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The three trains were soon in full view, and the first one was just passing the village of Hermies. The trains were of enormous length, and were crowded with troops. What still puzzled Dastral, however, was that there appeared to be no escort of aircraft with them. Again and again, during the approach of the long procession, he had scanned the heavens all around and above him, for a sight of his most crafty foe, Himmelman, for, if the British machines had been sighted, there had been plenty of time for the enemy to bring up his aircraft from the nearest aerodrome.

Even yet Dastral was very suspicious. He knew Himmelman only too well already. He was the demon of the air on the western front, and loved nothing better than to make a dramatic entry into a half-finished fight. His greatest and most daring method was to climb out of sight, often up to seventeen thousand feet and more, or better still, to make an ambush in a dark cloud, then suddenly to swoop down, hawk-like, upon his opponent, in an almost vertical nose-dive, and to overwhelm him with a spray of well-directed machine gun fire.

A dozen of the best British pilots had already gone down in a crash or a forced landing before this demon of the air, and more than once Dastral himself had encountered him. Before he led his men to the attack therefore, upon this occasion, he scanned the heavens again and again in search of his opponent, and actually waited until a tiny cloud far above had been scattered and pierced, before he gave the final signal to attack.

At length, fearing to lose his target by longer delay, for the first train was now abreast of the tiny hamlet of Beaumetz, and nearing the junction and the bridge-head at Velu, he threw out the signal for the attack.

A smoke bomb to the right and another to the left: that was the pre-arranged signal, and then, pulling over the joy-stick, down, down went Dastral, followed at regular intervals by the three other 'planes.

Down, down with a swoop, through the exhilarating rush of air, they went. All the engines had been shut off, and the pilots, with one hand on the joy-stick, and the other on the bomb release, waited almost breathlessly through those wild, thrilling seconds, while they fell with ever-gathering impetus, like a stone to the earth. Thus they went down to what seemed like certain death, while every instant during that mad dive seemed an age.

"Click! click!" went the little instrument that measured the altitudes. "Seven, six- five, three thousand feet," it tried to say, but its voice could not be heard.

At two thousand feet Dastral pushed back the joy-stick, and flattened out. His comrades did the same, all except Franklin in the last 'plane, who had trouble with his control wires and flattened out only at five hundred feet. Another five seconds would have dashed him to death. He was game, however, and though his face blanched, and his heart stayed its beating for an instant, he was soon climbing again to rejoin his comrades.

They had been seen now, for the smoke bombs had first given them away. The commandants of the German communications were hotly engaged on the telephone wires, reporting to headquarters and to the nearest aerodromes the presence of the intruders, and demanding that Himmelman and his comrades should come at once to deal with the sky-fiends.

The engine-driver of the first train also had seen the danger that threatened, and, putting on all speed, he tried foolishly to get away from the air peril. Velu was scarcely a mile distant, and there at least he could find some protection, if only in the "Archies."

But he was too late. When Dastral flattened out at two thousand feet he was almost abreast of the train. A neck-and-neck race commenced, but what chance has a heavily laden troop train, even though it has three engines, against a Sopwith which can do one hundred and thirty miles on occasion? It was like a race between a hare and a tortoise.

"Puff-puff-puff! Shriek!" went the train, but the scream of the siren was drowned in the whirr-r-r of the propellors racing alongside and just overhead, for the engines had been started again by the pilots as soon as they flattened out.

It was a matter of seconds now, for Dastral only waited until he had dropped down to one hundred feet. He was already in line with the engine, and directly above. Just ahead was the railway bridge, and the viaduct over the road leading into the village.

"Yes, my beautiful Boche, it's ten to one against you now!" muttered the Flight-Commander as he raced ahead, amid a spatter of rifle bullets from the soldiers guarding the bridge.

The engine-driver had seen the danger ahead now. He shut off steam, and put on his brakes, but the bridge was too near, and Dastral was already there.

"Whis-s-s-h! Boom-m-m! Crash!"

It was one of the new 112lb. bombs that Dastral dropped; the only one carried by the flight, who were chiefly armed with 20-pounders for the occasion. The aeroplane gave a lift and a lurch as the heavy missile left her, and had it not been for her great speed, the explosion that immediately followed would have caused her to crash.

