Airship Part 1

THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"

by Percy F. Westerman.

CHAPTER I.

--A STARTLING PROPOSITION.

"What's the move?" enquired Kenneth Kenyon.

"Ask me another, old son," replied his chum, Peter Bramsdean. "Fosterd.y.k.e is a cautious old stick, but he knows what's what. There's something in the wind, you mark my words."

"Then you're going to see him?"

"Rather! And you too, old bean. Where's a pencil? We can't keep the telegraph boy waiting."

Bramsdean tore a form from a pad, scribbled on it the reply--"Fosterd.y.k.e, Air Grange, near Blandford. Yes, will expect motor to-morrow morning," and he had taken the initial step of a journey that man had never before attempted.

Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal Air Force. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient is it to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save their own they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Force details of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit given to the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "get out," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with a highly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount as that given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the Hotel Cecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to the limbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quickly their gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of His Majesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the German menace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidity of the Profiteer.

They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such there was now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trick flying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a very small percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in the reconst.i.tuted Air Force.

Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They had pluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within a twelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners and sole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operating over the greater part of the South of England.

But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over those strenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the good times they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until they could afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind up badly."

Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came a telegram from Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e, asking the chums to see him on the morrow.

Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, to employ service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation he went to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on high ground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left his country-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and his friends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezy Fosterd.y.k.e. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondence was brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then he meant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-end house parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset, was an additional source of attraction to Fosterd.y.k.e's guests. But the war, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests were to be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced, the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald's friends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy." They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-like existence. Fosterd.y.k.e knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by no means ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attaining its zenith.

Early on the morning following the receipt of the baronet's telegram Sir Reginald's car pulled up in front of the premises used as the headquarters of the Southern Roads Transport Company. Kenyon and Bramsdean, having given final instructions to their work's foreman--a former flight-sergeant R.A.F.--jumped into the car, and were soon whisking northwards at a speed that was considerably in excess of that fixed by the regulations.

Although of a retiring disposition, Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e had made a point of keeping in touch with his former officers. He had a sort of personal interest in every one of them, and on their part they regarded him as one of the best. Whenever, on rare occasions, Fosterd.y.k.e ran down to Bournemouth he invariably looked up Bramsdean and Kenyon to talk over old times. But being invited to Air Grange was quite a different matter. Vaguely, the chums wondered what it might mean, conjecturing ideas that somehow failed to be convincing. Yet they knew that there was "something in the wind." They knew Sir Reginald and his methods.

Through Blandford, up and past the now deserted hutments where formerly German prisoners led an almost idyllic existence in their enemy's country, the car sped on until it gained the lofty downs in the direction of Shaftesbury. Then, turning up a steep and narrow lane, the car drew up at the gate of Air Grange.

It had to. There was no gate-keeper to unlock and throw open the ma.s.sive iron gates. That task the chauffeur had to perform, stopping the car again in order to make secure the outer portals of Sir Reginald's demesne.

While the car remained stationary the two occupants looked in vain for a glimpse of the house. All they could see was a winding, weed-grown road, with a thick belt of pine trees on either hand. To the left of the road and under the lee of the trees were half a dozen wooden huts, unmistakably of a type known as temporary military quarters. Smoke issuing from the chimneys suggested the idea that they were in "occupation," and a couple of dungaree-clad men carrying a length of copper pipe on their shoulders confirmed the fact. Somewhere from behind the trees came the sharp rattle of a pneumatic drilling machine.

Kenyon glanced at his companion.

"What's the Old Man up to, I wonder?" he enquired. "Quite a labour colony. Look--air flasks too, by Jove!"

A pile of rusty wrought-iron cylinders stacked on the gra.s.s by the side of the path recalled visions of by-gone days.

"Something doing, that's evident," agreed Bramsdean. "What's the stunt, and why are we hiked into it?"

"Wait and see, old bird," replied Kenyon.

The chauffeur regained the car and slipped in the clutch. For full another quarter of a mile the car climbed steadily, negotiating awkward corners in the rutty, winding path, until, emerging from the wood, it pulled up outside the house of Fosterd.y.k.e.

No powdered footman awaited them. On the steps, clad in worn but serviceable tweeds, stood Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e himself.

The baronet--generally referred to by his former officers as the Old Man--was of medium height, broad-shouldered, and deep-chested. He was about thirty-five years of age, with well-bronzed features, clean shaven, and possessed a thick crop of closely-cut dark brown hair tinged with iron grey.

