# The Air Fight

Extracted from Everybody's magazine, March 1907, pp. 33-362. Accompanying illustrations by Worden Wood may be omitted. [Argyll / Finnegan]
The Air Fight
By MORGAN ROBERTSON
WITH England involved in the Russo-Japanese war of 1905, and her big battle-ship Argyll actively engaged in the blockade of Port Albert, it was in the nature of things that Germany should, sooner or later, poise a chip on her shoulder to be knocked off by the allies. And, according to wireless news received by the Argyll from Weihaiwei, this chip was in the form of certain long, pointed gas-bags, with car and motor attachments, constructed on the latest German designs, and shipped to Port Albert from Berlin via the Siberian Railway. The Argyll, having sent the news up the long semicircle of ships to the flag-ship, prepared to do her part in knocking off the chip, and later received the signaled message that the Japanese, encamped on the hills back of the town, were doing still better—that they had acquired, and successfully tested two air-ships of different design—neither aerostat, nor gas-bag, like those of the Russians, but aeroplanes, machines heavier than air, that lifted themselves by the power of machinery. Things promised to be more interesting; the tedium of the long blockade might be enlivened by a battle in the air. But when a later message was wig-wagged down the line that a Russian aerostat had sallied out from Port Albert, settled within the imaginary inverted cone above the flag-ship's gun-elevation, and dropped several explosive bombs, none of which, however, had penetrated her protective deck, the incident was regarded as potential. A spectacular battle of air-ships—an innovation in modern war—was one thing, but bombs from above were another. Even though protective decks protected, one of these, dropped down a funnel, would reach the ship's vitals unimpeded; and if boilers could be punctured in this manner, battle-ships and blockades must go out of fashion.
The men of the Argyll grew serious-minded, and while the artisan class labored to elevate the trunnions of a six-inch gun-mount on the superstructure—the Argyll's preparation for the chip—the rest read old letters, wrote new ones, or entered up journals, and Old Man Finnegan, as was usual with him under conditions that would impel the average toper to heavier drinking, forswore his peculiar privilege and took the pledge. Up to a certain point there resulted the usual effect upon his nerves—followed afterward by a curious psychical state in which nervousness was replaced by a ready combativeness, and a large and demonstrative critical faculty. His ordinarily benign old countenance took on an expression of fierce displeasure, and his gentle voice a note of angry protest with a slight reversion to the brogue of his boyhood.
After two days of reform his shipmates begged him to backslide, and the chaplain, who had taken his pledge, came in for some pointed comment from the officers; for Finnegan, though guilty of no offense that would consign him to the brig, or ship's prison, yet had become one whose translation to a better clime would mean the abatement of a nuisance. But before anything was done about it, Finnegan, as a focus of interest, gave way to others—one the raised and freely swinging six-inch gun on the superstructure, the other a round, black spot in the southwestern sky, which grew larger as the men on the Argyll studied it. From the ships up the line came puffs and sparks, and, presumably, shot and shell sang past the advancing object in the air. But it was not disturbed; it came steadily on toward the end of the line—toward the Argyll, the strongest ship on the blockade.
“Picked us out—of all this fleet,” growled Mr. Clarkson, the first lieutenant. “And Finnegan dead sober,” he added in a whisper.
“It's an aerostat,” commented the captain, as he studied the spot, now about five miles away, and apparently half a mile high. “An elongated balloon with a car and a motor. Looks like a boat—that car. And Finnegan is sober, you say?"
“Beastly sober, sir,” answered the executive, biting his lip at the response to his whisper.
The captain turned and looked squarely into the eyes of his executive officer, who, after returning his gaze for a moment, slowly nodded his head—once. But nothing more was said about Finnegan.
Finnegan sober was a mental, moral, and physical ruin—an affliction to his fellow-men; moderately stimulated, he was the most intelligent and efficient man of the ship's company; drunk, he was an oracle, an interpreter and exponent of occult facts and forces—one whose apparently irresponsible and fortuitous performances had saved the ship from disaster on many occasions. Hence his privilege of drinking: hence the hidden interest in his condition betrayed by the lords of the quarter-deck.
