Air Stories, April 1936 — page 95: what you’re looking at

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

CRASH CRATER ‘“Now,’’ he whispered — excitedly. ‘Keep your tail up. Remember we’re taking a leaf out of Jerry’s book. The element of surprise is on our side this time.’’ Stretching their cramped muscles, they wriggled out from behind the half-buried fuselage, grateful for activity that would stir the blood in their frozen limbs. Guardedly, they crawled over the mud, their eyes fixed on the darkened slope where the camouflage panel blended with the shadows. It was slow going, but at least the oozing morass muffled betraying sounds. Slowly they manceuvred round to where the dark slope curved up to the opening to the vault. A star-shell trickled up into the sky, lighting the crater with a blinding white light. They froze motionless in the mud, their hearts in their mouths. The light faded, and they resumed their slow climb. At last Blaney’s hand gripped some- thing firmer than mud. It was a con- crete step, and noiselessly he hauled himself upwards. By slewing sideways he was able to peer into the vault through a gap between the camouflage panel and a surprisingly solid pillar of re-in- forced concrete. : For some moments he could only see the vague outline of machines. Then, as his eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, he saw grey-green figures moving about two Fokkers standing at the farthest extremity of the launching platform. There was a sudden stir of activity ia the vault, and almost immediately Blaney knew the reason for it. From overhead drifted the drone of a night- flying F.E. The Boches were preparing to close their trap around yet another victim. Blaney tensed in the darkness. At any moment the camouflage panel would open and betray their presence. He took a swift survey of the vault, his eyes thoughtful as they rested on an alcove stacked with petrol-tins, and jutting back from the wall within a few feet of the tunnel entrance. He weighed the risk of reaching that alcove without being spotted. It was a sporting chance, for the Boches starting up the Fokkers had their backs turned. ‘*Come on, Tony. It’s now or never,’’ Blaney gritted. They crawled through the gap on to the concrete runway, their bodies pressed against the tunnel wall. The throbbing engines drowned what faint noise they made. Shadows mingling with the shadows, they wriggled into the alcove and lay flat behind the dump of petrol- tins, scarcely daring to breathe. They were just in time. With a rasp of pulleys the camouflage panel slid upwards. The pilot in the cockpit of the foremost Fokker was waving his hand to the mechanics hanging on to the lifted tail, their heads ducked against the force of the slip-stream. Blaney’s eyes were fixed intently on the slim blonde pilot of the rear machine. The man was standing by the cockpit of the Fokker adjusting his helmet buckles. Blaney came to a swift decision. He jerked his elbow into the prostrate Tony’s ribs. ‘‘Come on, Flying Corps. chance to bag that kite .. .’’ Now’s our BANDONING all attempts at con- cealment now, they ran out from behind the petrol dump, ducking beneath the swaying wings of the foremost Fokker as it shot along the launching platform and zoomed out into the night. At the sound of their scurrying foot- steps, the pilot of the remaining machine swung round, Mein Gott... 1 Robin Blaney had a fleeting impres- sion of the Boche’s goggling eyes, his ludicrous expression of amazement and fear. Then Blaney’s bunched knuckles crashed upwards, smashing against the German’s jaw. The pilot staggerec against the cockpit and went down ir a crumpled heap. Grimly aware of grey-green figures closing in on him, Blaney leapt for the cockpit, while Tony Steele flung himsel: 381 COnniclooo SJ (Cl QO)