CHAPTER XIX.
A CRUCIAL TEST.
Strong winds were raising clouds of chalky dust over the great seaportwhen the boys caught their first glimpse of Odessa, the terraced city,rising nearly 200 feet above the level of the surrounding steppes. Byall manner of conveyance, by land or water, but ever in continuousmotion, the Sergius party made remarkable progress from Petrograd to theborders of the Black Sea. Behind the expedition was that power which, asBilly observed, "makes the wheels go 'round."
The last leg of the journey landed the travelers at the basins of themighty rivers Dnieper and Dniester, upon which floated fleets ofSergius' ships, and more of the same vessels controlled by the master ofmoney lay in the two harbors of the Bay of Odessa. These latter the boysviewed from the head of the superb flight of steps descending from thecentral square, adorned with a statue of Richelieu, to the sea. On thechief embankment was the magnificent residence of Sergius, fronted by afine promenade.
"Some mixture in this town," remarked Henri, marking movement in Odessastreets, through which they were passing--Great Russians, LittleRussians, French, Jews, Italians, Greeks, Roumanians, Servians,Bulgarians, Tartars, Armenians, Lazes, Georgians, and so forth, and soforth.
The Turk in his fighting clothes, however, was an acquaintance the youngaviators had yet to make--the time drawing nigh, though, and a veritablestorm of explosives to make the occasion memorable.
Billy and Henri were to work with the Black Sea air fleet, their expertservices as a contribution from Sergius, which made them, in a sense,independent factors as pilots.
As untried recruits, and on account of their youth, the boys had theusual doubt on the part of aviation chiefs to overcome--and, based uponpast experience, it is perfectly safe to anticipate that they passed thecrucial test, literally speaking, with "flying colors."
While the lads regretted that they would not have the No. 3's under themin their trial trip, all types approaching the same lines looked aliketo them.
With two noted aerialists and high-range bomb-throwers, LieutenantsMoppa and Atlass, behind them, within three days after their arrival inOdessa, the newly assigned pilots set out in two specially designedseaplanes for scout duty that would take them far across the waste ofwaters.
The bombardment of Novorossisk was in progress as the aviators sped thatway, and the pilots were compelled to run at great altitude to clear themass of flames that lit the lowering sky for miles around. Germangunners in Turkish warships had shot a hundred oil tanks into blazes. AtPoti another Turkish cruiser was exchanging shells for the shore pepperof machine guns, and cannon were thundering from the fortress ofSevastopol.
Lieutenant Moppa, from the aircraft Billy was driving, sent down acouple of bombs on the Turkish battleship "Midirli," but the missilesmissed and splashed into the sea far to the right of the vessel.
A couple of marine riflemen took a chance at the seaplane in return, andmore than one bullet flattened against the armored bottom and side ofthe big flyer. The observer seemed to revel in the game, and shouteddefiance at the air, for with the hum of the motors the biggest voicefor distance counted no more than a penny whistle.
The officer at the rear of Henri, however, made himself heard by thepilot, when directing attention to a cloud of smoke lifting high abovethe lower strata of mist, and urging speed in that direction. It was aRussian fleet hastening from its bombardment of Turkish Trebizond togive battle to the Ottoman disturbers of the Russian coast line--"two,three, four, five, six, seven," counted the aviators--all of them bigships, and five smaller ones completing the naval procession.
At the two Turkish vessels, five miles away, the oncomers plugged bigshells at a lively rate, and about the craft under fire the aviatorscould see that the water jumped and churned and rose in columns. To portand starboard, fore and aft, above and below, there was nothing but shotand shell. It looked like the Turks did not know which way to turn, butby some hook or crook they got things to running smoothly, and made aclean getaway.
The mist curtain had grown so dense that the aerial bomb-throwers didlittle execution, in their turn, and soon abandoned pursuit of thefleeing cruisers, pushing hard for the Turkish coast.
The seaplanes settled in the path of the rapidly approaching Russians,and Billy and Henri rested after their introductory dash along a newline of strenuous endeavor.
Billy turned to Lieutenant Moppa, with the inquiry:
"Did everything work all right?"
"As far as you are concerned," promptly advised the officer, "it couldnot have been better managed. I was a little off, though, in the matterof landing bombs in the right place."
The observer with Henri had just told the lad that he was engaged forlife.
The Russian warships, among which they were drifting, the boys learned,were in the Slav naval movement to approach the strait of Bosphorus fromthe north, and related to mighty effort of the allied forces to poundtheir way through the Dardanelles on the other side--that the fleets ofall three powers might shell Constantinople from two directions.
"If we get through the Bosphorus, and I am wagering we will," saidLieutenant Moppa as the seaplanes, side by side, gently undulated withthe waves, "it will be the first hostile fleet that has done the trickfor more than four centuries."
"It will be getting by some 120 guns, I have heard," remarked thebrother officer, "and they are pretty near all Krupps, shooting ironsnot in the toy class."
"I remember once reading a five-cent tear-me-up entitled 'The Bride ofthe Bosphorus; or, the Fourteen Corpses of the Caspian Sea,' and if thepassage is as exciting as that story, count me in."
This an aside from Billy to Henri.
While the boys were having a quiet chuckle to themselves, the flagshipof the fleet showed signal to forge ahead, and the pilots of theseaplanes went to work again.
There was a night journey ahead, but with many searchlights sweepingboth sea and sky, it was not a blind-going proposition.
The naval program included an issue with Fort Killis, about six milesfrom the entrance of the Bosphorus, where the Turks had a battery of6-inch Krupp guns.
It was up to the aeroplanists to look over the situation in advance,with additional responsibility of keeping themselves well out of therange of the big shooting irons, one straight aim of which would bringthe lofty sailing party a very chilly trip clear to the bottom of thesea.
In the early morning the seaplanes quit the company of the warships toessay the exceedingly perilous reconnoiter.
The battery which the air scouts sought to accurately locate wasconstructed in, or, rather, under a cliff, and flying high andimmediately overhead the observer had scant opportunity to size up thereal strength and range of the masked position. To win a look worthy ofrecord it was decided to chance an 80-mile-an-hour spurt across the seafront.
If the gunners were a little slower than the aviators, it was all to thegood for the latter--if the reverse, the Black Sea air fleet would bereduced just so many.
With all the power in the motors applied, the seaplanes swept by theface of the cliff, the observers mentally gathering every detail throughstraining eyes, and the pilots equally intent in planning the lightningswerve that would baffle the men from behind the Krupps.
Out and away! One gun belched fire--then another--now the whole halfdozen or more--with the crack of rifles in between the heavierdetonations.
The terrific speed, and the skilful manipulation of the seaplanes thatprevented the presentation at any time of a broadside target, soonsafely carried the daring airmen far out to sea.
Reporting to the admiral of the fleet, Lieutenants Moppa and Atlasspresented Billy Barry and Henri Trouville with such glowing words ofcommendation that the lads quit the quarterdeck with very red faces.
An hour later the warships were throwing projectiles that showeredsplinters of rock all over the masked position. The Russian assault uponthe Bosphorus had begun.
Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in Russia; or, Lost on the Frozen Steppes Page 19