The men went to quarters, and the Argyll roared and thundered at the menace in the sky; but at extreme elevation gun-sights and range-finders were useless, and only from the one raised and quickly handled six-inch gun on the superstructure could results be hoped for. Soon the useless waste of ammunition ceased—only the six-inch gun, swinging freely in a vertical plane, and aimed by a gunner flat on his back beneath it, barked and spat at the aerostat, which, maintaining its original height, came swiftly along untouched by the solid shot sent upward. As it drew near, the men on the deck of the Argyll made out details of its construction—a car formed of a boat, that would float if the contrivance should fall; a large, screw-fan wheel whirling at the rear end of the long, pointed gas-bag; a vertical and horizontal rudder behind this screw; amidships on each side of the car two large aeroplanes, or wings, evidently to draw the machine downward while under motion; and to give individuality to the whole, the blue cross of Russia flying from a flag-staff at the stem of the boat.
Focused by a dozen glasses, and a target for a dozen shots a minute, it passed overhead, and some who had glasses shouted an involuntary warning. A stream of small, black objects was descending, and a sympathetic shudder went through the ship's company, while those who could see pulled their shoulders up, and together. This form of warfare was new.
The Argyll was steaming at full speed—her only possible defense; and when the first black object arrived it struck and exploded a hundred yards on the starboard quarter, the next nearer astern, the next nearer still; then the line of explosions traversed the wake, and ceased, while the air-ship went on. The Argyll had seventy feet beam; the bombs fell about a rod apart. Had that line of explosions crossed her hull, two at least would have struck her. Her protective deck was but two inches thick at its central and horizontal part. A solid piece of metal, falling half a mile, would go through it and her unarmored bottom; enough of them could puncture every compartment and sink her like a tin sieve. A five-million-dollar battle-ship, with every resource that modern science could put into her, would be helpless beneath a gas bag and a cargo of scrap-iron. The Argyll, realizing this, charged and scurried about like a gallied whale. The aerostat above did not seem to realize the possibilities, or else its cargo was limited. It went on, turned, and came back on a descending plane, pulled down by the slanting wings.
A stream of descending bombs crossed the bow, nearer than before, with the Argyll panting and fuming under reversed engines, and the six-inch gun voicing the ship's rage and sending upward its stream of solid shot. Back came the aerostat, still descending, and men frantically disconnected one-pounders and machine-guns, holding them in their arms while others charged and fired them. Nearer and nearer came the enemy, and lower—too low. Something—no one knew what gun sent it—hit her before the next stream began. There were only a few small flying fragments to indicate the success of the shot; but it was soon plain that vital damage was done, for the aeroplanes were straightened, the course changed, and, rising for a time at an angle of fifty degrees, the aerostat, steering wild, headed for land under full speed. A hoarse, inarticulate cheer went up from the Argyll, while some officers and a score of men throughout the ship sat down or stretched out flat. Courage is cumulative; they would do better next time. As it was, only one intrepid soul among those seven hundred men rose superior to this new horror of war. In the hush that followed the cheer, Finnegan's voice could be heard, disputatiously asserting that he had fired the lucky shot.
The aerostat was followed by glasses and was seen to alight in a clear spot about a mile inland, where the beach timber met the scattered bush of the foot-hills; and as the ad vantage gained was too important to be lost, a landing-party was ordered, and Mr. Clark son, after another soul-laden look into the captain's eyes, decreed that Finnegan should go with it. As the cutlassed, white-clad men lined up at the gangway to be inspected, Finnegan, at the end of the line, protested his disgust by so ireful a face as to attract the first lieutenant's attention.
“What's wrong with you?” he inquired sharply, as he paused before the old fellow. “Look pleasant. Your face would sour a jug of vinegar.”
“I'm cowld, sir,” answered Finnegan, with as much of a snarl in his voice as the ship's etiquette would permit. “It's a cowld day brought three swarthy, scowling, blue-clad to sind min out in white ducks, sir. And I'm Russians, who the sober-faced first lieuten- an owld man, sir, to be sint retrievin' flyin'-machines.”
