CHAPTER XXIII.
RIDING A HURRICANE.
“We did the trick in fine style,” proclaimed Jimmy Stetson, at next sight of the young aviators, “but twice we missed a mine by eyelash length, and I warrant if we hadn’t, your record of lofty travel would be knocked in the head.”
“We had some little experience ourselves,” modestly advanced Billy.
The three boys, perched on a cracker box, compared notes until Jimmy was called away by a submarine lieutenant.
“What is on our list to-day?”
Henri pretended to look for answer to his chum’s question in a worse-for-wear notebook.
“Only a dinner engagement,” he gravely stated, “and that’s four hours to come.”
“Here comes Lieutenant Moppa,” observed Billy; “maybe he can prescribe something besides a rest cure.”
“You might suggest, Buddy, that we all go over and knock a chip off the old town.”
Henri was referring to Constantinople.
“Do your own suggesting,” advised Billy, rising to greet the Russian officer. “We were just talking, sir, about the effect of nothing-to-do on the nerves.”
“How long have you been at peace with yourselves and the world?” laughingly queried the lieutenant.
“I think about nine hours now,” replied Billy, looking at his battered silver watch.
“You will be going to seed, I am sure, if this state of things continues. By the way,” continued the officer, “I was about to tell you that the big airship is going into commission for a run around to the Gulf of Enos, backing up the British move on the Turkish port there. Heavy bombardment is already in progress, I am told, and we propose to show our allies that all the shaking up of the enemy is not to be performed by the land and water forces. As you know, we can put a choice lot of bomb droppers into the game. The largest aeroplane in the world did not come over here just for a show.”
“Thought you were not going to make your move until the warships got ready to break through the straits,” interposed Billy.
“That is just it,” said the lieutenant; “they are not in quite the shape for the grand rush, and in the meantime I want to get in a helping stroke wherever else I can. There is too much of the ‘Sikorsky’ to knock about in these little scouting operations, but the kind of an engagement now going on at Enos, I believe, is something nearer our size.”
This talk was interrupted by terrific cannonading. Four British warships had entered the Dardanelles and were shelling the Turkish forts—getting vigorous response from the shore batteries.
The boys caught sight of Captain Johnson hustling for the water front, and so apparent was their anxiety to get on the trail of their old friend that the Russian officer told them to skip out, but on no account to fail in reporting to him the following morning.
“Hold on there, my lads,” called Josh Freeman, whose track they crossed, and who also seemed to be answering an emergency summons, “Johnson isn’t going to start till I catch up, and maybe we will give you a lift.”
For this very invitation the boys were hoping, and they immediately reduced speed to correspond with the slower stride of the veteran aviator.
“Ordered to signal work,” announced the captain, as Josh and the boys joined him.
“Who’s up for pilots?” queried Freeman.
“The commander left the details to me,” rejoined Johnson.
“We’re ‘it’ then,” declared Billy.
“You take a whole lot for granted,” bantered the captain, with a wink at Josh.
The young aviators had their way, for it was just the way that suited Captain Johnson.
Hovering over the warships engaged in the bombardment, Johnson and Freeman, as observers and signal scouts, by the flag code kept the range finders on the gun decks apprised of the shots that told, as well as those that were ineffective.
They also showed the sign of warning against the approach of several Turkish torpedo boats, which were quickly turned by the hot reception measures taken by the warship gunners.
Several times in the lower strata the circling biplanes were jarred and dangerously shaken by the concussion of the tremendous gun-play.
On these occasions a rapid upshoot restored the fluttering flying machines again to even keel.
For three or four hours the four daring aviators were aloft and running the whole gamut of air perils attendant upon signal service over cross-fire of big guns.
With the retirement of the cruisers came relief, and when Billy and Henri got the word to backtrack they sent the machines along like two streaks of lightning.
“That ought to hold you a day or two,” grimly observed Captain Johnson, stamping the kinks out of his legs on the landing place, and addressing his young friends, who were also working off the strain by a vigorous arm-rubbing.
“Another job in the morning,” stated Billy, “and in a house on wings. Come around and see us start, captain, you and Josh.”
“Sure and we will,” assured the captain, “for that Russian craft beats all hollow, for size, any airship I ever saw.”
A word that evening from Lieutenant Moppa cinched the belief that it was a certain go, and Billy and Henri joined the other experts employed in preparing for the flight of the mighty machine.
