Air Stories, April 1936 — page 90: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AIR STORIES ‘‘A dump all right,’’ he grinned. ‘* Down we go, old son.’’ Blaney dipped the Bristol’s nose as Steele dived into the office. The engine roar rose to a shrill scream, the wind lashing through the wires like a surging war cry. Steele saw suddenly the agitated movement of grey green figures amidst the dark shimmering mud rushing up to meet them. Coal-scuttle-helmeted men were running for the shelter of concrete dug-outs beside the road. ‘‘ They’re not waiting for the Brock’s benefit,’’ Steele chuckled. The Bristol pulled out of the skilfully judged dive, dead over its target. Steele’s hands tightened on the bomb release and, as if flung from some giant catapult, a metal egg hurtled downwards, to be followed an instant later by a second blunt-nosed Cooper. The first shattering explosion swept the camouflage of netted rope and fabric into a shambles, and lifted the shell cases like tumbling dice. There was a sudden inferno of noise and smoke and flame as the dump went up. The Bristol rolled in the fierce uprush of air. Frantically Blaney steadied her, and banked vertically back on to his tracks. ‘‘Three !’’ he counted with relief as he watched the last pear-shaped projectile but one hurtle down to explode beside the concrete pill-box. He hung on, waiting for the fourth. M.G. fire from the ground reached up at them with flaming fingers. But the hurtling Bristol was an elusive target, requiring considerable judgment in deflection if the ground gunners were to wing their quarry. For another minute Blaney watched intently for that fourth burst. Then he turned an inquiring glance towards Steele. ‘A dud ? ’’ he questioned. see that last burst.’’ Steele looked worried. ‘‘T’m not sure it fell,’’ he jerked, and craned his head over the cockpit. ‘‘ Hell ! There’s a live Cooper stuck in the undercarriage. It’s wedged in the broken spar.’’ ‘*T didn’t 376 Blaney whistled. ‘* That’s torn it! It’s hoist with our own jolly little Cooper we’ll be if we land with that live squib waiting to blow us to blazes. Hold on, laddie, and I’ll have a crack at stunting it off.’’ They had climbed away from the blazing dump. The satisfaction of those moments of high-speed ‘‘ strafing ’’ was considerably dimmed by the realisation that their Bristol, with a live bomb that could scarcely fail to explode when they crash-landed, had suddenly become an almost certain death-trap. Blaney pressed his shoulders against the back of the seat and tensed his limbs on the rudder-bar in preparation for some fierce stunting. Centrifugal force, he hoped, might sling the wedged bomb out into space. Tony Steele took a tight grip of the Scarff-mounting and hummed cheerfully : “ I’ve got a motto, Keep our side of the line, If you don’t then you will find, Every cloud has a Hun behind .. .” His voice died away in a sudden gasp. He went suddenly rigid in the cockpit as he stared incredulously at a trio of bunched Fokkers that came roaring up with snarling engines from beneath the Bristol’s wings, stared with a sense of unreality at those chess-boarded attackers that seemed to have rocketed up from the very shell-craters themselves. CHAPTER I The Crater of Death NSTINCTIVELY Robin Bianey threw his weight on the rudder-bar and slapped the stick across. He was stunting now with a vengeance. The Brisfit cartwheeled into a vertical bank. The flaming burst from the leading Fokker’s guns missed the two-seater’s vitals by a fraction, and sliced the starboard wing fabric into jazzing ribbons. As the Fokker fell away from the peak of its zoom, Steele jumped up in his cockpit and, slewing the Lewis in a half circle, cut loose. A stream of CoOnniclooo SJ (C(O)