“Cold, are you?” said the lieutenant with a smile, while his hand wandered to a projection in his pocket. “Well, I'll warm you up when I get you ashore. Over the side with you!”
Finnegan, grumbling to himself, descended after the rest, and Mr. Clarkson followed to command the party.
Long before the landing-party returned to the Argyll, the aerostat was seen slowly rising above the trees. Up it went, higher and higher, until, at about a mile's altitude, a current of air must have caught it—for the screw-fan, seen through glasses, was motionless—and wafted it seaward, but in a direction away from the Argyll. That ship's officers watched it closely, and when it was fairly clear of the land they saw a small cloud of smoke float away from the car; then they saw something leave it and descend—something white, that turned over and over and reached out as it turned, sprawling and clutching at emptiness. It struck the water; they saw the splash, but no more; and when they looked again at the aerostat it was a spot—high in air.
When the boat-party finally appeared, it brought three swarthy, scowling, blue-clad Russians, who the sober-faced first lieutenant announced were the crew of the aerostat. They were inspected, found ignorant of English, and confined below, while Mr. Clarkson made his report. The landing-party had come upon the aerostat on the shore, he said; they had charged upon the crew, who were repairing damaged steering-gear, and who sprang out at their approach. The aerostat, relieved of their weight, had broken its moorings, rising with its commander and one of the attacking party who had sprung into the car. And this one was Finnegan, who, yelling like a lunatic, had led the charge ahead of them all.
“How was the Russian commander dressed?” asked the captain eagerly.
“In blue—coat and trousers,” answered Mr. Clarkson sadly. “It was Finnegan who fell, sir. We saw him. He was in white ducks, like the rest. There was a fight up there, of course—and Finnegan is a feeble old man.”
“Not necessarily feeble,” said the captain. “He's an Irishman, and a trained British sailor. Did you give him—that——?” he added, ignoring the conventionalities of the service.
“Yes, sir, and he dashed it to the ground. He was more than insolent—but I am not criticising, understand, sir. He accused me of trying to break down his good resolutions. He complained of the cold, and railed at the uniform of the day. I could do nothing with him.”
“Well,” said the captain resignedly, “he's done for. He could hold his own with any Russian in an ordinary fight, but—there was gun-play up there—we saw the smoke—and he was very likely shot down. He had nothing but a cutlass, I suppose—like the rest. It was a mistake, Mr. Clarkson. Landing-parties should carry pistols.”
But other matters soon claimed the attention of the captain and the executive. Distant gun-fire was heard, and the signal came down for the Argyll to join the flagship Nagasaki, at the harbor-mouth. She gave steam to her engines, but there were neither gun-fire, flag-ship, nor fleet when she arrived at the harbor. There were the torpedo flotilla, and a few of the small, fast cruisers—all scurrying about at full speed; but the fleet, as a whole, had scattered to the horizon. The flag-ship, Nagasaki, a monster nearly as heavy as the Argyll, lay well within the circle, flying at one yard-arm the signal that had scattered them, from the other an appeal to the Argyll, whose victory of the morning was known and whose freely swinging six-inch gun was needed. Hovering above the scurrying torpedo flotilla were two immense gas-bags, seeking a perpendicular, and dropping occasional bombs, while over toward the harbor-mouth, higher in air and motionless, was a third—each flying the ensign of Russia from the flag-staff in the stern of the car.
“Finnegan's death is portentous,” said the captain; “for his work is done. Those expiring bombs sound the doom of the battle-ship.”
“Unless they're armored on deck, sir,” assented the practical first lieutenant.
“At great expense of side-armor and armament. They will cease to be battle-ships.”
“They can survive the submarine, sir. Why not the flying-machine?”
“Only by speed, at the same sacrifice. No, we shall not return to wooden walls—iron is cheaper. But we must return to personal prowess. The submarine, as a war-engine, will die out with the battle-ship; but for a time, battles may be fought in the air.”
“Beginning to-day, perhaps,” tersely answered the lieutenant. “Look there, sir.”