He held out his left hand as Kenyon and Bramsdean ascended the stone steps--his right hand was enveloped in surgical bandages--and greeted his guests warmly.

"Glad to see you, boys!" he exclaimed. "It's good of you to come. Have a gla.s.s of sherry?"

He led the way to the study, rang a bell, and gave instructions to a man-servant whom Kenyon recognised as the O.C.'s batman somewhere in France.

Sir Reginald sat on the edge of the table and whimsically regarded his former subordinates. At that moment, rising above the staccato rattle of the pneumatic hammer, came the unmistakable whirr of an aerial propeller. To Kenyon and Bramsdean it was much the same as a trumpet-call to an old war-horse.

"Sounds like old times, eh?" remarked Sir Reginald.

"Rather, sir," agreed Kenyon heartily, and, at a loss to express himself further, he relapsed into silence.

"Experimental work, sir?" enquired Bramsdean.

Fosterd.y.k.e nodded.

"Yes," he replied in level tones. "Experimental work, that's it. That's why I sent for you. I'm contemplating a flight round the world. Keen on having a shot at it?"

CHAPTER II.

--FOSTERd.y.k.e EXPLAINS.

The two chums were not in the least taken aback with the announcement. They knew the way of their late O.C. On active service Fosterd.y.k.e was in the habit of issuing orders for certain operations to be performed without apparently considering the magnitude or the danger of the undertaking. The officer or man to whom the order was given almost invariably executed it promptly. In the few cases where the individual instructed to carry out a "stunt" failed to rise to the occasion, that was an end of him as far as his service under Wing Commander Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e went. Fosterd.y.k.e had no use for faint-hearted subordinates.

On the other hand, Kenyon and Bramsdean were astonished at being invited to take part in what promised to be the biggest aerial undertaking ever contemplated. After nearly two years "on the ground" the prospect of "going up" seemed too good to be true.

"Business difficulties, perhaps?" hazarded Fosterd.y.k.e, noting the faint signs of hesitation on the part of the two chums. "Think it over. But I suppose you'd like to have a few particulars of the stunt before committing yourselves?"

"I think it could be arranged, sir," replied Kenyon. "As regards our little show, we could leave it to our head foreman. He's a steady-going fellow and all that sort of thing. It's merely a question of a month, I suppose?"

"Less than that. Twenty days, to give a time limit," declared the baronet. "Either twenty days or--phut! However, I'll outline the salient features of the scheme.

"Like a good many others, it arose out of an almost trivial incident--a bet with an American Air Staff officer whom I met in London just after the Yankee seaplane NC4 flew across the Atlantic--or rather hopped across. Without detracting from the merits of the stupendous undertaking, it must be remembered that the seaplane was escorted the whole way, and alighted several times en route. The Yankee--General U. B. Outed is his name--offered to bet anyone $50,000 that an American aircraft would be the first to circ.u.mnavigate the globe.

"Half a dozen of us took him on; not that we could afford to throw away an equivalent to ten thousand pounds, but because we had sufficient faith in the Old Country to feel a.s.sured that the accomplishment of a flight round the world would be the work of a British owned and flown machine.

"Shortly after the wager was accepted came the news that R34 had flown from East Fortune to New York in 108 hours, making the return journey in 76 hours. That rather staggered General Outed, I fancy, and he had a greater shock when Alc.o.c.k and Brown covered nearly 2,000 miles between Newfoundland and Ireland without a single stop.

"Things from a British aviation point of view looked particularly rosy; then for some obscure reason our Air Board appeared to let the whole matter of aerial navigation slide, or, at any rate they gave no encouragement. The big dirigibles were dismantled and sold; powerful aeroplanes were sc.r.a.pped, air-stations were closed, and in a parsimonious wave of retrenchment even our old Royal Air Force was threatened with ignominious relegation to a corps under the control of the War Office.

"About three months ago a wealthy Swiss--a M. Chauva.s.se--who had made a pile in the United States, offered a prize to the value in British money of 25,000 to be given to the first airman to circ.u.mnavigate the globe, either in a lighter or a heavier than air machine. The prize is open to all comers, and already a Yankee and a German have announced their intention of competing."

"A Hun!" exclaimed Kenyon. "I thought that Fritz, under the terms of the armistice, had to surrender all his aircraft."

