CHAPTER X
HIMMELMAN S LAST FIGHT
IN the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, ablue-eyed, dark-haired youth of about twenty-two stood with his backto the fire. He was alone, for the others had not yet come in fromthe marquees and sheds where the aeroplanes were being stored. On hisleft breast he wore the double brevet of a fully-fledged pilot.
This was Flight-Commander Dastral of "B" Flight, of the --thSquadron, --th Wing, Royal Flying Corps, known to the whole of theBritish 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 andwhite ribbon, the insignia of the D.S.O. For, though but a lad, hehad fought with more Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands, and had morethrilling exploits over the German lines, than any other youth of hisage.
To-night, however, the pilot seemed sad; there was a shadow ofdisappointment over his fair, young face. There was also a dreamy,far-away look in those usually piercing blue eyes. What was thematter with the lad? He was generally gay and even frolicsome. Morethan once the O.C. had found it necessary to take him to task forsome of his jovial pranks.
At his feet lay the previous day's issue of the _Times_, which he hadjust been reading, and that which had made him sad was a paragraphtelegraphed to London by the Amsterdam correspondent of that paper,which ran as follows:--
"Yesterday, at the German Headquarters behind the western front, theKaiser in person conferred upon Himmelman, the famous German airscout, the insignia of the Iron Cross. It is claimed by the enemythat this air-fiend has brought down more than forty British andFrench machines, and that his equal in skill and daring does notexist upon the battle-fields of Europe. Quite recently he fought withand vanquished three British pilots single-handed in one day. Thisfamous pilot flies a new type of machine called the Fokker, and theGermans claim for this machine that for climbing and rapid manoeuvrethere 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 feltsure he had encountered Himmelman. Ah, well! A pilot's life is only ashort 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 flewopen, and Fisker, his observer, accompanied by Graham of "A" Flightand Wilson of "C" Flight entered the room.
"Hullo! What's the matter that you look so glum, Dastral?" exclaimedGraham, as he caught sight of his friend. "Has the O.C. been givingyou another reprimand over that last rag, old fellow?"
"What rags?" laughed Dastral, regaining his usual cheerfulness withan effort.
"Ho! ho!" laughed the others. "Of course you know nothing about it,Dastral, gut all the fellows are laughing over it, and the wholesquadron puts it down to you, naturally," replied Wilson.
"Naturally?" echoed Dastral with raised eyebrows, and a query note inhis voice.
At this there was another burst of laughter. For this pretendedignorance of Dastral, and above all, the intoned, sepulchral voice headopted for the occasion, reminded them of the "sky-pilot" as thechaplain was called, who, on this occasion, had been the victim ofthe rag.
"Tell you what," exclaimed Wilson. "If the O.C. hasn't yet heard ofit, you'd better go out and have another of your scraps with a wholeGerman flight, before he does. That would soften him a bit whenyou're called for the 'high jump.'"
"Yes, better go out and have a look for Himmelman!" suggested Graham,tossing, the stump of his cigar into the fire.
"Himmelman?" replied Dastral, becoming suddenly serious.
"Yes, Himmelman. Why not? I believe you'll be a match for him, if youcan only meet him at the same level, and with your drums full,"replied the young commander of "C" Flight.
For answer Dastral picked up the paper again, and pointing to thecolumn about the air-fiend, said brusquely,
"Read that."
For the next two minutes the newcomers crowded around the paper, andread, partly aloud, the paragraph above referred to.
At the time of which I write the supremacy of the air was still inquestion. The daring exploits of Himmelman and his school had beencausing much anxiety to the Directorate of Air Organisation. Muchconsternation had also been caused amongst the British public by themanner in which certain sections of the press in Old Blighty hadtalked of the merits of the Fokker, the new type of fast fightingmonoplane which the enemy had produced. But it was the bold anddaring tactics of Himmelman himself, and his few immediate followers,which had given rise to this.
A new British School had come into existence, represented by Dastraland his type. These were very often mere lads from the publicschools, full of the sporting instinct in which Englishmen excel.They were soon to make their presence felt, and gain for Britain andher Allies the complete mastery of the air.
What it cost in life and limb to gain this mastery over a wily andefficient foe will be known some day, when circumstances permit theveil of silence to be drawn aside. England will then know what sheowes to her daring airmen, and every pilot's grave in France andFlanders--and they are legion--will be honoured and decked with theimperishable flowers of a nation's love.