With a sweeping gesture he pointed shoreward, and all glasses were focused on what he had seen—two black specks rising from the hills inland, where was encamped the Japanese army. They ceased to rise and grew larger, taking on form and identity; curious corners and protections appeared to view. One looked in perspective like a diamond-shaped kite sailing through the air, its car and attachments hidden within the outline, the other like nothing so much as a window-blind on end, with a fish-like hull balanced through the middle, and huge twin fans whirling in hollows in the row of slats, or planes, on each side of the hull. There was no wind, the calm sea was unruffled save by the wash from the moving war-ships, yet these machines came speedily on, supported by the cushioned air beneath, as a swift skater is supported by yielding ice. And as they cleared the land, the third Russian aerostat, near the harbor-mouth, that had been slowly settling, shot up to a higher and safer elevation, but took no lateral motion.
“Something seems to be wrong with that fellow,” remarked the captain. “If I'm not mistaken, it's the one we fought this morning, and her steering-gear is still out of order.”
“Very likely, sir,” answered Mr. Clarkson. “I could see but one man in the car when I looked a moment ago; her commander, I suppose, working alone at the gear.”
“Begin with that gun of ours, Mr. Clarkson.”
At a half-mile's distance the six-inch gun commenced barking, and by this time the Japanese air-ships were over the water, the sea-fleet was a line of specks on the horizon, and the flag-ship, assured that the Argyll was at hand, was a lessening silhouette, following the fleet. But the swift and elusive torpedo contingent remained faithfully on the blockade, and their swiftness and elusiveness must have become apparent to the Russians in charge of the gas-bags coincidently with the singing around them of the Argyll's six-inch projectiles, for they changed tactics. One headed out to sea after the flag-ship, and the other came on to meet the Argyll, while the torpedo-craft slowed down and blew off steam. But the aerostat over near the harbor-mouth, though settling slowly as before, made no present effort to enter the fight.
At full speed went the Argyll, and at full speed came the big gas-bag to meet her; but faster still came the Japanese aeroplanes, the “window-blind” in the rear of the kite, as though retarded by the increased air-friction of its fish-like hull The kite was flying higher, and at a speed that in a few moments brought it, the Russian gas-bag, and the English battle-ship in a vertical line, with an upward pelting of solid shot and a downward rain of bombs. None of these struck, above or below; and the kite, unable by the nature of its construction to slow down or turn quickly, went on out to sea after the Russian gas bag that had headed for the Nagasaki, while the Argyll and the gas-bag both wheeled about to begin the dodging tactics demanded by this form of warfare. But they were hardly begun before ended. The window-blind was coming at a faster speed than the gas-bag could attain. They met a quarter of a mile away on the Argyll's beam, and about an eighth of a mile above the water. The gas-bag vainly strove to dodge, but failed; for the window-blind could do what the kite had not been able to do—slow down; and soon the collision occurred. The pointed nose of the fish-like hull of the Japanese craft impinged upon the huge envelope of the gas-bag, and it bent like a sausage; then it shrank, shriveled, and became a large rag in the air—a floating, falling rag, dragged down by its car and cargo. But an edge or shred of its cloth must have caught on some projection from the pointed nose of the window-blind, for the latter dipped and followed its victim, the shutter-like row of planes horizontal and useless, the twin fans reversed, but powerless to support the double load. Together they reached the sea, where, after the splash, the fish-like hull could be seen floating. And, however the combat may have been continued and determined in the water by possible survivors, it was certain that these two had ceased to be air-ships; and the lesson was conclusively borne home to the interested watchers that ramming is as suicidal in mid-air as upon the surface of the sea.
