Air Stories, April 1936 — page 93: what you’re looking at

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

CRASH ‘*Shut up !’’ Steele’s voice came in a warning whisper. ‘‘ There’s some- thing queer going on up there.”’ Something in his companion’s voice made Blaney stare quickly in the direc- tion of Tony’s intent gaze. On the opposite wall of the crater something was moving, a quivering expanse that resembled the prevailing mud and yet... A gasp of astonishment broke from Blaney’s lips as he crouched behind the derelict fuselage. A canvas panel of cunningly painted camouflage, splayed on pulleys and rollers was dissolving before his eyes. As it rolled up like a great curtain, it revealed in the shadowed culvert beyond a wide tunnel of concrete walls. Grey- green figures moved in the sombre cavern, and the echoes of guttural voices and derisive laughs drifted to the watchers’ ears. ‘‘They are drowned. Ya wohl... there is no escape from Wytschaete crater, nicht war?” Blaney’s knowledge of German was scrappy, but he understood enough to realise that the Germans, who, astonish- ingly enough, were concealed in that hidden lair in the crater wall, were convinced that they were cold mutton. ‘* What do you make of it, Tony? ”’ he whispered. ‘‘ Some devil’s game. We’re going to find out what’s going on up there. . .”’ He gave a sudden gasp. ‘‘Gosh! d’ye hear that engine. They’ve got *planes in there. . . .’’ LANEY, too, had heard the throb of engines, and the queer staccato echoes of engines pulsing in confined space grew steadily louder as they listened. They peered cautiously over the rotting fuselage. Now they could discern the dim outline of fighting aircraft standing in the vault-like place which, on closer inspection, was a considerably more ambitious affair than it had at first appeared. A flight of Fokkers were standing en a long, concreted slope, and the CRATER space between the tunnel walls was considerably wider than the span of the iron-crossed wings. Blaney whistled as the startling truth suddenly became clear. They had stumbled on an underground hangar excavated in the crater wall! The sloping platform suggested that it was ingeniously designed to provide a jump- ing-off station for enemy fighters to attack low-flying aircraft, machines engaged on photographic jobs, contact patrols, and art. obs.—to attack them, not from above where the pilots would be keeping a wary eye, but from below, as the chess-boarded Fokkers had zoomed up with such startling unexpectedness beneath the Bristol’s wings. The Germans had accomplished what Was becoming increasingly difficult in the intensive air war, an entirely new and original element of surprise. ‘*Now we know where those damned Fokkers came from,’’ muttered Steele grimly. ‘‘ We’ve spotted the nest.’’ ‘‘It’s certainly ingenious,’’ agreed Blaney. ‘‘ Only a photographic machine with a low altitude oblique could detect that sliding camouflage panel.’’ ‘‘A photographic machine wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting away,’’ grunted Blaney. ‘‘ Jerry must have a bunch of machines in that super-sewer. We crashed three of them off the strength, but I can count another four. But what beats me is how they get their machines into that sardine tin r= ‘*Probably fly them in at night,’’ suggested Tony. ‘‘It wouldn’t be any more difficult than landing on a ship’s deck. I believe I can see rubber cables stretched across that concrete run-out, to slow up landing machines as they do on the aircraft-carriers.’’ . Blaney eased his cramped limbs. ‘‘T shouldn’t be surprised if you’re right, Tony. Painstaking bloke, Jerry— and their engineers are experts in tun- nelling. Their reserve lines are supposed to be a mass of catacombs.’’ **'What’s the next move?’’ jerked Tony. ‘‘ This appears to be our solo show.’’ 379 CoOnnicloo SJ (Cl QO)