men crashing through the brushwood. An instantlater twenty or more grey-coated figures appeared in sight, led bythe 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."