Leaving the survivors to the care of the converging torpedo-boats, the Argyll rushed seaward to where there promised to be another mix—where the fleeing Nagasaki was being pursued by the faster gas-bag, and both by the still faster Japanese kite. But this mix was over with before the Argyll had made half the distance. The watchers on her bridge saw the beginning—the wheeling about in air of the gas-bag, the lengthening and foreshortening of the silhouette on the horizon that told of the flag-ship's frantic dodging, and the descending swoop of the kite as it approached. Then they saw a dense and expanding white cloud burst out and hover above the flag-ship; and it was evident to all that it was steam—that it came from nothing less than exploded boilers; and before it had thinned there belched upward another cloud—yellow and shaded with darker hues of brown, the visible index of sudden and incomplete combustion, as of gun-cotton, smokeless powder, and such high explosives, detonated in a scant supply of oxygen. Suddenly the silhouette of the flag-ship changed form; the stumpy masts became shorter, and inclined at an angle; the broken line of the deck and superstructure became a convex, curving up from the sea, obliterating the shortening masts; then, in the space of five minutes' time, the convexed form had sunk like the upper limb of the setting sun, and all that remained of the Nagasaki was the lessening cloud in the air. But, high above the smoke, as though pushed up by the explosion, was the Russian gas-bag that had destroyed her, and, wheeling away to the right, the kite-shaped Japanese aeroplane, both apparently uninjured.
“A floating mine,” gasped the captain, as he lowered his glass, “or a bomb down a funnel—which?” Then he turned the glass astern.
“The last, I think, captain,” said the pale but ever practical Mr. Clarkson. “In either case, you're right, sir. Battle-ships must go.”
“And this ship the next, no doubt. Look there.” The captain pointed to where he had directed the glass.
Lower down, and but a few miles away, steering erratically, but making a fairly straight course through the air, was the aerostat they had left at the harbor-mouth—now following the Argyll.
“Turn that gun on her as soon as there is a chance of hitting her,” said the captain.
This chance did not come right away. The pursuing aerostat seemed to have trouble other than that of defective steering-gear, or else it was less interested in the Argyll than in the two aerial gladiators ahead of her; for, having settled perilously close to the water, it suddenly shot upward, not only out of range, but to a point from which its onward flight, at its rate of settling, would be high overhead. Yet, as it passed over, it became a target for the six-inch gun.
As the Argyll stormed along, the movements of the two fighting air-ships became plainer. They were darting back and forth, passing each other, the Japanese aeroplane always above, but the Russian gas-bag seemingly not anxious to attain this point of vantage. Instead, it seemed satisfied with hovering long at the turn, only taking motion when the near approach of the huge kite rendered it wise to quickly pass the dangerpoint Occasional eruptions of the sea beneath proved that bombs were dropping; and the logical inference was that they came from the Japanese. But, as the Argyll drew near, it was seen that the Russian crew of the gas bag was depending upon other, more mundane, methods of warfare, which explained the long waits at the turning-points. Little white clouds left the boat-like car at these moments, when, with the kite in full view beneath the huge envelope of gas-bag, aim could be taken with rifles by the Russians.
And that rifle-balls went truer than falling bombs was demonstrated when the Argyll had approached to within a mile, for there was a puff and a flare from the car of the kite, then a flickering gleam of red which seemed to come from all parts of it, then a sudden blazing effulgence and a larger cloud of smoke. And when this had thinned, the great kite had disappeared from view—only a dark cluster of falling dots was left to indicate the combination of gasoline, rifle-ball, and single aeroplane. Then, before these dots had struck the water, and in the face of the six-inch gun-fire, the victorious Russian gas-bag turned back to meet the Argyll, while its distressed sister aerostat, that had in the meantime settled close to the sea, again rose in the air, a number of explosions beneath proving the nature of the ballast expended, while the suddenness of the ascent showed the lack of compensation in the gas-pressure. It paused at a half-mile elevation, and drifted slowly in an upper current. But, at a point directly in the rear of its oncoming sister ship, its troubles seemed to leave it. It took motion, swooped to the right and the left, and then settled down to a course that was straight in comparison with its previous flights.
By this time the Russian gas-bag had arrived, a very active and aggressive enemy, flushed with victory, and bent upon adding the Argyll to its list of lost and sunken ships; and it began operations at once. There ensued more undignified dodging, the air ship chasing around and dropping bombs, the big battle-ship clumsily charging, backing, and turning to starboard and port while pelting the heavens with six-inch shot.