When the trio in the officers' mess had finished reading theparagraph, it was Graham who spoke first.
"Dastral," he said, in quiet tones, "there will be no peace, and novictory, till Himmelman goes down. Nothing else matters, it seems tome; neither bombing raids, registering targets, nor spotting, tillthis air-fiend gets his _coup-de-grace_. What say you?"
For full twenty seconds Dastral waited before he replied. Again therewas that faraway look in his blue eyes as though he could seeHimmelman on his fast monoplane, coming up out of the mists of theeastern horizon beyond the German lines. Then, recalling himself withan effort he replied calmly:
"You are right, Graham. Twice already I have encountered him. Oncewhen my drums were empty, and the second time when my controls weredamaged, and I had to make a forced descent just behind our lines. Ihave felt myself a coward ever since. But fight him I will, beforesundown to-morrow, if he is anywhere in the heavens within fiftymiles of Contalmaison. And not a shot will I fire, even if attackedby half a dozen Taubes, till I meet my man. I know his tactics now,and am better prepared to fight him than ever I have been."
"Better not tell the O.C., for you know our orders are to fight everyand any enemy 'plane we see, while we have a round in the drums,"replied his comrade.
"I know, Graham; that's the trouble. When your drums are empty oryour gun has jammed, then this wary old Boche comes down from a smallcloud where he has been hiding at twelve thousand feet, and comeshurtling down through space at a hundred and fifty miles an hour,spraying your fuselage from end to end with his machine gun. All thesame, he is brave and courageous, and something of a sport--far awaythe best man they've got. But my belief is that if once he is sentdown in a crash, the spell will be broken, and we shall have thingsall our own way," said Dastral.
Then, turning to Fisker, his observer, who had not yet had histwentieth birthday, though he had been with Dastral since they firstleft England, and thoroughly understood his method and tactics, hesaid:
"What do you say, old fellow? Do you think we're a match for thishigh falutin' Prussian?"
"Dastral!" replied his chum. "I repeat what I said to you only theother day. If you'll only get the O.C. to give you a perfectly freehand, and then lay a nice little trap for the Boche, you're more thana match for him. There's more room for strategy in the air thaneither in trench warfare on land, or in a naval fight, when the seais strewn with mine-beds. And if you'll only try that new fast S.E.that you had out the other day, with the Lewis gun mounted for'ard,you'll do the trick, and it wouldn't be merely the D.S.O. that theKing and a grateful country would confer on you, for ridding thewestern front of a nuisance, but you'd get the V.C. and a C.B. aswell."
"I don't mean _Confined to Barracks_, old fellow. You'll get thatwhen you make a forced landing behind the German lines one of thesedays, if you will drop down to within a hundred feet of theirbatteries, just to put one of their 'Archies' out of action, and killa few of their gunners. I mean the other C.B. which is usually givenfrom Buckingham Palace."
"You're a sport, Fisker. I never had an observer or aerial gunner whoserved me so well as you do. The credit is yours for the majority ofthe enemy's machines we've brought down this last six months. But, asyou're game, and you've got far more brains than I have, we'll justspend the night inventing such a trap for the wily old Prussian asyou've mentioned, and to-morrow, if we don't get the weather-gage ofthe Boche, then we'll never put our heads inside this old mess again.Are you agreed?" said Dastral.
"Agreed!" replied Fisker, grasping the extended hard held out toclasp his, and to seal the bargain.
"And here's to your success, Dastral!" exclaimed Wilson, who had justpoured out for himself a glass of _vin rouge_.
At this moment the mess sergeant appeared to announce that dinner waslaid in the pilots' mess, and away they all went, laughing andjoking, as though they had been discussing nothing more or less thana county cricket match.
That night, however, as soon as the meal was over, instead of theusual rubber of whist, or game of chess, Dastral and Fisker went intothe little bunk where they slept, and, locking the door, they broughtout maps, sketches, and diagrams, and, until midnight, they were hardat work, by the kindly flicker of a little shaded lamp, evolvingscheme after scheme, until at length they agreed upon a little plan,which they decided to put into operation on the morrow. Then theyturned in, and slept for four or five hours, having given strictorders to the mess attendant to call theirs before reveille.
Half an hour before reveille Dastral was down in the hangar, wherehis new aeroplane was sheltered. Though it had been carefullyexamined overnight by the air-mechanics, yet he could trust no onebut himself to finally inspect the machine. He examined every strutand wire, every nut and bolt, oiling and testing the engine,controls, and half a hundred other little things that make up thedelicate mechanism of a modern aeroplane.
