Air Service Boys Flying for France/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII
LOST IN A SEA OF CLOUDS
When Tom Raymond realized that he and Jack were really separated from the rest of the squadron his first act was to throttle down his motor, that it might be possible for him to speak to his companion. If they were in actual danger it was better to share the responsibility, and not try to shoulder it all himself.
"We've lost the rest of the boys, Jack!" he yelled out.
"Yes, I noticed that," came the answer. "What can we do about it?"
"Only one thing that I can see. Have to go on by ourselves! But—" and the pilot paused significantly.
"That means steering by the compass," remarked the other.
"No other way, since I wouldn't know the conformation of the ground below, even if it were daylight and I could see fairly well. Why! what under the sun can this mean?"
"What?" demanded Jack, showing signs of excitement now, as he realized that his companion was turning this way and that in evident dismay.
"I'm afraid we've met with a loss! I only hope it won't turn out to be a calamity!"
"Loss of what?" cried the observer. "Gas tank sprung a leak?"
"Perhaps it has for all I know, with all that shrapnel flying around us. But our compass is gone!"
"Gone!" shouted the astounded Jack.
"Just what it has!" Tom declared. "I don't see how it could have happened, for I had it as secure as ever it could be, right here where I could watch it if the time came for steering by the needle."
"Great guns! Look again! It may have been misplaced. And yet it was there as we started. I tested it to make sure it was correct. But how could we have lost our compass?"
"I can think of only one way. You remember when we found ourselves in that pocket, with shells bursting all around us?"
"Yes, of course. When we had to start up in a hurry to get out of range."
"It must have happened then," went on Tom disconsolately. "We were tossed about like a ship caught in a storm at sea. I called out to you to keep your seat firmly, though I don't believe you heard me. In all that turmoil the compass must have been dislodged and dropped."
"There's no use of crying over spilt milk," his companion called out. "The question to settle is what we ought to do now about steering."
"I'll do the best I can with the lumbering old plane," said the pilot bravely, not one to be utterly discouraged by conditions that promised trouble.
For some little time the air service boys continued on through the clouds which surrounded them like a milky envelope, and which prevented their seeing even the moon above. Then there came a change, and once more they found themselves in the open.
An hour had passed since they lost track of their companions. Tom steered by reckoning alone. He kept the moon on his right whenever he could see it through the masses of clouds drifting near.
Then came a sudden shock as he discovered moving objects ahead that quickly took on the shape of cruising planes. There were three of them, all fashioned alike; and even as seen in the deceptive light of the declining moon Tom knew they could not be French machines.
In the first place, they were coming toward him, though possibly the pilots had not yet discovered the presence of the heavy bombing machine near by. Then again, these planes were of a lighter build, and capable of much greater speed than the big two-seated Caudron.
Of course they were German Fokkers, sent up to intercept the returning expedition.
"Looks as if we were in for it," thought Tom. "Three of 'em, tool"
To fight those three experienced airmen at that dizzy height was hopeless, although if it became the last resort Tom and Jack would undoubtedly resort to the rapid-fire gun and try to stand them off.
It was a time for quick thinking and instant action; and no sooner had Tom made his alarming discovery than he changed his course and headed directly for a bank of clouds that chanced to be close by.
Once enveloped in the cloud, there was little chance of their running into the enemy except through sheer accident. To avoid this Tom quickly altered his course, suiting his action to the meager knowledge he possessed of the dimensions of the cloud-belt into which he had so recklessly plunged.
It would be much like searching a haystack for a lost needle, he believed, and that the three Germans could only scatter, and grope their way along. He hoped they might chance to collide in the cloud pack, and have all possible trouble, even to spattering one another with a hail of missiles from their mounted guns.
This was all very well, but Tom did not like the situation at all. He could not tell which way he was heading, since all view was cut off, and the loss of the compass badly felt.
Consequently they might be actually going back into the heart of the hostile country for all they knew, with a pretty good chance of being made prisoners of war.
More time passed. Unable to stand it any longer Tom decided to drop down to a lower level, and try to get free from that stifling enveloping cloud that wrapped them in its dense folds. True, other perils might await them there, but it seemed the best move.
Both young aviators breathed easier when they finally left the cloud above them, and were once more able to see something besides that opaque mass around them. Far below they could catch faint glimpses of lights, as though they were passing over some town, or perhaps a railroad center where troops and supplies were being loaded for the fighting front.
But where were they? Tom confessed to himself that he could not tell. He again got the sinking moon on his right, so that he felt positive they must be headed in a direction generally correct. Nevertheless, since he could not have told the Mosel River from any other, even if seen by daylight, there was a strong probability that although they were lucky, and finally reached the French lines, they might land fifty miles away from the aviation hangars of the Lafayette Escadrille.
Not that such a thing would give them much cause for anxiety, since news of their safe arrival would be flashed to their headquarters, to relieve the tension that was sure to result from their absence from the squadron. And later on they could ascend again, and make the home port easily enough.
It was while Tom was telling himself all this that he felt a movement on the part of his chum. This he recognized as the signal, and knew that Jack had something of importance to say, and wished him to ease up the pounding motor so he might be heard.
"Something else gone wrong, Tom!" called Jack.
"You've been testing our supply of gas, have you?" shouted the pilot. "Getting low, I suppose."
"It's been leaking in a trickling stream right along," came from the other in tones of deepest disgust. "I've found a tiny hole that must have been made by a splinter from shrapnel or a bullet from that German pilot's gun. If only I'd thought to look before, we might have fixed it and saved a couple of gallons."
This was serious news indeed. With possibly fifty or seventy miles of hostile territory to cover, and daybreak close at hand, they were in a bad fix.
"How much have we still got?" asked Tom.
"Don't know, exactly, but hardly a gallon at the best; and still oozing out of that hole not as large as a shingle nail would make."
Quickly Tom reviewed the desperate situation in his mind. He knew they had no chance whatever of making the French lines unless in some way they managed to renew their supply of gasolene or petrol. That, of course, could only be done by landing, and commandeering a supply at some house where, by accident, the owner had a spare gallon or two.
Meanwhile they could possibly plug up the hole in the tank, and if through good luck they were enabled to rise again, finally get back of the French lines.
"Can you reach that hole in the tank, and keep your finger on it, Jack, so as to conserve our last gallon of fuel?" he called out.
"I guess I can. What are you going to do about it? One gallon won't take us all the way home."
"I wish it would, but I know better,'" was the reply. "Listen, Jack! We must keep moving along until dawn comes. Then, if the coast seems clear, we've got to drop down and make a landing."
"Oh! If we do that it's all up with us, and we'll be bound for a German prison camp on our first outing trip."
"I hope not," the pilot replied instantly. "My object is to try to run across a supply of gasolene and commandeer it. It's a toss-up whether we can find any, with the country drained so well by the military authorities. It's also hit and miss whether we run smack into a bunch of Boches as soon as we land. But there seems to be no other way."
"Well, I haven't any better suggestion to offer, so go ahead. Give your orders, and I'll obey."