And now for a moment there was intense excitement, for they knew not as yet whether the newcomer might prove to be an enemy, and they were anxious to avoid being entangled in a fight until their work was done.
"Can you pick up the Lion Mound yet?" asked Dastral. "It cannot be far away now."
"Yes, I have it now. A little further away to the right. Can you make it out?"
"Yes, I see it. We'll be there in a minute. Keep your eyes well skinned for the others. I think that must be Mac. away on our right, though he seems to be hanging back a bit; he evidently mistakes us for an enemy machine as we have come from the direction of Brussels. Can you make out his marks yet?"
"Not yet. It isn't light enough, and he's keeping too far away."
They were now right over the Lion Mound on the famous field of battle. The village of Waterloo was just behind them, standing almost exactly as it stood on that memorable day, Sunday, June 18, 1815. In the morning mist the old chateau of Hougumont lay sleepily ensconced in the hollow, while on the left the smoke was already rising up from the farmhouse of La Haye Saint.
"Another 'plane coming up on the south, making a bee line for us," shouted the observer.
"Splendid! That must be Steve," exclaimed Dastral, warming up a little as he saw that two of his three birds had reached the spot safely.
"But where the deuce is Brum? He should be here by now. It's getting quite light," said Jock, peering in every direction for the missing aviator.
"Ho! ho! here he comes."
"Where away? I can't see him."
"Right behind us. He must have over-shot the mark also, and he's coming back on our trail from Brussels."
The next instant, Dastral did a rapid swerve, and a steep nose-dive, in accordance with the pre-arranged code made before starting.
This was quite sufficient, for the strangers had been stalling their machines, and circling around, waiting for the signal. Now they opened out their engines and came on at top speed to meet their leader.
As they came up Jock could see the observers waving their hands in recognition. Yes, they were all here. The first part of the business was over. They had all come safely through and gained the rendezvous.
"Now we must get to work, for there's trouble brewing somewhere for us, and the sooner we get through the affair the better," shouted the pilot through the speaking tube.
As the machines came up, they wheeled smartly round, and each took up its appointed place in the formation. To an observer down below it must have appeared that they were great birds wheeling about to order, just like a platoon of infantry on parade.
"Prepare for action," was the next signal given, as they sped off, led by Dastral.
"Braine l'Alleud next," called Dastral.
"Yes, a little further to the right, just below the dip in the hill. We should see the Zeppelin sheds shortly," responded Jock, who was ready for the query, and had one finger already on the waterproof map.
"Shall I follow the road?" asked Dastral.
"Yes, till I pick up the hangars."
A moment later, the huge sheds came into view, and Jock, putting down his glasses, shouted with glee:
"There they are–three of them, and quite a crowd of people round about them. A little more to the left."
"Yes, I see them–why, there are hundreds of people there. What on earth can they be doing there?" asked Dastral.
"German soldiers waiting for the return of the Zeppelins that raided England last night, I expect."
"Phew! Our luck's in this time."
"They think we're friendly machines too, I believe," cried Jock, fingering the bomb release, ready to let go the first twenty-pound bomb on to the hangar. "Evidently, they can't make out our marks yet in the morning mist."
"They'll soon think differently," replied the pilot, as, coming up at full speed, followed by the rest of the flight, he did a rapid nose-dive of two thousand feet. Then, flattening out to get a better control over his machine, he swept on again till nearly exactly over the first huge shed, and did another rapid nose-dive, the speed of which must have approximated one hundred and fifty miles an hour.
"Look to it, Jock. Let go, man!" he yelled.
Jock pulled the clutch of the bomb release, and the first missile fell almost into the middle of the huge building. He could not fail to hit it, for the target was so large, and Dastral had dropped to within three hundred feet of the high roof.
"Swis-s-s-h–Boom-m-m-m–!"
The explosion was terrific, and the huge roof of the building crumpled in with a crash.
Scarcely fifteen seconds later Mac. dropped a petrol bomb into the half ruined building, and before the third plane could come into action, huge flames were bursting out everywhere.
Then it was that the German anti-aircraft guns, discovering their mistake, turned their concentrated fire upon the first machine, which by this time was passing the second hangar, and about to repeat the process.