But with only eighteen-knot speed the Argyll could not long avoid a thirty-knot airship in a calm. The huge, dun-colored bag above her dipped lower with each returning flight. They could see the heads of men, peering down—could distinguish the interlacing network of cordage supporting the car, and, in the lull of stopped engines, and between the barks of the six-inch gun, could faintly hear the humming of the fan-wheel screw.
The falling bombs struck nearer with each passage overhead. One demolished a boat, another just missed the bridge, then one struck and exploded alongside of the six-inch gun, dismounting it and killing most of its crew; and, as though the big ship were not helpless enough with this gun out of action, a larger bomb exploded squarely on deck near the stern, shattered through it, punctured the protective deck below, and crippled the steering-gear. As the anxious contingent on the bridge received word of this through the pilot-house windows, they saw that the recently distressed aerostat, as big, as swift, as menacing as the first, was but a half-mile distant, rushing down to the conflict like a monster bird of prey—dropping, even as it came, a stream of dark objects.
But the victor did not wait for a helper to share the victory. Taking full speed and inclining its aeroplanes, or wings, it wheeled about in a descending spiral, the edge of which covered the center of the ship, where were three vulnerable funnels—three open, ten-foot holes that led to the vitals. Lower and lower it came with each circling flight, sending down that murderous hail, and reckless of the upward discharge of small projectiles sent from machine-guns in the arms of men. But while these men were falling in groups from the explosions on deck, and the deadly missiles were approaching perilously near to the funnels, the gas-bag above ceased to be a gas-bag. It shrank and shriveled, doubled and collapsed as had the first, and coincidently with the sound of smashing glass from the engine-room skylight, and the rushing by, just over the trucks, of the remaining terror of the air, it became a floating rag, and fell to the sea astern of the battle-ship. Then, shrill and penetrating over the dwindling cadence of the cheer that followed, came a cry from above:
“Help—hellup! Don't shoot!”
And the distracted men of the Argyll looked up and saw the rushing aerostat, from which occasional dark objects were still falling, dive downward until the car floated on the sea in the path of the ship; and the sustaining gas-bag, relieved of its weight, but collapsing, waved to and fro above it.
The ship continued along, past objects floating on the sea—small boxes, tin cans, pieces of broken board, and a couple of empty bottles—and stopped when the single occupant of the car was visible to her crew. From this person strident calls came faintly over the water to their ears: “Help—hellup! Take me out!” And at once a boat, manned by hilarious men, put out from the ship.
They rescued—Finnegan, drunk, dressed in the blue uniform of a Russian officer, and holding a newly opened bottle of vodka in his hand; and they brought him, bottle and all, into the presence of the captain and officers. Repressed by the presence of his superiors, Finnegan looked stupidly but smilingly around, and the officers, struggling to maintain their gravity, eyed him silently, waiting for the captain to speak. But the captain was serious in his manner, and his glance wandered from the face of the old man to that of the chief engineer, who seemed to have something on his mind.
“Captain,” he said, stepping forward and holding up to view the broken neck of a bottle similar to that held by Finnegan, “I was on deck when this went through the skylight, and I found it later on the second grating of the port engine. It first went through that air-ship, sir, and it saved the Argyll; for those bombs would have gone down the funnels in a half-minute more. This bottle came from above.”
The captain compared the fragment with the neck of Finnegan's bottle, then turned to the executive officer and said, with assumed sternness: “Mr. Clarkson, I must request that you will not in the future, directly or indirectly, supply Finnegan with liquor. Let him work out his—and our—salvation in his own way. Finnegan,” he said, with a deeper assumption of sternness, “did you mend the steering-gear?”
“After a fashion, sir,” answered Finnegan, who seemed to be sobering under the mental strain. “I cud steer, but I cudn't make the dom thing stay up widout tassing out hardware and—things.”
“And the air-ship's commander—where is he?”
“I tassed him out, sir. He tuk me up in me white ducks, an' it was cowld, mighty cowld, up there; an' I axed him for his coat, an' he wudn't give up, so I shtripped him down to his white underclo's; then I axed him for somethin' to drink, an' he wudn't, but come for me wid a gun. Thin I tassed him.”
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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