At length he was satisfied, and lit a cigarette, while Fisker shippedthe Lewis gun, packed the drums of ammunition, fixed the babywireless, saw to the bomb carriers, maps, charts, and everything elsethat concerned him.
Soon, they were ready, and, having snatched a hurried breakfast, theywrapped themselves in their warm leathern coats, and were helped intotheir pilot's boots by one of the air-mechanics, whose duty it was toguard the machines. They drew their leathern helmets tightly abouttheir cars, and encased their hands in thick gloves, then climbedinto the 'plane.
Half a dozen air-mechanics wheeled the "wasp" out into the open,where the level ground of the aerodrome offered a good "take-off."Then they waited for a moment, while the O.C. himself came down, andhanded to Dastral an envelope containing his special permit to leavehis flight, and to act as a free lance for that day; the matterhaving been arranged between them.
"Good-bye, Dastral, and a good day's sport to you, my lad!" said themajor, who stood on tiptoe to shake hands with the pilot andobserver.
"Good-bye, sir," replied Dastral, his hand already on the joy-stick.
"Start the propeller," came the order from the cock-pit.
"Yes, sir," cried an air-mechanic, who sprang forward and swung thepropeller once or twice.
"Zip-p-p-p--Zip--Whir-r-r-r!" came the sound, as Dastral started theengine, and the air seemed to vibrate with the song of the aeroplane,which has a music all its own.
"Stand clear!" came the final order, and as the mechanics leapt back,and withdrew the wooden chocks, the buzzing, waspish little thingtaxied swiftly across the level stretch of grass, then leapt into theair.
Higher and higher it rose by swift spirals, sometimes banking over sorapidly as it turned in its circuit that those who stood watching itfrom below feared it had touched an air pocket. But never did fierysteed answer the touch of the huntsman's rein so quickly, and neverdid gallant ship, as she rode the combing waves, answer her helm morereadily than did the air-wasp respond to the slightest movement ofher controls this morning, as she mounted up into the dawn. For thedaring and brilliant youth who held the joystick was a master-pilot,who understood every whim and fancy of his machine.
And now for a while let us leave Dastral climbing up into the azure,then traversing a dozen miles behind the British lines, so as todisappear from the enemy's view until the moment came for him tohunt his prey.
Soon after he had disappeared from view Major Bulford gave the order."Squadron, prepare for action!" for this was to be a day of greatthings, and the Squadron-Commander himself, having now recovered fromhis recent injuries, was going to lead the whole of the threeFlights, which composed the squadron under his command, over theenemy's lines.
Within an incredibly short space of time all the machines were readyon the level stretch of grass. The bomb carriers were filled anddrums of fresh ammunition were shipped. And within half an hour ofthe departure of the air-wasp, the squadron started off in regularformation, and crossed over the enemy's lines.
The secret had been well kept. Only the pilots themselves, after theyhad taken their seats behind the propellers, received the whisperedorders for the day. A great bombing raid was to be carried out behindthe German lines with the express purpose of drawing out Himmelmanand his crowd to counter-attack, while Dastral, hidden away in theclouds at 12,000 feet, was to enter the fight at the critical moment.Then the most daring air-fiends on the battle-fields of Europe wereto meet in single-combat, and decide for ever to which side thesupremacy of the air should be given.
The whole squadron crossed the lines at 7,000 feet, and received abaptism of fire from the anti-aircraft batteries, while thousands ofcombatants in the trenches far below stayed their fighting for amoment to watch the stinging hornets sail calmly by, as thoughutterly oblivious of the hail of bursting shrapnel, which made littlejets of fire and cirrus-clouds of white smoke all about them.
One or two Taubes and Aviatiks which had been out on a reconnaissanceand for a few photographs, rapidly retired before the hornets andfled to find shelter somewhere beyond. Meanwhile, the telephones inthe German lines were busy and the presence of the raiders wasquickly reported to the various commands, and from thence to half adozen aerodromes. Machines were rapidly run out, and got ready tomount up and meet the invaders, for it was evident that theperfidious Britishers had resolved to carry out another great bombingraid on railway communications, billets, and ammunition dumps.