Lieutenant Atlass assumed the responsibility for the storage of the explosives to be carried, and it can be stated that this officer had an assignment of the utmost importance. If anything went wrong in the magazines the travelers aboard the craft would never know what hurt them.
Billy and Henri waved good-bye to Captain Johnson and Josh from the door of the pilots’ cabin on the “Sikorsky” and then set their grips on the steering wheels as the starting signal was given. With the four engines roaring, the great bird of passage soared over the sea.
By the compass, the course was set southwest, for the point at which the expedition aimed is on that extreme quarter of the Turkish domain.
The first fighting viewed from the immense aeroplane was on and off the Gallipoli peninsula, where warships of the allies were hot-shotting the Turkish land positions.
But just about this time the barometer in the air pilot’s cabin was the center of attraction for the commanding officer and the wheelmen.
The indications were of decidedly ugly aspect, and storms in these parts were notable for their violence.
“Hadn’t we better take to the floats, lieutenant?” inquired Billy, feeling new resistance in the wheel.
Moppa from the lookout seat noted the turbulence of the waves far below, and shook his head.
“Better go higher,” he directed.
The pilots set the planes for the ordered ascent. So fierce now were the gusts against them that they were compelled to turn and ride with the gale, which had, with awful suddenness, expanded in shrieking force. The broadside for the few minutes presented, very near proved the drivers’ complete undoing, for the immense fabric could not be shifted with the celerity of the lesser craft heretofore handled by the boys, and it heeled over in a most alarming manner.
“Steady, lads,” shouted the commanding officer, as Atlass and himself lent helping hands in holding the pounding wheels.
“Steady it is, sir,” cried Billy, like an old salt, and “steady” it was when the craft beam-ended to the hurricane. But at what a speed! Two of the engines were cut off to slow the propellers, yet nothing short of 90 miles to the hour was still maintained.
The sense of location was as speedily lost. So many deviations were there in the cyclonic flight that the dancing compass needle lost its value as a true guide.
It was a toss up whether the airship would bump into Athens or Smyrna, if it did not before hit the bottom of the sea.
The pilots ever endeavored to keep the nose of the craft on the upturn, in the hope of overriding the terror howling behind it. That they succeeded to some extent had proof in a slight easing of the strain on the steering gear.
“Still blowing like Sam Hill,” exclaimed Henri, “but the wrench isn’t near as strong as it was.”
The four at the wheels were dripping with perspiration from their muscle-racking experience. The balance of the company of nine men, with the exception of the engineer, were huddled in a bunch in the “corridor.”
About everything movable on the airship was scattered about the deck. Atlass had many a dark thought regarding the explosives, and, no doubt, as many times thanked his stars that he had done a thorough job of packing.
He had more than once exchanged glances with Moppa when a particularly violent vibration was felt in the vessel. They were both thinking alike, and of the magazines.
As the storm died away and the sea no longer leaped in wild waves, the pilots essayed a cautious descent, by slow degrees. The compass showed the movement due south, but there was nothing to convince as to how far south.
No land was visible to the naked eye, but Lieutenant Moppa, having resumed lookout duty, announced that with his binocle he perceived a faint blue line in direction directly ahead.
“Ease her off a point or two,” he commanded, “and hold this course without change.” With a second thought, he further ordered: “Let Mowbray and Gault take the wheels. You boys will be dead on your feet if you do not quit for a while.”
Billy and Henri rather reluctantly relinquished their guiding posts, though, if the truth be known, both were rather shaky in the legs.
The new pilots, however, had plain sailing, and the boys felt that they had done their full duty, and more, when it had really counted for something.
Sailing lower and lower, the big airship, with driving force reduced to one engine, slowly approached a strip of land in the sea, now quite plainly visible to the crew.
There were military forces assembled on this ground, and it was Henri who first distinguished their nationality, when close enough to distinguish color. Blue tunics and red trousers—that was enough, without waiting to set eyes on the top display of red kepis, surmounted by the familiar tri-color cockade and ball.
“They’re French!” he shouted. “The real thing. Vive, La France!”
The port was Mudros, on Lemnos island, in the Ægean sea, where 35,000 French and British soldiers had just landed.
“Descend.”
With the command the pilots lowered the “Sikorsky” to the water level.
“Vive, La France!”
Henri’s exulting shout was heard again as a boat shot out from the shore to meet the gigantic aeroplane drifting in on its polished floats.