Fairly hit in the centre of the track the brick and timber piles and beams collapsed, and the middle of the structure crumpled up and fell crashing into the roadway.

The troops, aware of what was happening when they saw the 'planes overhead, leapt from the doomed train, for no human effort could prevent the impending disaster now. When the bomb dropped and split the bridge, the train was but forty yards distant, and the sparks were flying from her brakes, as from a blacksmith's anvil, but it was of no avail. With a thunderous roar, followed by a mighty crash, and the wild hiss of escaping steam she went over the chasm. Carriage after carriage, crowded with the finest troops of Germany, followed the engine.

Wild cries of pain and anger, curses and groans filled the air, as wounded, scalded and half buried men dragged themselves from that awful scene of carnage and death.

"Gott in Himmel! Donner und blitz! Himmelman, Himmelman, wer ist Himmelman?" cried many an eye-witness of the terrible tragedy, as though the German air-fiend were some deity.

The other three 'planes were bombing the long stretch of carriages which had not leapt the chasm, and the hundreds of fugitives who were trying to escape from the half-telescoped vehicles, which had not gone over the precipice. But Dastral, banking swiftly on his machine, came round, and with another smoke bomb called them off to attack the other two trains.

Leaving the Bridge of Velu, they wheeled back swiftly, coming once more into the zone of fire from the anti-aircraft guns. Stopping only to drop a couple of bombs on the battery 'which had bespattered the wings of the second machine with shrapnel, they noticed the second train pulling up quickly, and the soldiers also leaping from the carriages.

They proceeded to bomb it with the remainder of their 20-lb. bombs. Then, suddenly, to their amazement the third train, which had not received sufficient warning to stop on the steep gradient, crashed into the second, and another scene of wild confusion occurred. The German soldiers, taken for the most part by surprise, endeavoured to get away by any and every means from the blazing wreckage, seeking cover under clumps of trees, hedges, rising ground, etc., but the airmen, having discharged all their bombs, turned their Lewis machine guns upon them and scattered the fugitives in all directions.

At last, not a single round of ammunition remained in the drums, and Dastral, knowing that all the machines had been more or less hit, gave the signal to return.

It was time, for two at least of the machines had suffered severely, and it was becoming very doubtful whether they would be able to regain their own lines. They were of no further use for offence, so they began their climb into the higher regions, preparatory to the dash across the enemy's lines once again.

It was well that they did so, for at that very moment Himmelman, with half a squadron of fast Fokkers, was leaving his own aerodrome but ten miles distant, having received information of the raiders' presence. The whole feat had taken place so quickly, however, and the affair was so adroitly managed, that the intruders had just time to make their escape.

Not all the aviators, however, succeeded in crossing the German lines. Franklin's engine was missing so badly that he was unable to climb above four thousand feet, and when, shortly after, they reached the battle front, where the Allies and Germany kept their battle-line, the fusillade of the "Archies" commenced again. Cras-s-sh came a shell right into his engine, and the machine went down in a wild spinning nose-dive, just behind the enemy's front line trench.

Dastral and his comrades gnashed their teeth, as they saw their two comrades thus hurled to death, but, after all, death is only an incident in the life of a pilot of the Royal Flying Corps, and who shall mourn when a hero dies? In these days of blood and iron, when Britain stands once more at the cross roads, freedom and honour can only be purchased by the blood of her bravest sons.

That evening the dinner party which was held in the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, was less joyous and boisterous than the breakfast held there that same morning. Three of the 'planes of B flight had come back, it is true, and had brought their pilots and observers safely home through the ordeal of shot and shell. Every machine bore evidence of the fight. Scarcely one of them would be fit to fly again for another week, and the air-mechanics were already hard at work, fitting new struts and control wires, ailerons, and petrol tanks, for two at least of the three aeroplanes had barely held together to the end, so plugged were they with machine gun, rifle bullets and shrapnel; while Winstone's "old bus" had literally fallen to pieces on landing, and he had narrowly escaped a crash.

And when the second toast came, and Major Bulford rose to speak, his glance fell upon the two vacant chairs (for according to custom the places had been reserved); and his eyes glistened with something suspiciously like a tear, and there was a strange huskiness about his voice, as he uttered those words which had been so frequent of late,

"Let us drink to the memory of the brave lads who were with us this morning, but whose faces we shall never see again!"