Within an incredibly short space of time, Himmelman himself hadstarted to meet the the enemy. But the raiding party swept on, beyondBazentin, Ginchy and Longueval, bombing, as they passed, Combles andthe Peronne railway. Soon, they sighted the aerodromes at Scilly andEtricourt, and bombarded them, receiving another crackle of fire fromthe A.A. guns posted to defend the hangars and sheds. Then, wheelingnorth they scattered a large transport column which was proceedingslowly along the main road from Le Transloy to Bapaume.
Shortly afterwards, a swift circling movement and a smoke bomb fromthe leading 'plane gave the signal:
"Enemy 'planes approaching!"
All this had been accomplished within half an hour of crossing theenemy's lines, and the Germans had been caught fairly on the nap. Butnow Himmelman had got his machines in motion, and a fight in mid-aircould not be much longer delayed.
The English pilots looked down, and far below they could see fromhalf a dozen places Aviatiks, Taubes and Rolands creeping up to theattack. By this time all the heavy missiles had been dropped, and themachines, with their engines running superbly, had gained somethingin buoyancy from the release of the half dozen 20-pounder bombs, withwhich each aeroplane had started.
Guns were now cocked and l
oaded, and the discs were clapped intoplace, while extra drums were placed where they would be most handy,for when the fight commenced, a delay of five seconds might provefatal. Then a bold attempt was made to get the weather-gage, and touse their advantage in altitude to place the sun behind their backs,so that the enemy would have it in his face.
Every type of aeroplane approaching was carefully scrutinised, and,with sundry circling dips, short nose-dives and smoke bombs, theSquadron-Commander told off various machines to fight them, for everytype of machine has its own special capabilities and limitations. Atthe same time the heavens were eagerly scanned for a sight of thehated Fokker.
"Where is Himmelman? Where is Dastral?" every keen-eyed pilot wasasking himself. And every little cloud above and beyond was searched,but no sight of the air-fiends was vouchsafed. Ah, well, they mustfight without Dastral if he had not yet picked them up.
This manoeuvring for position continued for some minutes, but all thewhile the combatants were drawing nearer and nearer. The enemy hadevidently received strict orders to fight at all costs. Certainadvantages were his. The chosen battle-ground was in his favour, asevery British 'plane hit and compelled to make a forced landing,owing to damaged engine, petrol tank, or deranged controls, would becaptured with its crew, while only the German 'planes which crashedwould be lost.
At last the time had come for action, for the air seemed full ofspecks, both small and large. Nearly three whole squadrons hadclimbed to the attack of the British, who, however, had by this timegained the weather gage.
"Engage the enemy closely!" came the signal, as three moresmoke-bombs were hurled from the commander's machine. Only one moreorder was given, which was:
"Reserve your fire till within two hundred yards!"
The rattle of the machine-gun fire had already commenced, for theenemy had begun to fire as usual at 1000 yards, but the British,reserving their fire, followed their leader's tactics, forimmediately he had flung out his last signal, he dived down upon hisnearest opponent, a big fat yellow 'plane with black crosses upon thedoping.
"Spit--spit-t-t--spit-t-t-t!!" went the C.O.'s machine gun, as hepumped a whole drum of ammunition into his opponent, raking hisfuselage, engine, and petrol tank from end to end. The next instant,the huge German machine, which mounted two guns, went down withblazing petrol tank, and crashed from 8,000 feet.
And now commenced an indescribable scene; a terrible fight inmid-air, which would have been deemed to be impossible but a fewshort years ago. The sky, to those watching far below, must haveseemed full of wild, swooping and circling birds of prey, spittingfire and smoke, while every now and then a machine went down blazing,or wildly zig-zagging to destruction. No less than four enemy 'planeshad thus gone down, when No. 2 machine of "C" Flight, with crumpledwing, went down with a fatal nose-dive in a terrific crash.
But still the fight went on, until more than half the Britishmachines had gone under, taking down with them at least twice theirnumber, and yet neither Himmelman nor Dastral had appeared. Numberswere telling upon the English, and those machines which were left hadnearly consumed their ammunition, when, suddenly out of a littlecluster of clouds at 12,000 feet a dark speck appeared.
The little speck at first appeared like a tiny bird, but the aviatorsknew only too well what it meant. Whistling through the air in aterrific nose-dive which reached the rate of 150 miles an hour, thedreaded Fokker appeared to strike his chief opponent. Straight forthe Squadron-Commander's machine he came, like a fierce bird of prey.
