Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium - Horace Porter - Страница 7

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Night had come and in front of one of the handsome hotels that had escaped splintering when Ostend, the famous seaside resort, under fire of big guns, was swept by shot and shell, Gun-Lieutenant Mertz had just stepped out of a big gray automobile that looked like a high speeder—the kind that has plenty of power. The driver of the car did not wait for a second order to leave the lieutenant and speed away in the direction of the mess quarters, where he knew that there was a fragrant stew being prepared for duty men coming in late.

The fighting of the day had mostly taken place far up the coast, and the chance had arrived for a loosening of belts in Ostend.

With a final chug the big gray car came to a standstill in a quiet corner off the main street, while the hungry chauffeur joined his comrades in what they called pot-luck. The movements of this man had been watched with a large amount of interest by a pair of visitors, who had chosen the darkest places they could find while approaching the dining hall of the soldiers.

“Gee!” whispered one of the watchers to the other. “I can almost feel a bullet in my back.”

From the companion shadow: “Take your foot out of my face, can’t you?”

Two heads uplifted at the sight of the rear lights of the car.

Again an excited whisper:

“Now for it, Billy!”

The soldiers were laughing and talking loudly in the dining hall.

The boys crawled along, carefully avoiding the light that streamed from the windows of the hall. A moment later they nimbly climbed into the car. Henri took the wheel and gently eased the big machine away into the shadowy background. Then he stopped the car and intently listened for any sound of alarm. The soldiers were singing some war song in the dining hall, keeping time with knives and forks.

It was a good time for the boys to make a start in earnest, and they started with no intention of stopping this side of the ridge, behind which their friends were anxiously watching and waiting for them.

Henri drove cautiously until he felt sure that they were out of the principal avenues of travel, and then he made things hum. He guided straight toward a clump of trees showing black against the moon just appearing above the crest of the hill. The riding grew rough, but the speed never slackened. At last the goal was reached. The car bumped and bounced up, and bounced and bumped down the hill.

Leaping from the machine, Billy fairly rolled to the feet of the startled crew of the sea-plane.

“So help me,” exclaimed Captain Johnson, “if I didn’t think it was a section of the Fourth Corps after our scalps!”

“Hurry!” gasped Billy. “Get anything that will hold oil, and get it quick!”

For the moment confused, Johnson and Freeman seemed tied fast to the ground.

Henri rolled into the circle and added his gasp:

“We’ve a touring car up there and its tanks are loaded!”

Then the boss mechanic, Freeman, came to the front. From the depths of the engine room in the motor end of the sea-plane he pulled a heavy coil of rubber tubing and in a few minutes made attachments that tapped the automobile’s plentiful supply of petrol and sent it gurgling into the empty tanks of the sea-plane.

Across the sandy plain came the sound, faintly, of shouting. Maybe somebody had discovered that the officer’s car was missing.

As Billy suggested with a laugh:

“Perhaps they think some joy riders took it.”

“I’m not going to stay to find out what they think,” very promptly asserted Captain Johnson. “Heave her out, boys!”

The sea-plane took the water like a duck. Obedient to Johnson’s touch it leaped upward, the motors were humming, and with a cheery cackle Freeman announced:

“We’re off again.”

“And they are showing us the way,” cried Billy, as a great searchlight inland sent a silver shaft directly overhead.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Riflemen on the ridge were popping at the sea-plane.

“There’s a salute for good measure,” observed Henri.

“Lucky we’re out of range of those snipers, but I’m thinking the batteries might attempt to take a whack at us.”

With these words Captain Johnson set the planes for another jump skyward.

“There’s the good old moon to bluff the searchlight,” sang out Billy from the lookout seat. “And, see, there’s a row of smokestacks sticking out of the water. Sheer off, Captain; don’t let those cruisers pump a shot at us. They’d wreck this flyer in a minute!”

The sea-plane was taking the back-track at fine speed when valve trouble developed in the engine room. The cylinders were missing fire, and all of Freeman’s expert tinkering failed to prevent the necessity of rapid descent. The hum of the motors died away, and Captain Johnson dived the craft seaward with almost vertical plunge. The sea-plane hit the water with a dipping movement that raised a fountain over the lookout, and it was Billy that cried “Ugh!” when he was drenched from head to foot by the downfall of several gallons of cold water.

The aircraft had alighted only a few rods from land, in a shallow, marshy bay. The place was as silent as the grave, save for the calling of the night birds and the gentle lapping of the waves. Freeman with the aid of an extra propeller fitting, paddled the craft into shore, and was soon busy trying to find out what was the matter with the machinery. Captain Johnson held the acetylene flare over Freeman’s shoulder to enable the engineer to see where repair was needed.

Billy and Henri, out of a job for the time being, concluded that they would do some exploring. After wading through the mud, weeds and matted grass for a hundred yards or so they reached firm footing on higher ground.