So they drank the toast in silence, and then the Squadron-Commander, having regained his usual voice, added:–

 
"One crowded hour of glorious life,
Is worth an age without a name…!"
 

CHAPTER VI
A ZEPPELIN NIGHT

Per ardua ad astra

IT was a bright sunny morning in September during the great war, as the mail packet slipped out of Calais breakwater, and headed for the white cliffs of Dover. For two days the service had been suspended for a special reason. Her decks were crowded with overdue mails, including those from India, Egypt and Australia, which had come overland from Brindisi.

There was also a fair sprinkling of passengers, including not a few officers, home on short leave from the Somme front, where the great push was still in progress.

Amongst the latter was a young officer, not more than twenty-two, clad in a "British Warm" and wearing the well-known service cap of the Flying Corps, with its circular badge, consisting of a wreath of laurels and the magic letters, R.F.C.; letters which have already woven themselves into the romance of English history, for the daring deeds of our airmen had already gained for this juvenile corps traditions which will never die.

"Good-bye, Dastral! Come back soon!" shouted several of his comrades, who had come to the edge of the quay to see the hero off to Blighty on his well-earned leave. For the youth in the service cap was none other than Dastral of the Flying Corps, the brilliant young pilot who had fought with the German air-fiend, Himmelman, only a few days before and had perhaps done more than any other individual towards wresting the supremacy of the air from the wily and cruel Boche.

He had already won that coveted decoration, the D.S.O., as we have previously seen, and now the King was about to confer upon him the Military Cross, for a daring bombing raid which he had organised and carried out over the enemy's lines, when as Commander of "B" Flight he had led his men beyond the Somme, and blocked the enemy's communications, bombed the Havrincourt-Bapaume Railway, and destroyed the bridge and viaduct at Velu, hurling one long troop train to destruction, and preventing the Germans reinforcing their front line trenches near Ginchy and Morval. Now, after his latest deed, the King had sent for him to congratulate him in person for his skill and daring. On the morrow he was to be received in audience at Buckingham Palace.

If he had consulted his own wishes he would much have preferred to remain with his comrades on the Somme, but a royal wish is an order, and, after all, perhaps the ten days' leave which had been granted to him would enable him to run north to visit his mother and friends in the little village in Yorkshire, and to gaze once again upon those blue, heather-tipped and bracing moorlands where he had spent his boyhood.

"Good-bye, Dastral. Don't stay too long in Old Blighty!" again shouted his friends, as the vessel sheered off and gained headway, and he had shouted back in reply:

"Cheer-o, boys! I shall soon be back again," waving his hand towards his comrades, as he bent over the rail.

As soon as they left the shelter of the breakwater a destroyer, waiting outside, sent up a couple of flags to her masthead.

"Send up the answering pennant, bosun!" cried the skipper of the mail-boat, when he saw the destroyer's signal, and immediately after he rang down to the engine room staff:

"Full steam ahead!" for the warship was there to act as escort, as there were very valuable mails aboard, and only two nights ago, the enemy's destroyers, breaking out of their base at Zeebrugge, had crept through the gap in the British mine-beds in the dark, and had sent two patrols and an empty transport to the bottom.

So, while the mail packet went full speed ahead, at twenty-four knots, the destroyer, with her superior speed, waltzed round her, like a dancing marionette, leaving a trail of white foam in her wake. This she continued to do all the way across the Channel, for it was known that several enemy submarines were lurking about the neighbourhood, watching through their periscopes for just such a target as the mail boat with her valuable cargo offered.

Very soon, however, the white cliffs of Dover appeared in sight, and when they entered the new naval harbour, the destroyer sheered off and went back to her station.

Dastral, having been recognised on the boat, had received several invitations to dine in London that evening, but all these he had courteously refused, although one of them had come from a Cabinet minister and his wife who were travelling on the same boat.

"No," he had said to himself, "there is poor old Tim Burkitt, my colleague, who is studying law at Gray's Inn. I will go and hunt him up. He will be glad to see me, and we will spend the night together at Hallet's."

