"There's the permission to part company," announced Kirkwood as a signal, made in response to a display of bunting from the yard-arms of the respective seaplane-carriers, was hoisted from the naval signal station. "Wonder if I'll see Old England again," he added in an undertone.
Already the cruisers were steaming out of harbour; not in the pomp of pre-war days with guards drawn up on the quarter-deck and bands playing as each vessel passed the flagship. Silent and grim, huge emblems of seapower, they glided past the harbour batteries and, increasing speed to twenty-two knots, were soon out of sight.
With destroyers preceding and following, the tour seaplane-carriers were next to leave. On gaining the open sea they formed line abreast, surrounded by their vigilant escort; the light cruisers, reducing speed to that of the convoy, taking up station two miles astern.
In this formation the flotilla reeled off knot after knot without incident, until late in the evening, when two of the destroyers on the "Hippodrome's" starboard beam began a rapid fire that lasted nearly five minutes, breaking station and circling in a fashion that recalled the preliminary manoeuvres of a pair of cautious boxers.
"U-boat, somewhere over there," commented Fuller, who with Barcroft and the A.P. was on deck in preference to the somewhat boisterous ward-room. "I don't think they've got her. Wonder if she's dived and avoided the cordon. If so we'll have to look out."
"Hope she won't bag us at this stage of the proceedings," said Kirkwood. "At any rate, our quick-fires are manned, and it will be dark in another half-hour."
The two destroyers had resumed station, having signalled to the effect that no definite result was observed but it was believed that the U-boat's periscopes had been smashed by gun-fire.
"The trouble will come later, I think," said Barcroft when the message was communicated to the "Hippodrome's" officers. "If she isn't winged she'll rise to the surface after we're out of sight and wireless the news to the Heligoland signal station. The mere mention of seaplane carriers will put the Huns on the qui vive. However, that can't be helped; I'm turning in, you fellows, and I advise you to do the same."
Well before dawn the airmen detailed for the raid were roused from their sleep, or rather their efforts to slumber, since few were sufficiently proof against the excitement of the forthcoming expedition to enjoy a good night's rest.
Breakfast over, the members of the forlorn hope donned their leather coats and flying helmets, and assembled aft for final instructions from the wing commander.
"There is to be no easing down to keep pace with the slowest machine," were his instructions. "Each man is to go for his objective at top speed. You have noted the positions of the various batteries, I trust? It would be well to leave the Glienicke Redoubt well on your left. It's the only one, I believe, that mounts the latest Krupp's antis. On no account must the bombing seaplane attempt to encounter hostile aircraft on the outward flight: leave that task to the escorting planes. If, however, you fall in with any Zeppelins, attack immediately. One more point: should the situation necessitate the withdrawal of the seaplane-carriers and their escorts you know your instructions? Good. Well, gentlemen, that is all I have to say, beyond wishing you the best of luck and a safe return."
Barcroft's machine was the last to leave the "Hippodrome's" launching platform, and the last but one of the raiding craft. It was still dark. The misty outlines of the nearmost biplanes could be just discerned as they rose swiftly and steadily above the invisible destroyers. The crews of the latter gave the airmen three rousing cheers as they swept overhead, but the tribute was wasted. The farewell greetings were drowned by the roar of the engines.
As dawn began to break Billy made a rather disconcerting discovery. His seaplane was now the last of the procession. It had been over hauled by the one from the "Cursus," and what was more she was slowly yet surely dropping astern.
It did not appear to be the fault of the engine. The timing and firing seemed perfect. The motor was running like a clock, yet the rest of the raiding aircraft, most of which he knew were usually slightly inferior in speed, were distinctly gaining.
With the growing dawn the four escorting battle seaplanes could be distinguished, two on either side of the long-drawn line of bomb dropping air-craft. It was the duty of the former to engage any hostile aeroplane that attempted to bar the progress of the latter. Armoured and carrying two light quick-firers they were more than a match for the German airmen, and the latter were fully aware of the fact.
"Hang it all!" muttered the flight-sub as he actuated the rudder-bar and tilted the ailerons in order to check a cross-drift and to increase the altitude. "It's getting jolly misty. Hope it doesn't mean fog."
The rearmost of the rest of the air-squadron was now almost invisible, the others entirely so. As a matter of precaution Barcroft took a hurried compass bearing, fervently hoping that the mist would clear by the time he reached his desired objective.
"We're odd man out, old bird!" he shouted through the voice-tube. "Keep your eyes skinned. I don't want to get out of touch with McKenzie if it can be avoided."
"It can't," replied his observer. "He's just been swallowed up by the mist."
"I'll climb higher still," decided Billy. "There must be a limit to this rotten patch of vapour."
For another ten minutes Barcroft held on his course. He could not be far from land, he decided. Already the leading raiders must have achieved their object, if it were possible to see their target, and were on their return journey. The chances of a collision in mid-air with one of the British seaplanes suggested itself. The idea was not an inviting one—the impact of two frail and swiftly moving objects at an aggregate rate of nearly two hundred miles an hour, and the sickening crash to earth. There would be some satisfaction in knowing that an enemy aircraft was destroyed in this fashion, but the possibility—remote, no doubt—of sending one's fellow airmen and oneself to instant destruction was a proposition for which the misty air was responsible.
"I'm going to shut off the juice," announced Billy to his observer. "Keep your ears open, my festive."
With the switching off of the ignition the seaplane commenced a long glide. The almost total silence, save for the swish of the air against the planes and struts, was broken by a succession of loud rumbles. Some of the British raiders were at work.
"In which direction?" shouted Barcroft.
"Ahead on your left, I think," replied Kirkwood.
"Seems to me that the smash came from the right," declared the pilot. "Can you see any flashes?"
"Not a sign," replied the observer. "The sounds seem as if they are coming from the right now abaft the beam, if anything."
"It's a proper mix up," thought Barcroft. "Fog plays the very deuce with sound. If the other fellows are able to drop their bombs it proves that the mist is confined to the upper air. Dash it all! Are we never going to get clear of this muck?"
He jerked his goggles upwards until they rested on his cap. For all practical purposes they were useless, although guaranteed to be immune from the effect of moisture. The front of his coat was glistening with particles of ice. Everything he touched was slippery with rime. Jets of vapour, caused by the cold moisture coming in contact with the warm cylinders, drifted into his face and buffeted his bloodshot eyes.
"It's almost as bad as the night when Fuller and I strafed that Zep.," thought Kirkwood, who, although in a more sheltered position than his companion, came in for a generous share of the atmospheric discomforts.
A sudden jerk, so severe that it was a wonder the huge wing-spread did not collapse under the rapid change of pressure as Barcroft tilted the ailerons, told the observer that something had been sighted. Almost simultaneously the motor was restarted and the seaplane rising and banking steeply almost grazed the topmasts of a number of ships.