"Spit! bang! boom!" And now the calm morning air was alive with bursting bombs and tearing shrapnel, while down below the distracted German soldiery, who had been waiting to house the returning Zeppelins, were rushing hither and thither, bewildered, whilst their officers were cursing those verdomt Englanders, who were always up to some new devilment.
"Gott in Himmel! Gott strafe England!" came from many a mouth, and curses and cries of anger, coupled with shouts of defiance, rent the air.
"Are you ready, Jock?" yelled Dastral, as they whirled through a screen of bursting shrapnel.
"Yes, aye, ready!" came the response from the observer, whose eyes were lit with the light of battle.
"Then let go!"
"Boom-m-m!" went another bomb on to the second hangar, and so with the third and last.
Within three minutes the whole of the structures of the three huge sheds were blazing fiercely, and, as the 'planes sped away, and climbed out of the line of immediate fire, they noted with joy that the flames from the third shed were larger and fiercer than those from the others.
Huge forks of fire leapt three hundred feet into the air, and the heat was so fierce within a hundred feet that everybody within that zone of fire was scorched and fell fainting or dead.
"Some blaze that, Jock!" cried Dastral as soon as they had left the fire curtain of shrapnel behind them, and could observe the burning mass properly.
"Yes, there's a Zeppelin in there, I'll swear to it. Else it would never blaze like that." Scarcely had he spoken, when a terrific explosion rent the air, fifty times as loud and terrible as that caused by the bursting of the twenty-pound bombs. At the same instant, a huge column of smoke, flame and debris shot up into the sky, making the very aeroplanes tremble with the tremendous vibration.
"Great Scott, you're right, Jock! We've done it this time. It must have been a Zeppelin. There is nothing left of the shed now. It has been clean lifted away."
The destruction wrought down below had been terrible. The casualties caused by the bombs had been as nothing compared to the terrible death-roll amongst the German soldiery by the explosion of a million cubic feet of gas and the wreckage of the huge hangar. The burning, blazing missiles of bent, twisted iron, steel, timber and aluminium came down from the skies, and wrought death and havoc amongst the labour battalions which must always be on duty near a Zeppelin hangar.
Once they were out of range of the enemy's guns Dastral looked round upon his companions. So far they had come through pretty well. No vital hit had been made, but every machine had received its quota of shrapnel. Not a 'plane amongst them but had its fifty or sixty jagged tears through the planes. Mac's propeller had also been hit, but as it was only slightly splintered, it still enabled the pilot to carry on.
However, as he wheeled round his flight, Dastral saw that it would take his brave followers all their time to get back nearly a hundred miles to safety. He gave the signal, therefore, for every pilot to make a bee line for the English trenches, and thus get home before the Aviatiks, Rolands and Fokkers came, which he knew would be climbing up already to attack them, from the aerodromes in the vicinity of Brussels.
Two of the observers had also been wounded, though slightly, and signalled accordingly, so that Dastral became uneasy, lest, after all, their return to safety should be hindered. Most of all did he fear that it might be necessary to leave one of his machines behind, for, if an aeroplane is forced to land in enemy territory, there is small chance of escape, either for man or machine.
The whole flight, therefore, had fallen into position for return, with Dastral leading, for he had signalled his men to keep together, as far as possible, till they were about to cross the lines. Suddenly, however, when they had proceeded some eight or nine miles on their way, Jock, who had been scanning the north-western horizon, called out:
"A Zeppelin! A Zeppelin!"
"Good heavens, where?" shouted Dastral.
"Away over there on the right, low down on the horizon."
"Phew! So it is. One of their lame ducks coming home to roost, after raiding some English village, I expect."
"The devils. I say, Dastral?"
"Yes?"
"Let's strafe the baby-killer!" shouted Jock.
Dastral turned round once more to look at his battered flight. Could he do it? Where were the German Fokkers? he asked himself. And for once he hesitated. It was only for a moment, however, and it was not for any thought of himself that he hesitated, but the knowledge that he would be attacked shortly by enemy 'planes, and that some of his machines would be lost, for they were not in any fit state at present to engage with enemy warplanes. Jock, always an eager fighter, was edging him on, however.
"What say you, Flight-Commander? The others seems eager to fight. We've plenty of bombs left yet, and haven't touched the drums. Let's bring the blighter down, so that it can't kill any more babies in their cots."
"Right-o, Jock! Throw out the signal-Zeppelin."
And the next moment a couple of smoke bombs were thrown out by the observer, which gave the order, "Prepare to attack."
