Lunch was almost over when Derek entered the crowded mess in which the quirks of Averleigh did justice to the plain but substantial food provided by a paternal administration for the benefit of the airmen of to-morrow. The air was buzzing with animated conversation, mostly upon subjects entirely unconnected with the serious art of aviation.
Concealing his anxiety to hear how his chum fared, Derek took a recently-vacated chair at Kaye's side. The latter nodded appreciatively as he passed Daventry a bowl containing a concoction which must never be referred to as margarine, but always as "nut butter".
"Lorry's going into Rockport," announced Kaye. "It leaves here at six. Coming?"
"What's the scheme?" asked Derek. "Nothing much to do in Rockport, is there?"
"It will be a change," replied his chum. "And we can walk back."
"Eight miles,"objected Daventry,shrugging his shoulders. "Bit steep, eh? Very well then, I'm on it."
The meal finished, the cadets adjourned for ten minutes' "stand easy" before the afternoon parade, a purely perfunctory ceremonial which takes place at 1.30.
"Well, how went it with you?" asked Kaye, as the two made their way to the fives court.
"Not so dusty," replied Derek modestly. "And you?"
Kaye grinned.
"Smashed a couple of landing-wheels," he replied. "It was hard luck, but no one seemed to mind very much. It was topping up there, though. I'm all out for another joy-ride to-morrow. Rough luck on Dixon."
"What was that?" asked Daventry.
"Didn't you hear? You know him, don't you?"
"The little merchant with a mole on the point of his chin? I was yarning with him last night."
"That's the fellow," agreed Kaye. "'Fraid he's crashed for good. Didn't clear the pine-trees, and ripped off the left-hand plane. Came down like a stone, of course, and they've taken him to hospital with a compound fracture of the thigh. Old Biggs is rather cut up about it, because Dixon had a good reputation as a centre-forward. Just the fellow we wanted for the First Eleven."
Biggs—Old Biggs as he was generally called—was the captain of the first footer-team, hence that worthy's regret at losing what promised to be a pillar of strength to the sports club. Biggs was an ex-ranker, who, as a flight-sergeant in the old R.F.C., had performed wondrous and daring feats over the Boche lines. It was reported that he climbed out to the tip of one of the planes of a machine when, owing to extensive damage by gun-fire, it was in danger of losing its stability. And this at 9000 feet, with three Taubes devoting their attention to the disabled British 'bus. And yet, before being granted a commission, Old Briggs had to pass through the cadet training-school like any ordinary quirk.
The afternoon passed only too quickly, the lecture being both instructive and entertaining, and when tea was over the cadets were at liberty to spend the rest of the evening in whatever manner they wished.
It was one of the standing orders at Averleigh that three times a week a large motor-lorry was detailed to take cadets into Rockport, a privilege eagerly seized upon by the quirks.
Punctually at six the huge, khaki-painted vehicle emerged from the garage, and the cadets, after passing inspection, boarded the lorry in a seething mob, swarming over the fastened-up tail-board with the utmost agility, until the lorry was packed with forty odd youngsters.
Away rattled the heavily-laden wagon, followed by a couple of motor-bikes with side-cars, each of which bore three cadets in the side-car and one on the carrier, while a straggling mob of quirks on push-bikes brought up the rear.
Directly the precincts of the aerodrome were left behind, the driver of the lorry was bombarded with frantic appeals to "whack her up". This request was complied with, with alacrity, and, the road being narrow, progress resolved itself into a series of vain attempts on the part of the motor-cycles to pass their lumbering, swaying, big comrade.
It was a distance of eleven miles to Rockport by road, and three miles less by a footpath along the cliffs that eventually cut across some marshes on the south side of Averleigh aerodrome.
Rockport, a small seaport of about nine thousand inhabitants, offered very little attraction to ordinary visitors, but it was one of the chief places of interest to the cadets of the T.D.S. They certainly livened the old town up, and their presence was more appreciated than otherwise by the bulk of the residents.
Upon arriving at Rockport the lorry quickly disgorged its load of khaki-clad, white-banded cadets, most of whom had some definite object in view. Derek and Kaye, however, being strangers to the place, were somewhat at a loose end.
"Where are you fellows going?" exclaimed a voice. Turning, the chums found Biggs overtaking them.
"Nowhere much," replied Derek. "We're going to walk back."
