Part 31 (1/2)

Like a swarm of ants the air mechanics scattered right and left to avoid--in many cases ineffectually--the gigantic falling firebrand.

If Barcroft had any qualms concerning the fearful havoc he was about to create upon the throng of human beings he showed none. He remembered those bombs dropped upon the defenceless civil population of Barborough.

”Let 'em have it hot!” he shouted.

At that comparatively low alt.i.tude there was little chance of missing the expansive target. The ground was literally starred with diverging jets of flame. The burning sheds collapsed like packs of cards, the debris bursting into a series of fires. In half a minute the hangars ceased to exist save as a funeral pyre to the mechanical birds that would never again soar through the air.

A severed tension wire, one end of which cut Billy smartly on the head despite the protection afforded by his airman's padded helmet, reminded the flight-sub that again the Archibalds were having a chip in. The planes, too, were ripped in several places, while jagged holes through the sides of the fuselage marked the accuracy of the shrapnel. It was, indeed, a marvel that either pilot or observer escaped injury.

Barcroft heaved a sigh of relief as the seaplane drew away from the sh.e.l.l-infested zone. In the heat of the bombing business his blood was tingling through his veins; he was excited almost to the point of recklessness; the risk of being ”winged” by a bursting projectile hardly troubled him. But once clear of the scene of action he realised what a tight corner he had been in, and, although all immediate danger was at an end, he let the motors ”all out” in desperate haste to gain a safe alt.i.tude.

He found himself comparing the recent situation to a cat and dog encounter. So long as the feline faced the dog the latter generally contents itself by barking and making ”demonstration in force”; but directly the cat turns tail it tears away at full speed, its sole anxiety being to get away from its a.s.sailant for which, up to a certain point, it had shown contemptuous bravery.

The flight-sub's thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Kirkwood shouting through the voice-tube.

”There's Fuller a couple of miles on our left,” announced the A.P.

”What's more, he's tackling three Hun machines.”

CHAPTER XXVI

A FUTILE RESCUE

WITHOUT a second's hesitation Barcroft turned the rudder-bar. Almost on the verge of sideslipping the seaplane swung round and headed straight for the enemy aircraft.

”Something wrong with friend John,” muttered the flight-sub, ”or he wouldn't turn tail to half a dozen strafed Fritzes.”

Everything pointed to Barcroft's surmise being correct. Fuller's seaplane was in flight in a double sense. He had lost the superiority of alt.i.tude. His observer was replying to the machine-gun fire converging upon the fugitive craft from three different points. A hundred feet higher and about three hundred yards astern of the British seaplane was a large, double-fuselaged biplane. To the right and left but practically on the same horizontal plane were two Fokkers--a tough set to be up against, but in ordinary circ.u.mstances the dauntless flight-lieutenant would not have hesitated to engage.

Presently the British seaplane's Lewis gun barked. It was evident that the machine was running uncontrolled, as she was wobbling considerably. Barcroft was now near enough to see what had happened.

There was just time for a brief glance, for his plane was approaching the on-coming Huns at an aggregate speed of nearly 180 miles an hour.

There was no sign of Gregory, but Fuller, abandoning the joy-stick, had climbed into the observer's seat in order to work the automatic gun. This he did so successfully that within five seconds of the weapon opening fire one of the Fokkers crashed earthwards, completely out of action. Then the British gun was silent.

This was all that Barcroft could see as far as Fuller was concerned.

He had devoted all his attention to the double-fuselaged craft.

While Kirkwood was letting loose a drum of ammunition from the Lewis gun Barcroft employed his usual tactics. He steered straight for his antagonist. If the gun failed to do its work in time, and if the Hun pilot's nerves did not desert him, the result would be a rending crash in mid-air as the two swift-moving craft collided. The interlocked wreckage, a ma.s.s of flame, would drop like a firebrand to earth--a swift yet terrible death for friend and foe alike. But Billy knew how the odds were against such a mutual catastrophe. The Hun, if he managed to avoid the stream of bullets, was not likely to ”stand up” to the resistless onrush of the British seaplane.

Suddenly the double-fuselaged biplane nosedived. Only just in time did Barcroft tilt the ailerons, for the seaplane literally sc.r.a.ped the tail of his vertically-descending foe. For nearly a thousand feet the machine ”plumbed,” then like a silvery dart it flattened out.

”Old trick, Fritz,” muttered Barcroft. ”Well, you've lost your alt.i.tude advantage. I'll renew your acquaintance later.”

The flight-sub knew that some minutes must elapse before the double-fuselaged machine could climb to renew the encounter. During that interval he had time to devote his attention to the remaining Fokker that, following Fuller with deadly persistence, was firing the while but receiving no reply from the British craft.

Already Fuller was a couple of miles away. His antagonist was gaining slightly. It seemed remarkable that with such a prodigious outlay of ammunition the Huns had not succeeded in strafing their quarry.

Suddenly Fuller's seaplane dipped. Barcroft gave vent to an involuntary groan, but the next instant he wanted to cheer, for his chum had looped the loop two or three times and was now heading in the opposite direction.