"Whir-r-r!" went the four 'planes on their new tack, as the controlling wires went over, and each machine banked suddenly and came round head on towards the enemy.
"By Jove, she's seen us and she's heading off too!" shouted Jock through the tube.
"Yes, so I see. Bet she's using her wireless some to call for the Fokkers. We haven't much time to lose."
In less than three minutes they were within machine-gun fire of the huge gas-bag, which was flying as low as three thousand feet, and seemed incapable of lifting herself much, either through shortage of gas or damaged machinery.
"Look out! She's opening fire! See there!" Short sharp jets of fire spat out from the gondolas of the Zeppelin in half a dozen different places, and the bullets began to whistle and ping-ping about the ears of the aviators.
"Reserve your fire, boys!" ordered Dastral, for he knew that they would all be anxious to fire. Then he threw out another order, which meant, "Attack from above."
This they all understood immediately, and followed Dastral as he made his machine almost sit upon her tail, as she climbed and manoeuvred to get above the huge lumbering mass, which was already levering away to leeward on account of some defective machinery, and the fresh breeze which had sprung up from the south-east.
Two minutes later they were almost directly above the Zeppelin, and, except for two machine-guns which were mounted above the envelope, they were immune from fire, for the other guns down below were screened by the huge looming mass above them.
Even the gunners on the top were practically useless, for the terrors of the past night and the impending death now awaiting them had shattered their nerves, and they were firing wildly, so that the daring aviators had them at their mercy, for the hornets were about to attack.
Dastral gave one more look round at his flight, and saw them coming boldly on behind him. Then he shouted to Jock:
"All ready there?"
"Aye, ready," came the response.
"Then in mercy's name fire!" A short, sharp nose-dive of two hundred feet, and they were within a hundred feet of the leviathan, and immediately above her. So near were they that they could see the affrighted machine-gunners on the top of the gas-bag leave their posts and try to escape down the escalier, but they had left it too long. They were now about to pay the price for the toll they had wantonly taken of innocent lives during the long dark hours of the past night. And, like all cowards who wreak their vengeance upon helpless folk, they feared the dread spectre when it came close to themselves.
"Whis-s-sh! Boom-m-m!" went the first bomb; a time fuse fixed for two seconds. The explosion rent the envelope, and allowed vast quantities of gas to escape from two of the ballonets, so that the huge mass crumpled in at the head, and began to sink slowly at the nose.
Another bomb was dropped, and the second and third machines coming up, dropped petrol and phosphorus bombs, which blazed away, igniting the escaping gas.
She was well alight now, and in the fore part she was burning fiercely, but as yet she did not explode. Dastral saw that she was done for, however, and knowing that the enemy craft could not be far away after all this time, made off and signalled his men to follow.
Down, down went the blazing mass for a couple of thousand feet, then rolling over, it literally fell asunder into several parts, and each part, still burning, carried its helpless inmates down to destruction.
Once more Dastral looked round, and as he did so, he gasped out the words:
"Great Scott! The whole place is alive with Fokkers, Rolands and Aviatiks!"
Then followed a fierce running fight, in which the English were outnumbered three to one. The enemy were all around them, for they had been called by wireless from every direction. Dastral headed his men into the thick of the combat. Three German 'planes were brought down, and not till every round of ammunition was fired, and every drum empty did the Commander call off his Flight again, or rather what was left of it.
Brum, fighting bravely to the last, had gone down in a whirling spiral after first sending down an Aviatik. Steve followed him a little later, with his machine blazing, for his petrol tank had been plugged time after time. Dastral alone, with Mac, both their machines damaged beyond repair and both their observers wounded, staggered through the curtain fire at the trenches later in the morning, and came to earth just behind the British first line.
CHAPTER V
A BOMBING RAID
DAWN was just breaking over Devil's Wood and Ginchy. The owls and bats which had flitted over the night-bivouacs had returned to their hiding places about the battered towers of the old church near by. A saffron tint flushed the low summit of the eastern ridge, beyond Combles and Ginchy, while thin blue-grey columns of smoke showed where the Germans held fast their steel line from the Somme to Bapaume.
Scarcely had the stars faded away, however, and disappeared in the morning light, when the little field telephone in the orderly officer's tent at the aerodrome near Contalmaison went "Ting-a-ling-ling!"