"That's good," ejaculated the captain of the team. "I'll come with you, if I may. Nothing like padding the hoof to keep a fellow fit. You play footer, of course."
"Not since I left school," replied Daventry.
"Where was that?" asked Biggs. "What's that? Full-back an' got your colours? Why, you're just the man I want! You'll jolly well have to train, and look mighty smart about it, young fellow."
"I'll think it over," said Derek guardedly.
"What's the objection?" asked the skipper pointedly.
"Since you ask me, it's like this," replied Daventry. "If a fellow's a good player he's often kept back solely on that account. I know a man in the army who's been knocking about in England ever since 1914, simply because he's a professional full-back. Footer's all very well, but I'm not here for that."
"Don't worry on that score, old bird," replied Biggs. "I'm keen on getting back to France myself, and I'll take jolly good care that I do as soon as I possibly can. So you can play with a good grace while you're here."
"In that case, count on me," decided Derek.
Still discussing footer, the three cadets made their way along the promenade until they reached the commencement of the cliff path. It was now about an hour before sunset. The air was calm, and, for the time of year, remarkably mild. Hardly a ripple disturbed the surface of the sea, although against the base of the cliffs the surf roared sullenly. Out of the little harbour the fishing-fleet was putting to sea, their dark-brown sails hanging limply from the yards. Almost sky-down were three or four tramp steamers leisurely plugging their way towards London river. Outwardly there were no indications that the nation was at war. Ships came and went, in spite of the vaunted submarine blockade. Many went and returned no more, but still the mercantile marine "carried on", hardly perturbed by losses through mines and German pirates.
"Do you know the road?" asked Biggs. "I don't."
"We looked up a map this afternoon," replied Kaye. "It seems simple enough. We strike inland at about a couple of miles from the outskirts of the town. Not much of a path, is it?"
"Shouldn't like to tackle it after dark," rejoined Derek. "I guess those coast-patrol fellows have a rotten time, especially in winter."
"A regular causeway," remarked Biggs, regarding the cliffs on either hand, for the path itself ran along the top of a "hog's back" formation. On the seaward side the cliffs were bold and precipitous. On the landward side they were lower, and showed signs of crumbling. Obviously, years ago, the existing marshes formed part of a large harbour, from which the sea had long since retired.
"By Jove! I don't like the look of this," exclaimed Biggs, coming to an abrupt halt. He indicated a chasm that completely cut through the ridge. Evidently it was of fairly-recent origin, for the rock showed bare and clean. Across the rift was a plank, about nine inches in width, forming the only means of communication with the opposite side.
"Hanged if I like the look of this stunt," observed Biggs, regarding the ten-feet gap with obvious misgivings.
"Plank's safe enough," rejoined Derek, and, putting his statement to the test, he crossed the narrow bridge without mishap. Kaye followed, and the two chums turned and waited for their companion to rejoin them.
"Come on, old son," exclaimed Kaye. "Don't keep us waiting all the evening."
"Sorry," admitted Biggs frankly, "I can't face it. I'll be sure to topple overboard—honest fact."
"Rot!" ejaculated Daventry incredulously.
"'Course it is," agreed the cadet. "Never could stick heights. Looking out of a window of a two-storied house makes me giddy."
Derek could see that Biggs was not trying to hoax him. The airman whose deeds in the air had already gained him no mean reputation, who could soar at a terrific height amidst a heavy fire from German antis, was unable to trust himself to cross that ten-feet gap.
"Jump it, then," suggested Kaye, and, setting the example, he leapt easily across the chasm. Even then Biggs, the airman-athlete, hung back.
"Can't make up my mind to try," he declared. "I feel an awful rotter, but I can't help it."
"Look here," suggested Derek. "I can see a path leading down the face of the cliff. Are you game to take it on? If so, we can climb up on both sides. It doesn't look very difficult."
Biggs still hesitated. Daventry, leaping across the gap, made his way to the place where the head of the natural steps began. There were signs that the path had been frequently used, possibly as a means of access to the sandy beach and caves at the foot of the cliffs.
Standing close to the edge of the cliffs (that headland attained a height of fifty or sixty feet), Derek surveyed the expanse of water beneath him. As he did so, he saw something that caused his heart to throb violently.
Drifting aimlessly with the tide, and at about a hundred yards from shore, was a waterlogged boat, with a crew of motionless and apparently inanimate seamen.