For an instant the fight slackened, and the enemy machines even drewoff a little space, to leave a clear path for the air-fiend, who hadnever been known to fail in his desperate strokes. A thrill ofintense excitement held the combatants, as the Major made a daringcounter move, and jammed his last drum of ammunition into place.
"Spit! Bang! Spit! Bang!
"Whir-r-r-r!" Himmelman had opened fire while nose-diving at terrificspeed. Already the victim seemed to be in his clutch, when, just assuddenly, from the same cloud in which the German air-fiend himselfhad found ambush, another speck appeared, swooping like a hawk withits talons ready to strike. It was Dastral, who had waited andwaited, in the biting cold and the clinging moisture of the wetcloud; waited at 12,000 feet near the edge of the cloud.
He had seen Himmelman coming, had watched him like a tiny speckseeking shelter in the same misty vapour. How Himmelman had failed todiscover his enemy was a mystery. They were both invisible to thecombatants, it is true, and Dastral had used a dozen devices to keephimself out of sight of the Boche, though ready at any moment tofight with him.
There can be little doubt, however, that Himmelman had been watchingthe fight so closely that he had never even dreamt of finding hischief enemy so close at hand. Besides, no one had ever dared toimitate his tactics before, and his first intimation of Dastral'spresence was when, during his wild swoop, having half emptied hisfirst drum at the Squadron-Commander, he suddenly heard machine-gunbullets whizzing about his own ears, and felt a stinging sensation inhis right arm. Looking round, he saw that the dark cloud in which hehad been hiding had given birth to another air-fiend, and in thatmoment Himmelman knew that he was no longer the Master-Pilot of theSkies.
"Gott in Himmel!" he gasped, and made one last effort to manoeuvre.
With his hand upon the gun, and his feet upon the rudder bar, heflattened out, and tried to fight his enemy from below, leaving hislast victim to limp away to safety.
But Dastral was too quick, for he had time to give the Fokker twofull drums before he also flattened out just above the monoplane. Heknew the Fokker had its gun fixed forward, rigidly fixed, so that itcould only fire ahead through the propeller. All this he had coollycalculated beforehand. Unless, therefore, Himmelman could manoeuvreto get his enemy directly ahead, he could do nothing. Still, thoughwounded, the German fought on. Round and round spun the machines,over and under they went, like a shoal of porpoises, each trying toget the advantage.
Up there at 9,000 feet they performed the most amazing gymnasticgyrations and contortions. Once the German got the advantage, and wasabout to open a new drum of fire, when Dastral, pulling over thejoy-stick, and with clenched teeth, muttered:
"No, you don't! By all the saints, no!"
And, with that, he dived under the air-fiend, and emptied his seventhand last drum into him from beneath.
It, was the end of the great fight, for with his fuselage ablaze fromend to end--for his petrol tanks had been pierced--and with a bulletthrough his brain, Himmelman went down in a spinning nose-dive to theearth.
Even then the chief of the air nearly took down his opponent with hiswreckage, for Dastral being underneath, only just slithered, ratherthan banked, in time to let the blazing mass hurtle by. Another dozenfeet, and the heroes would have gone down together.
The next moment the daring young pilot gazed almost ruefully downupon the tangled wreckage far below. He was amazed at his own work,riding up there alone, for he was now the Master-Pilot of the Skies.Even so, somehow, his chivalrous young heart was sad, for a brave mannever finds pleasure in the death of another brave man, and your truehero has always a gentle soul.
Then touched by a gust of sudden pity, he circled down to withinthree hundred feet of the burning mass in which the remains of thebrave pilot lay, and, heedless of the risk he ran, he detached fromits place, where he had secured it that morning, unknown to all buthimself and Jock, a wreath of laurel, with these words attached toit, penned in his own hand:--
"_To Himmelman--the bravest of the brave--__the Pilot of the Western Skies. A tribute of__respect from his Conqueror._ Dastral of the Flying Corps."
Then he climbed back again, joined the remnant of his squadron, whichwith broken struts and wires, and bearing strong evidence of thegreat fight in every part of their delicate frames, struggled back tothe aerodrome near Contalmaison.
Thus did Himmelman meet his end, going down bravely, and, withHimmelman, the Germans lost the mastery of the air.
But Dastral himself was wounded in that last fight, and his machine,the new "wasp," was so badly damaged that even his wonderful skillcould not save her, and she crashed behind the British lines, quiteclose to Contalmaison.
Dastral of the Flying Corps Page 10