Now Tim Burkitt, who suffered from a physical deformity, had been breaking his young heart ever since war broke out, for he had been rejected from every sphere of service in the great war, owing to his deformity. He had seen his chums depart from Gray's into the Army, the Navy and the Flying Corps, and he had been left behind almost alone.

He had been chummy with Dastral, for they came from the same village, had come up to London together, and had shared the same drab dull lodgings in the great city. Later he was destined to become a great lawyer, for nature had compensated him by granting him the gift of oratory, but he would have willingly given up all that if he could but have shared with Dastral his adventures and his triumphs.

This afternoon he had thrown aside his law books to read in the papers a vivid description of Dastral's fight with Himmelman, the German air-fiend, and the poor cripple, with tears of grief and envy at his own hard lot, but with his heart full of joy at his comrade's success had just thrown aside the paper, adding dejectedly:

"Oh, Dastral, how I would like to see you again! You were always a true friend to me"; when suddenly he heard a scamper of footsteps up the bare stone steps that led up to his chamber in Gray's, and the next instant the door flew open, and Tim found himself embracing his old colleague, with a warmth he had never exhibited before.

"Bravo, Dastral!" he cried again and again. "I knew you'd do it if you had half a chance. And to think you should remember me, a poor cripple, when all England is talking about you, and the King himself has sent for you."

"Here, stow it, Tim! Who do you think I should seek out first if not you? I've come to spend the afternoon and evening with you. To-morrow, after I have seen the King, I'm going home to Burnside, where you and I spent so many happy days, and I want you to come with me."

"Good! Splendid! How kind of you, old fellow! Then to-night we'll have a dinner all to ourselves at Hallet's. What say you?"

"Right you are, Tim," said Dastral, clapping his old colleague on the back, and making him the happiest fellow in all London for the nonce.

That afternoon the two chums had a quiet stroll around Gray's, and Lincoln's Inn Fields, then called on one or two acquaintances who had also been left behind in the Temple. A visit to the Old Mitre of sacred memory, and a quiet smoke in Johnson's Corner at the "Cheese" in Fleet Street, passed away the hours of the golden afternoon, and the evening found them snugly ensconced at Hallet's, where, in the days gone by, they used to celebrate any little event in their lives by a special dinner.

Never for a moment did the conversation flag. The two chums unbosomed themselves to one another, except that Dastral would not talk about his adventures since he became a pilot in the Flying Corps, for the members of this Corps never seek advertisement, preferring that the record of their Homeric deeds should all go down to the credit of the Corps, rather than to any particular individual.

"But, Dastral," Tim would urge, as the plates and dishes disappeared and another course was laid, "you must have had a hundred amazing adventures since I saw you last. Just tell me about one of them, say your fight with Himmelman!"

"Bah! It was nothing, Tim–nothing, I mean to make a song about. If I could write and speak like you, now, I might be able to make a tale about it. But nature hasn't gifted me that way," replied the pilot.

"But don't you feel the romance and glory of it all, fighting a battle in the air at ten thousand feet?"

"Romance, glory?" laughed Dastral. "There is no romance or glory about war, when you are in it. It is horrid and brutal then. You must be miles away to see the romance of it. It is all an ugly business."

Tim couldn't understand him. He just couldn't, but he had one more shot. "Don't you feel like singing sometimes, when you are up in the azure, mounting in circles like a lark to meet the sun, and the heavens are calling you?" he asked.

"Ah, when I am ten thousand feet up, and the engines are running smoothly, it is heavenly. I feel like music and romance then. The song of the propellors is beautiful, and the beating of the engine makes me imagine all sorts of weird things, but when I come down to the earth again I forget all the things I would say. It is wonderful though, that call of the heavens; the call of the wild, as the gipsies say, isn't in it. But I cannot describe it."

And so they talked on for an hour–two hours, long after the table had been cleared, making rings of smoke into which Tim Burkitt at least, with his rich imagination, saw wonderful things, when suddenly something happened which made them both spring to their feet–the electric lights went out, leaving them in utter darkness for a couple of minutes.

"What is the matter?" cried half a dozen voices, as soon as the waiter appeared with a lamp in his hand, which he immediately placed upon the centre table.

"There is a rumour, sir, that the Zeppelins are to make an attack upon London to-night, and the electric current has been turned off at the main," replied the jovial, beefy-faced waiter, adding with a smile, as he returned for another lamp, "What are we a-coming to?"