Attracted by Daventry's shout of horrified surprise, Kaye and Biggs came running up. They, too, stood stock still, filled with horror at the pitiable sight.
The boat was about eighteen feet in length, and of the whaler type usually carried on board tramp steamers. Only three or four inches of the stern and stern-posts showed above water, the gunwales amidships being flush with the surface, save when the waterlogged craft rolled sluggishly with the motion of the ground-swell. The topstrake was jagged and splintered, showing signs of having been riddled by gun-fire.
Lying inertly across the submerged thwart were four men, their heads rolling grotesquely from side to side with every motion of the boat. On the stern-sheets, and partly supported by their cork lifebelts, were two others, who appeared to be leaning against each other for mutual support. Whether they were alive or dead it was impossible for the three onlookers to determine.
"Come on!" shouted Biggs. "We'll have to get those fellows ashore or it will be too late."
Quite unmindful of his former lack of nerve, Biggs began to descend the cliff path—a performance highly hazardous compared with the crossing of the chasm. Quick to second him, Derek and Kaye followed his example, descending the slippery steps at a tremendous pace.
"You fellows hang on here," exclaimed Biggs. "If I want help I'll shout. You can do better on shore, I think. I'm going to swim off to her."
Feverishly the cadet threw off his tunic, unlaced his breeches and unrolled his puttees in record time, and kicked off his boots. In less than a minute he was ready for the plunge, during which interval the waterlogged craft had drifted a dozen yards farther along the beach.
The water felt horribly cold as Biggs waded in; it caused him to gasp violently. Then, settling down to a powerful breast-stroke, the cadet struck out in the direction of the derelict.
At length he came within arm's length of the boat. Grasping the gunwale, he sought to clamber in, but the craft, having very slight buoyancy, dipped as his weight bore on the side. Obviously there was no chance of rowing the boat to the shore, even if there were oars on board.
"I'll have to tow her," decided the swimmer. "It's a tough proposition; and isn't the water beastly nippy?"
Groping for the painter, Biggs started to swim shorewards. The waterlogged boat responded ungraciously—in fact, so slowly that the swimmer was beginning to doubt his powers of endurance.
"Stick it!" shouted Kaye encouragingly. "You're moving her. Shall we come out and give a hand?"
Biggs shook his head. He could not trust himself to shout a reply. He wanted every ounce of breath to carry him through the ordeal.
Yet he was obviously tiring. The numbing cold and the prolonged immersion were beginning to tell.
"By Jove! he'll never do it," exclaimed Derek, who had already removed his boots and tunic. "We'll have to go in after him."
Hurriedly the two chums threw off their clothes, and plunged in to the assistance of their comrade. They were only just in time, for although Biggs had succeeded in towing the boat to within twenty-five yards of the shore, he was on the point of being vanquished by the cold water.
Comparatively fresh, Derek assisted Biggs to the shore, then, returning, swam to the stern of the whaler, while Kaye struck out with the painter. Under the combined action the boat was moved slightly faster, and presently, to the cadets' intense satisfaction, her fore-foot grounded on the soft sand.
"Can't get her any higher," declared Derek breathlessly.
"Let's lift these fellows out."
This they did, only to find that four of the crew were dead. The remaining two were insensible, but showed signs that life was not yet extinct, although both were far gone through exposure.
Partly dressed, Biggs ascended the cliff path, and hastened back to Rockport for assistance, while Derek and Kaye, having tumbled into their clothes, proceeded to do their best to restore the two unconscious men to life.
"Look!" exclaimed Kaye, as they cut away a saturated jersey from the elder of the two men. "Dirty work here, by Jove!"
For in the bluish flesh of the sailor's shoulder were three small punctures—unmistakable indication of machine-gun fire. The other man had likewise been hit, a bullet having completely passed through his neck, and two more just above the knee.
Deftly the two cadets set about their task of restoring animation. Regardless of time, they worked in the rapidly-fading light, without any indication that their work was showing any signs of success.
In about an hour Biggs returned, accompanied by a doctor, a couple of policemen, a dozen sturdy fishermen, and a section of the Rockport ambulance workers. By the aid of ropes, the still unconscious men were hauled to the top of the cliffs and carried off on stretchers. With the help of plenty of strong and willing hands, the waterlogged whaler, with its ghastly contents, was dragged above high-water mark—a tell-tale record of the infamous activities of the modern Hun.
