Dastral of the Flying Corps. Rowland Walker

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      "And–er–I want you to carefully study the map of the section in which we are working. It will be absolutely necessary for you to know every road, hamlet and village marked on that map, before you go over. You understand?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Then get to work at once, my dear fellow. I have great hopes of you, and if you continue as you have begun, I can promise you it will not be long before you are made a Flight-Commander."

      Dastral blushed deeply at this compliment, for he was but a boy in years, despite his courage and resource. Leaving the Commander's presence, he went direct to the shed, where he found Jock, who was not only a brilliant observer but a first-rate mechanic, and already had the work in hand, having been drawn there by his affection for the filmy thing that had already brought them across the seas, and had served them so well during at least one great adventure.

      "Well, how is she, Jock?" were his first words.

      "Ripping!" replied the observer, handling the delicate creature as though she were a lady. "I've already been round her. The engine and propellor are quite sound now. The new petrol tank and feed are already fitted, and in another couple of hours she'll be as perfect as when she left England."

      "Good!" exclaimed Dastral, who had the greatest confidence in the lad's judgment in these matters, and was prepared to back him against any expert in aerodynamics, or the mechanism of any aeroplane in existence.

      "What say you to a trip in her this evening? There'll be plenty of time before dusk, old fellow."

      "Yes, I'm quite agreed, even if it's only a joy-ride to try her, for to-morrow we go over there," said the pilot, flinging away the stump of his cigar, and jerking his thumb in the direction of his shoulder.

      "Over where?" asked Jock, straightening himself from the stooping position he had assumed, to examine the baffle-plates on the propeller.

      "Over the German lines," came the reply.

      "Really! You mean it, and so soon?"

      "Yes, to-morrow at dawn we go over on a reconnaissance; C.O.'s orders."

      "Good!" exclaimed the observer, throwing down a spanner which he still held in his hand.

      "And here's a map of the section in front of our lines. We must spend the evening over it."

      So that evening, after the machine had been got quite ready for her next flight, they spent four hours over the map, scaling it out, and committing to memory the names of villages, hamlets, rivers, canals, roads and railway lines, so that when they retired to bed, the whole of the map was actually photographed upon their minds.

      Morning came at length, and at the first whisper of dawn, having received their detailed orders from the Squadron-Commander, four or five aeroplanes were wheeled out on to the aerodrome, then taxied off quickly and disappeared in the dark. The last of the flight was the hornet, with Dastral and Jock starting on their first real venture over the enemy's lines.

      After climbing rapidly, and circling round the aerodrome once or twice, the machines made off, each to reconnoitre the section of the line allotted to it.

      The hornet carried two Lewis guns, with plenty of ammunition, for when an aerial patrol sets out on a flight, one never knows what duels he may have to engage in before he returns. The hornet had this advantage over the other machines, which were of an older pattern: she had a higher speed, was a better climber, and with her improved controls she could manoeuvre more quickly than any other machine yet made.

      "Gee whiz!" cried Jock down the speaking tube, which ended close to the pilot's ear, "but she's climbing."

      "What is it?" yelled back the pilot, half turning his head so that his mouth came near to the end of the tube.

      "Three thousand feet," came the answer.

      "Good! Then we'll make a bee-line and cross the trenches. Look out for 'Archie'!"

      The dawn had broken by now, and away in the east the gloom was lifting, but down below it was still wrapped in mist and darkness. It was the hour of standing-to. Down below thousands of eyes would be straining through the obscurity to find that speck in the heavens whence came that whir-r-ring sound.

      But upward and onward went the hornet With a stern, strong beat of power in her twelve-cylindered engine. Nearer and nearer she came to that long line which stretched from the sand-dunes of Belgium away to Switzerland. The observer was already keenly surveying the landscape through his glasses as the light broadened, and the countryside revealed itself.

      A silvery streak lay beneath them; it was the River Ancre. Now a broad white patch of roadway came into view. It was the main road from Albert to Bapaume. As they came out of a bank of rolling mist and fog, a few red roofs and a church tower next came into view, standing just where four roads met.

      "Contalmaison?" queried Dastral, and Jock, after a brief reference to his waterproof map, called back:

      "Yes, and Bazentin on the left."

      They were now almost over the trenches, and far beneath they could discern hundreds of tiny points of fires.

      "What are they?" asked the pilot again, and the observer who had been scanning those red sparks for a couple of minutes replied,

      "Fires in the British trenches. Men cooking their morning rations. Can't you smell the bacon?"

      Dastral laughed and sniffed the keen morning air, as though in reality he could make out the fragrant aroma of the morning dish, about which those cold, wet, and shivering heroes of the trenches were standing, ankle-deep in mud and clay.

      "The poor devils!" added the pilot, altering his controls slightly, and wheeling round to the south to pick up the enemy's lines more clearly at a point where they made a sharp curve.

      They could now clearly see both the British and the German trenches. Three long, scarred and ragged lines of brown earth showed clearly where the enemy's front-line, reserve and support trenches stood. Long, twisting lines of similar demarcation showed where the communication trenches ran.

      Now they were over No Man's land, sailing along serenely, and the artillery down below had already opened the morning concert on both fronts, when–

      "Biff, puff–!" came a time-fuse shrapnel and burst scarcely a hundred feet in front of the machine. Then another and another as the "Archies" below spotted the hornet, and tried to give her a packet.

      Suddenly they were in a cloud of yellow smoke and half-poisonous fumes, which made them gasp and sputter. Then, owing to the bursting of the shells and the heavy concussions they found themselves in a succession of air-pockets.

      "Look out, Jock!" cried Dastral, as the machine rocked and swayed, banking over once or twice as though she had been hit.

      For several minutes they ran the gauntlet of this heavy fire from the German A.A. guns, but the terrific speed at which they were travelling–now nearly one hundred and twenty miles per hour–soon carried them beyond the range of the enemy's guns.

      Then it was that the day's work really began. Their orders were to reconnoitre behind the enemy's lines and to report by wireless code any occurrence, such as the threat of a massed attack by infantry, the moving of transport columns, or the locating of heavy artillery. It was also necessary, above all, to watch the СКАЧАТЬ