At this announcement several people at once took their departure, evidently thinking that Hallet's would be the first place to invite the attention of the raiders, and one or two ladies fainted and had to be helped out by their friends.

A strange and eager look came into the eyes of Dastral at the word Zeppelin. Tim noted it at once, and wondered what his colleague was thinking about, for, though his gaze was eager and keen, there was a far away look in his eyes. At the end of a minute he half uttered the word:

"Zeppelin!"

Then he rose to his feet, but recalling himself almost with a jerk to the fact of Tim's presence, he said apologetically,

"I say, old fellow, we've had a jolly time, but I think I must leave you, though it almost breaks my heart to do so."

"Go? Where to, Dastral? I thought you were going to spend the night at my rooms, and it's barely nine o'clock yet. Sit down, old man. You haven't got the Zeppelin fright as well, have you? If you have, here are my smelling salts–here, take a sniff now."

For answer Dastral burst into a roar of laughter. Then subsiding quickly, he said, in a more serious tone, bending low to whisper his words in Burkitt's ears:

"I have never yet fought a Zeppelin, except the lame duck we brought down near Brussels. I would give all I possess to go up and fight one. And during the last minute I have been wondering how it can be done."

"Well, how can you do it?"

"That's the trouble. I'm not attached to any Wing or Squadron in England. But a friend of mine has just recently returned from France, and has been appointed Commanding Officer of the –th Squadron, with its aerodrome about fifteen miles away from here. I must get into touch with him, if possible."

The next moment Dastral was engaged on the 'phone, trying in the dark to find his friend somewhere at the other end of the wires. After some ten minutes he managed it.

"Hullo! Hullo! Are you there?" he asked.

"Yes, who are you?" came the reply.

"I want the O.C. of your Squadron at once, please."

"He is busily engaged, and I cannot disturb him now, unless it is something of the highest importance. Hurry up, please, and tell me who you are, and give me your message. The wires are urgently wanted to-night."

"I am Dastral, Flight-Commander Dastral of the –th Squadron, –th Wing, and I have just come from France."

"What! Beg pardon, sir. Dastral. Not the pilot who fought with Himmelman?"

"Yes."

"Hold the line a minute, sir."

Twenty seconds later the O.C. of the Squadron himself was at the end of that line.

"Hullo! Is that you, Dastral?"

"Yes. How are you, Garner, old man?"

"But hang it, how came you to ring me up? I should dearly love to see you, but I've my hands full to-night. We received 'Air Raid Action' half an hour ago. Several hostile airships have crossed the east coast, and are making for the metropolis, so I cannot stay now. Come and see me in the morning, do, old man. Eh, what's that you say?"

"Haven't you a spare machine you could let me try if I came over there by fast motor at once?"

"Hullo! hullo! All the machines are out with the men standing by, ready to go up at the first tip, except–let me see now–we've got a new fast 'Buckstead Bullet' here, which none of the men are very familiar with yet. There's that. Come if you like, old fellow. It's a bit irregular, but if there should happen to be a big attack on London, and the case warrants it, I see no reason why you shouldn't try the blamed thing. It's a single-seater, only just in from the makers, and a devil of a whizzer as well as a first class climber!"

"Right-o! I'm coming straight away!" cried Dastral, waiting to hear no more, and banging down the receiver.

The next minute he was outside on the pavement, forgetting all about Tim, the settlement of the bill, and everything else. Tim, however, who had heard part of the message, had already paid the bill and got outside, where he had hailed a taxi, determined not to be left behind, for his quick intuitive mind had told him which way the wind was blowing. He had had a hard job to secure the vehicle, for there had been a great demand for the same, but he had whispered Dastral's name to the chauffeur and had agreed to foot the bill however big it might be, although he had only three half-crowns left in his pocket after squaring the bill indoors. That did not bother him at all, however. Here was a chance of rendering some service, however small, to the nation at large, for he felt convinced that if only Dastral could have a chance he would bring down half a dozen raiders.

Immediately, therefore, Dastral appeared at the doorway he shouted:

"This way, Dastral, this way. Quick!"