"Are you there?" came the query over the wire.
"Yes. Who is that?"
"Advanced Headquarters, Section 47, East of Ginchy. Is that the Wing H.Q., Royal Flying Corps?"
"Yes. What is the matter, that you ring a poor chap up for the twentieth time in half an hour?"
"Matter enough, Grenfell, old fellow! Seven aeroplanes have just crossed our lines from the direction of Morval and Lesboeufs. They are flying in your direction, west by west-sou'-west. Can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes, but I say, Ginchy. Hullo! Were they enemy 'planes?"
"Our sentries couldn't make out their nationality; it was too dark. That's why the O.C. wanted me to 'phone you, lest it should be another raiding party coming to bomb you, as they did the other morning at dawn. He wants you to take 'Air Raid Action' at once. Got me, old fellow?"
"All right, Ginchy. We'll be ready for the blighters this time. S'long! Remember me to Crawford when you run across him."
"Can't, old man."
"How so?"
"He got a packet in the knapper this morning, and he's already on his way to Blighty."
"Lucky beggar! Good-bye!"
"Goodbye."
"Ting-a-ling-ling!"
Thus the brief conversation closed, and within another thirty seconds the orders had been given for "Air raid action" and every one was ready. The men of "B" Flight, No. – Squadron under Dastral, were standing by their machines, and the aerial gunners and observers were placing the last drums of ammunition in the cockpit, where they would be ready to hand. Almost immediately afterwards the sentries on duty at the eastern end of the aerodrome gave the alarm:
"Aeroplanes approaching from the east!" Half a dozen pairs of glasses soon found the machines, and, for a moment, there was a little thrill of excitement, as the anti-aircraft gunners received their orders to load up and fix the range.
"Stand by to start the propellors!" shouted Dastral, the Flight-Commander, to the air mechanics.
"Are all the pilots ready?" came next.
"Yes, sir," replied the Flight-Sergeant.
In another moment the whole flight would have been in the air doing a rapid spiral, for the hum of the approaching aeroplane engines could be distinctly heard now.
"Whir-r-r! whir-r-r-r!" Nearer and nearer came the well-known sound of the propellors, when suddenly the Squadron-Commander, who had been intently watching the early morning visitants through his glasses, called out:
"Dismiss, 'B' Flight. It's only Graham's party returning from their reconnaissance."
There was not a little disappointment at this announcement, for every one had been looking forward to a scrap before breakfast. The sun, which had just showed his upper edge above the ridge, however, revealed quite distinctly the rounded marks of the Allies on each of the 'planes.
Five minutes later the newcomers descended by rapid spirals, and, alighting on the aerodrome, taxied safely almost up to the very entrance of the sheds, and the pilots and observers alighted to report what they had discovered.
They had been away two hours, had traversed fifty miles beyond the enemy's lines, and had picked up several night signals by a prearranged code, using the Morse flash and the Klaxon Horn. This information, which was of the utmost importance, had been collected from some of our most daring intelligence officers, who controlled a network of British spies behind the German lines.
"Well done, Graham!" exclaimed the Major commanding the Squadron, as he grasped the Flight-Commander's hand on alighting. "Did you pick up anything?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then slip off your helmet and heavy coat, and make your report at once, and–hullo, there, Johnson!"
"Sir," replied the sergeant in charge of the officers' mess, springing smartly to the salute.
"Have breakfast ready in ten minutes in the private mess. Lay covers for all the pilots."
"Yes, sir," replied Johnson, saluting once more, and clicking his heels at the "about-turn" he disappeared to introduce a little thunder amongst the early morning "fatigues" in the cook-house.
A powerful and crafty foe, whose emissaries have never been surpassed in the espionage in the world, prevents me from giving the details of the reports brought home that morning by Graham and his pilots. Let it suffice, however, to say that amongst other information collected beyond the enemy's front, by a wonderful intelligence system of our own, it had been discovered in that dark hour before the dawn, by the Morse flash and the Klaxon Horn, that three German troop trains were to leave Liege that morning at eight o'clock, and, travelling via Mauberge and Cambrai, were to reinforce the hardly pressed German troops facing the British soldiers on the Somme.