"But he hasn't," remarked Fosterd.y.k.e, drily. "Nor is he likely to; and if the Allies haven't the means to enforce the terms, that's not my affair. If a Hun does compete, let him. That's my view. Providing he doesn't resort to any of his dirty tricks, there's no valid reason why the door should be banged in his face. Because he's down and out is no reason why we should continue to sit on him. Commercially, I regard German goods as a means to reduce the present extortionate prices of things in England. I'm no believer in dumping, I never was; but if our manufacturers cannot compete with the products of a country beaten in war and torn by internal troubles, then there's something wrong somewhere. But I am digressing.

"Briefly, the terms of the contest are as follows: any type of machine or engine can be employed, and as many descents as are necessary to replenish fuel and stores. A start can be made from any place chosen by the compet.i.tor, but the machine must finish at the same spot within twenty days. Again, any route can be chosen, so that full advantage can be taken of existing air stations, but--and this is a vital point--in order to fairly circ.u.mnavigate the globe, compet.i.tors must pa.s.s within one degree of a position immediately opposite the starting-point. Do you follow me?"

"What is known in navigation as Great Circle Sailing," replied Bramsdean. "If a start is made somewhere on the 50th parallel North, the halfway time will be somewhere 50 degrees South, with a difference of 180 degrees of longitude."

"That's it," agreed Sir Reginald. "Now the difficulty arises where to find two suitable places answering to these conditions. With the exception of a small part of Cornwall the whole of Great Britain lies north of lat.i.tude 50.... Therefore, to reach the 50th parallel in the Southern Hemisphere would mean making a position far south'ard of New Zealand--where, I take it, there are no facilities for landing and taking in petrol.

"Nor is the vast extent of the United States any better off in that respect. I think I am right in saying that there is no habitable land diametrically opposite to any place in Uncle Sam's Republic."

Fosterd.y.k.e produced a small globe from a corner of the room in order to confirm his statement.

"And the old Boche is a jolly sight worse off," said Kenyon. "I don't suppose any British Dominion will tolerate him. It's certain he won't be allowed to fly over any Allied fortress, so where is he?"

"Paying the penalty for his misdeeds," replied Sir Reginald, grimly. "It's not exactly a case of vae victis. If he'd played his game, he would have taken his licking with a better grace because it wouldn't have hurt him so much."

"How many compet.i.tors are there for the Chauva.s.se Stakes, sir?" asked Bramsdean.

"A Yank, a Hun, and myself," replied Fosterd.y.k.e. "That is, up to the present. For some reason the idea hasn't caught on with our fellows. Probably there'll be a rush of entries later on--perhaps too late. I'll show you my little craft; but before doing so I'll give you a few details of the contest.

"My idea is to start from Gibraltar--for the actual race, of course. I'll have to take my airship there, but that's a mere detail. Why Gibraltar? Here's an encyclopaedia, Kenyon. Look up the position of Gib."

"Lat. 36 6' N.; long. 5 21' W.," replied Kenyon, after consulting the work.

"And the antipodes of Gib. would be lat. 36 6' S.; long. 174 39' E.," continued the baronet. "The longitude, of course, being easily determined by adding 180 to that of Gibraltar. Now the next thing to be done (as a matter of fact I've determined it already) is to find a habitable spot approximating to the second set of figures. Look up Auckland, Kenyon."

"Auckland is lat. 36 52' S.; long. 174 46' E.," replied Kenneth. "Why, that's less than a degree either way."

"Exactly," agreed Fosterd.y.k.e. "The next point is to determine the air route between the two places, so as to make the best of the prevailing winds. When one has to maintain an average speed of fifty miles an hour for twenty days the advantage of a following wind cannot be ignored."

"Your 'bus'll do more than that, sir," remarked Peter Bramsdean.

"She'll do two hundred an hour," declared the baronet, emphatically. "I haven't had a trial spin yet, but she'll come up to my expectations. It's the stops that lower the average. Naturally I mean to take the east to west course. It means a saving of twenty-four hours. If I took the reverse direction, I'd be a day to the bad on returning to the starting-point. The actual course I'll have to work out later. That's where I want expert a.s.sistance. Also I want the aid of a couple of experienced navigators. And so that's why I sent for you."

"We're on it," declared both chums.

"I thought as much," rejoined Fosterd.y.k.e with a smile. "There's one thing I ought to make clear--the matter of terms."

Kenyon made a deprecatory gesture.