"What the deuce–"

"Inside, old man; this is my show!" and before the bewildered pilot could finish his exclamation, he was inside and Tim was with him and the door closed.

"Where to?" asked the cripple.

Dastral gave the directions, and told the driver to do his utmost to get them there within an hour, or it would be too late.

Within ten seconds they were whizzing away through the darkness in the direction of the Great North Road, and as there was very little traffic about, they reached their destination within three quarters of an hour. It was not a minute too soon. They had seen the searchlights at work on their way north, and towards the end of their journey they had several times heard the anti-aircraft guns blazing away at something up in the clouds.

"Halt! Who goes there?" came the challenge as they reached the turning which left the main road, and finished at the aerodrome.

The vehicle halted abruptly, for the driver had seen the flash of the barrel of a Smith & Weston revolver, which the air-mechanic on sentry-go held out to bar their progress.

"Flight-Commander of the Royal Flying Corps," shouted the pilot, hoping that would allow him to pass, and to get on to the aerodrome immediately, but the sentry was obdurate.

"Let me see your permit, sir," he asked.

"Haven't got one."

"Turn out guard!" shouted the sentry, and turning to the newcomers, he added:

"Advance, Flight-Commander, and report to the guard-room."

The guard-room was but a few yards further on, and the corporal of the guard, approaching the carriage, saluted, and led Dastral and Tim away to the Flight-Sergeant at the Orderly Room. He was expected, and a minute afterwards he was shaking hands with Garner, who had been waiting for him.

And now there was not a moment to spare, for the presence of the raiders had been reported from the O.C. Searchlights, as hiding somewhere in the clouds between Hatfield and Barnet, trying to break through to London. Only a ring of curtain fire from the A.A. Batteries, and a cordon of long flashing lights which swept the sky from the horizon was keeping them back.

Several machines had already gone up in search of the enemy and the other pilots were standing by their machines ready to "take off" immediately the order was given.

Immediately, therefore, Dastral had settled with the driver of the taxi, and introduced Tim to his friend, Squadron-Commander Garner, they were led through the darkness to the shed where the "Buckstead Bullet," as she was nicknamed, lay all ready to be wheeled out.

"Good! Excellent!" exclaimed Dastral, immediately he saw the little single-seater monoplane, for he had flown a similar machine several times in France.

With the aid of a dark lanthorn he carefully went over her, and lovingly fingered every part of her, from the bullet-nosed fuselage which gave her her nickname, to her neat, trim little tail and rudder.

The noise of the A.A. guns became louder and louder outside, as though they had discovered one of the raiders. And Dastral was just itching to go up!

"Let me go up in her, Garner!" he said. "She's a beauty!"

The O.C. scratched his head. He had wanted to fly her himself, for she was the only spare machine left over, and, moreover, as Dastral was not attached to the squadron, it was somewhat irregular for him to use the machine, without the express permission of the Wing Headquarters. He hesitated for a moment therefore, but, just at that instant, one of the raiders suddenly emerged from the edge of a cloud where it had been in hiding, and a fresh burst of anti-aircraft gunfire caused some excitement.

"There she is!" cried some one, as one of the searchlights caught her.

"As you like, Dastral. There's your target. Get into your togs quickly and I'll take the risk of it. I must leave you for a moment now. Those fellows in 'C' Flight are waiting to go up," and with that the O.C. turned round and dashed off, while Dastral, without waiting for anything further, got into a huge leathern coat, pilot's boots, and donned the flying helmet with long ear flaps and queer-looking goggles, which an air-mechanic had brought him.

Two minutes later the young pilot climbed into the 'plane, gave a final look round, waved a good-bye to Tim, whose pale face, now working with intense excitement, he discerned in the darkness.

"All ready, sir?" asked the Flight-Sergeant.

Dastral gave him a nod, and prepared to switch on the the current.

"Swing the propellor!" came next, and as the cool, calculating pilot pulled a switch, the mighty engine broke into its terrible song.

"Rep-p-p, rep-p-p! Whir-r-r!"

"Stand clear!" and away went the monoplane like a bullet out of a gun. As she started, a searchlight was deflected in a long beam along the ground, to give the daring young aviator the direction for his take-off, for the dangers of night-flying are many, as more than one brave pilot has found to his cost before now.