There was a jovial breakfast party that morning in the officers' mess of the –th Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps, for in this wonderful Corps, which, in the short space of two years, has done the seemingly impossible, and taken the high jump from an insignificant detachment, and become the most brilliant service under the British flag, there is an esprit de jeu as well as an esprit de corps unsurpassed even by that of the Navy, with its centuries of tradition behind it.
"How shall I know a British 'plane, if I meet it suddenly in mid-air?" asked a German pilot once of his Flight-Commander.
"You'll know it because it will attack you!" was the reply.
And never yet has a British pilot, with a single round of ammunition left in his drum, turned tail upon the enemy, even though when outnumbered three to one. For such a pilot, there would be no room in the Royal Flying Corps.
So, during breakfast that morning at the aerodrome near Contalmaison, every flight-commander vied with his comrade for the post of honour. Maps and railway routes were carefully consuled, for there were no less than three routes by which the troop trains might arrive at the Somme front.
"Liège–Namur–Mauberge," said the Squadron-Commander, as he bent over the large map, and ran his fingers lightly along the route, whilst the eager youths with the pilot's wings on the left breast of their soiled and greasy service tunics listened and waited eagerly for their final orders, each hoping in his inmost soul that the route allotted to him might be the one by which the Huns would arrive.
"Let me see, now. After Mauberge and Cambrai the lines divide. Hum! Why, yes, they must come via Peronne, Velu or Lestrée. There now. Are you ready, boys?" asked the Commander, raising his head for the first time for five minutes, and looking keenly into the glowing faces of those lads, who, less than three years ago, in most cases, were at Marlborough, Cheltenham or Harrow.
"Aye, ready, sir!" they replied almost in one breath.
"Are you quite sure, Graham, you can manage it? You have already had two hours up there in the dark, you know."
"We could do another four, sir, quite easily," replied the Commander of "A" Flight, with just a shade of disappointment in his voice, as though he feared the C.O. might hold him back.
"How are the engines running?"
"Perfectly, sir; never better! They never misfired once, and there isn't a strut or control wire damaged."
"Right!" exclaimed the Commander laconically, who then rolled up the big map, touched a bell, and ordered the aerodrome Flight-Sergeant to run out the machines and to let the air mechanics, observers, wireless men and aerial gunners fall in and stand by the 'planes. Then, turning to the three Flight-Commanders he said:
"Graham, you will take 'A' Flight and patrol the Lestrée line. You, Dastral, will take charge of 'B' Flight and watch the Havrincourt-Bapaume route, and Wilson there will watch the Peronne loop-line. They may come by any of those three routes. Where they will detrain I cannot say. It will be for you to discover. Fill up with the twenty-pound bombs, as they're the handiest, for I expect it will be more of a bombing raid than anything else. But if the enemy is escorted by Fokkers or Rolands, you must be prepared for a fight in the air as well, and I want each Flight to act independently, but if necessary to co-operate, should Himmelman and his crowd turn up. Smoke signals will be the best, I think. Is that quite clear, boys?"
"Yes, sir. Quite clear," they replied, for they were all in high glee, and regarded it all as nothing more or less than a boyish adventure, though more than one of those brave youths was going forth to his death. And what a death it is to be hit in mid-air by bursting shrapnel, and hurled seven thousand feet to the earth! But such a death they faced daily without flinching.
"Then fill up your glasses, boys, and I will give you The King! God bless him!"
And standing up they drank confusion to the King's enemies, and if a stranger had been there to note it, he would have seen that many a glass was filled with water, for the continuous demand upon the pilot's nerve and intelligence forbids his frequent use of alcohol.
Soon afterwards, the pilots, observers and gunners were carefully examining their machines, guns, fixing bombs, waterproof maps, and arranging every detail with care and skill. A faulty strut or control wire, a defective bomb release, or a leaking petrol tank might mean failure or disaster.
At last all was ready, and the final words of command were given to the air mechanics.
"Stand clear! Away!"
"Good-bye, lads, and good luck!" called the Squadron-Commander cheerfully, though at that very moment he was inwardly cursing his bad luck at having had his left arm seriously damaged in a recent crash. For of all things upon earth Major Bulford loved to lead his brave lads and to wheel them into action against the enemy squadrons.
"Whir-r-r! Whir-r-r!" went the first propellor, as the air-mechanic who had started it sprang back to safety. Then, one after another the machines of the three Flights taxied across the level ground of the aerodrome, and sprang into the air at the first movement of the elevator.