"Not so fast, Kenyon," protested his chief. "It's a rock-bottom proposition. Twenty-five per cent. of the prize if we are successful is your collective share. If we fail, then I'm broke--absolutely. I've sunk my last penny into the concern, because I'm hanged if I'm going to sit still and let a foreigner be the first to make an aerial circ.u.mnavigation of the globe. Now let me introduce you to the airship 'Golden Hind.'"

CHAPTER III.

--THE "GOLDEN HIND"

"Appropriate name the 'Golden Hind,'" remarked Bramsdean, as the three ex-R.A.F. officers made their way towards the concealed hangar. "That's what Drake's ship was called, and he was the first Englishman to circ.u.mnavigate the world."

"Yes," replied Fosterd.y.k.e. "We must take it as an augury that this 'Golden Hind' will do in the air what her namesake did on the sea."

"Not in every respect, I hope," said Kenneth Kenyon, with a laugh. "Drake did a considerable amount of filibustering on his voyage, I believe."

"Ah, yes," answered Sir Reginald. "Those were good old days. Now left," he added. "Mind yourselves, the brambles are a bit dangerous."

Turning off the gra.s.s-grown road and down a side path, the two chums found themselves entering a dense thicket that formed an outer fringe of the pine wood.

"Short cut," remarked Fosterd.y.k.e, laconically. "Now, there you are."

A glade in the woods revealed the end of a lofty corrugated iron shed, the hangar in which the "Golden Hind" was fast approaching completion. The baronet "knew his way about." He knew how to deal with the dictatorial and often completely muddled officials who ran the Surplus Disposals Board, and had succeeded in obtaining, at a comparatively low cost, a practically new airship shed, together with an enormous quant.i.ty of material.

"Now tell me what you think of her," he said, throwing open a small door in the rear end of the building.

Kenyon and Bramsdean paused in astonishment at what they saw. The "Golden Hind" was neither airship nor aeroplane in the strict sense of the word, but a hybrid embodying the salient features of both. The fuselage, constructed almost entirely of aluminium, was a full 120 feet in length, and enclosed so as to form a series of cabins or compartments. Amidships these attained a beam of 15 feet, tapering fore and aft until the end compartments terminated in a sharp wedge. Wherever there were observation windows they were "glazed" with light but tough fire-proof celluloid, sufficiently strong to withstand wind-pressure.

On either side of the hull, as Fosterd.y.k.e termed it, were six planes arranged in pairs, each being 30 feet in fore and aft direction, and projecting 25 feet from the side of the fuselage. Thus the total breadth of the "Golden Hind" was well under 60 feet. On angle brackets rising obliquely from the fuselage were six large aluminium propellers, chain-driven by means of six 350-h.p. motors.

"Some power there," remarked Kenyon, enthusiastically.

"Rather," agreed Sir Reginald. "Sufficient to lift her independently of the gas-bag, while in the unlikely event of the motors giving out there is enough lifting power in the envelope to keep her up for an indefinite period. Did you notice the small propellers in the wake of the large ones?"

"Yes, sir," replied Bramsdean. "Left-handed blades."

"Precisely," agreed Fosterd.y.k.e. "They work on the same shaft, only in a reverse direction. It's a little stunt of mine to utilise the eddies in the wake of the main propellers. Yes, petrol-driven. I tried to find an ideal fuel, one that is non-inflammable or practically so, except in compression; but that's done me so far. There's a huge fortune awaiting the chemist who succeeds in producing a liquid capable of conforming to these conditions. I even made a cordite-fired motor once--something on the Maxim-gun principle, fed by cordite grains from a hopper. It did splendidly as far as developing power was concerned, but the difficulty of excessive consumption and the pitting of the walls of the cylinder did me. However, my experiments haven't all been failures. Now look at the gas-bag."

"It's only partly inflated," observed Peter.

"No, fully," corrected Fosterd.y.k.e. "The envelope is a rigid one of aluminium, subdivided into forty-nine compartments, each of which contains a flexible ballonet. Each ballonet is theoretically proof against leakage--in practice there is an almost inappreciable porosity, which hardly counts for a comparatively short period, say a month. The gas isn't hydrogen, nor is it the helium we used during the war. Helium, although practically non-inflammable, is heavier than hydrogen. Fortunately, I hit upon a rather smart youngster who had been in a Government laboratory before he joined the R.A.F. With his a.s.sistance I discovered a gas that is not only lighter than hydrogen, but is as non-inflammable as helium. I've named the stuff 'Brodium,' after the youngster who helped me so efficaciously. When this stunt's over, we're going to work the gas on a commercial basis, but for the present it's advisable to keep it a secret.