"Goodbye!" waved the pilots in answer to the last greeting of their chief, for the human voice could not carry two feet in that wild roar of propellors and engines, which seemed to make the whole atmosphere pulsate with a whirring sound.
After a few rapid spirals a height of two thousand feet was quickly attained, and then, still climbing, the 'planes, like huge birds of prey, disappeared for a while behind the British lines as though for a cross-Channel flight to England, in order to confuse the enemy observers. Then, by a wide sweep at seven thousand feet, the flights became detached, and each, under its own commander, went its own way by a circuitous route to the appointed station.
Dastral, with the four Sopwiths of "B" Flight, crossed the enemy's lines at nine thousand feet, somewhere between Ligny and Grévillers. As he did so he received his first baptism of fire from "Archie."
White puffs of smoke and fierce red jets of flame seemed to burst noiselessly around them, for the roar of the propellors drowned or subdued even the sound of the shrapnel as it exploded. Heedless of such small things, however, Dastral and his brave comrades sailed on, sometimes doing a spiral or a rapid nose-dive, if the enemy appeared to have found the range too closely.
Soon, however, they were ambushed in a friendly cloud, which hid them from the Huns far below, and when they had emerged from the clinging moisture, they were far beyond the enemy's third line trenches, and out into the open, with smiling fields and vineyards beneath them.
"Is that it?" yelled Dastral to his observer, jerking his head sideways, and pointing with his finger to something like a railway cutting far below.
"Yes. The Bapaume-Havrincourt railway line!" shouted his companion through the speaking-tube which ended close to the pilot's ear, for although only a few feet away, that was the only possible method of communication without shutting off the engines.
"Good!" nodded the pilot, for, despite the speaking-tube, conversation was chiefly carried on by well understood cabalistic signs.
A few minutes later Dastral pointed to a cluster of red roofs about a little church.
"What is that place?"
The observer, with one finger still on the little waterproof map in front of him, shouted back, "Beugny on the left. Haplincourt on the right."
"Yes, yes!" nodded the pilot, edging a little more south-east, as though the railway were not his objective. In so doing he alarmed Fisker, his companion, who feared he had misunderstood him.
"What's the matter?" he shouted. "You're leaving the target. The bridge-head and the ravine is over there, east-nor'-east. That's where the junction is, at Velu."
"Right-o, old man! Glad you're awake. Keep your eyes well skinned away to the east for Fokkers and Rolands. This is Himmelman's favourite hunting-ground. He'll be down on us from the clouds like a thunderbolt, if we're not careful. I want to get up to twelve thousand, and come back on to the junction from the east."
"Oh-ay!" came the laconic rejoinder from Fisker, who quickly understood the manoeuvre. Then, leaving his map for a moment, he swept the horizon for any signs there might be of the enemy's 'planes.
So for nearly an hour the machines, playing at "follow-my-leader," swept round and round, watching and waiting in an altitude where, to put it mildly, it was cold enough to freeze a kettle of boiling water in ten minutes.
Cold? Yes, it was bitterly cold. Both Dastral and Fisker felt it through their thick leather, wool-lined coats.
They patrolled the country behind the German lines, and watched the smoke curling upwards from a dozen French villages in the enemy's possession. At length they crossed the loop line near Barastre, skimmed along over Ytres, and the Bois Havrincourt; sailed lightly across the silvery streak of the river Exuette, until, beyond the wood and the village they espied the main railway line that threaded its way to Bapaume.
"There it is, Fisker. Can you see it?" were Dastral's first words, when he sighted it.
"Yes, I see it," came the reply.
Dastral had timed his arrival nicely. Scarcely had they reached the railway when out of the eastern horizon a trail of white steam, followed by another and yet another, at intervals of perhaps half a mile, attracted their attention.
"Look! There they come, Dastral!" cried Fisker, putting down the glasses and waving his arms frantically to attract the attention of the other three pilots, and to indicate the target, now rapidly approaching.
One look in the direction indicated sufficed for Dastral. He made a sudden dip, then gave one of his rapid spirals, at which he was such an adept. This movement of the Flight-Commander's machine was the pre-arranged signal for the rest of the company and meant:
"Enemy approaching from the east. Prepare to engage him."
The movement was answered by each of the following 'planes. The formation of the flight was altered accordingly, and the machines now fell into their allotted places ready for descent.