"There's nothing more for us to do," remarked Kaye, as the sad procession wended its way to the town.
"Isn't there?" rejoined Derek. "I think we'll sprint back to Rockport and catch the lorry."
"Sure," agreed the still benumbed Biggs. "That's the stunt."
Biggs was slightly at fault when he expressed his opinion that the cadets' share in the business was finished. There was a summons to attend the inquest on the four murdered seamen, a function that Derek and his companions voted a "dud stunt". However, it proved interesting, since the two survivors had recovered from their prolonged exposure, and, in spite of his wounds, one of them was able to attend the inquest.
It was a plain, unvarnished tale that he told. He described himself as mate of the s.s.Falling Star, a tramp of 250 tons, engaged in carrying general cargo to the French ports. Within twenty miles of the English coast theFalling Starwas attacked by a German aeroplane—a huge machine, painted a vivid yellow, and having, in addition to the usual black crosses, a representation of an eagle holding a skull in the claws.
The mate was quite emphatic, when cross-examined by a representative of the Admiralty, that the machine was not a seaplane. It made no attempt to alight on the water, but circled round the tramp for the best part of twenty minutes before administering thecoup de grâce. Unarmed, theFalling Starcould offer no resistance, and, as if gloating over its advantage, the Hun machine performed weird stunts above the tramp. Then, vol-planing down to within two hundred feet, the Boche dropped a heavy bomb that struck the ship fairly amidships, killing three and wounding seven members of the crew, including the whole of the engine-room staff.
TheFalling Starsank rapidly, so that there was barely time to lower away the only boat that had escaped serious damage from the explosion.
Into her crowded eleven men, who, thinking that they were fortunate in getting clear of the foundering vessel, began to pull for the distant shore. Alas for a vain hope! The Hun, flying in a comparatively small circle, deliberately machine-gunned the hapless boat until, satisfying himself that the fell work was accomplished, the German airman flew off, gloating over his gallant victory over another of the strafed Englander's merchantmen.
"Unless I'm very much mistaken," said Biggs, when the three cadets were on their way back to the aerodrome, "that low-down Boche is an old acquaintance. I remember back in '17 that a 'plane marked as described was causing us a great deal of trouble. The Boche's name was Count Hertz von Peilfell. Our fellows were particularly anxious to bring him down. He was a bold flyer, and not at all particular as to his manners and customs. He was up to all the dirtiest tricks imaginable, and, when he wasn't night-bombing over our lines, was wandering across this side of the Channel. He boasted that he had taken part in three raids on London, and had sunk at least half a dozen Allied merchantmen by means of bombs. We gave him a warm reception over Dunkirk, and that was the last time he put in an appearance as far as we knew. Perhaps he was resting and recuperating his jangled nerves. However, if this blighter is Von Peilfell, I hope I'll meet him again, and then let the better man win."
For the next few weeks the work at Averleigh aerodrome proceeded briskly and strenuously. Somewhat to his surprise and delight, Derek Daventry was passed out after a comparatively short course, and given his commission and appointed to a home counties flying-station.
Biggs, too, was able to discard the white band round his cap, and was promptly sent across to the Somme front; but Kaye was not so fortunate. Greatly to that worthy's disappointment, he was put back for another course, for reasons best known to the instructors at Averleigh T.D.S.
Torringham aerodrome, to which Derek was posted, was a comparatively new station situated somewhere in Essex. It formed part of the outer aerial defences of London, and had not yet received its full establishment. Probably a marked disinclination on the part of the Boche to tempt fate amid the aerial net defences and improved anti-aircraft batteries over and around the city was responsible for the fact that there were few opportunities for the Torringham pilots to distinguish themselves. Also, the growing superiority of British and Allied airmen on the Western Front, and the reprisal raids upon the Rhine towns, kept the Hun airmen pretty much occupied, and London, in consequence, enjoyed a period of security. Nevertheless there was always the possibility of a daring Boche attempting to sneak over the metropolis under cover of darkness, and the British airmen stationed around London had to be constantly on the alert.
It was on the eighth evening following Derek's arrival at Torringham that the period of comparative inaction was broken. There happened to be a dance in progress, to which the officers of the depot had been invited.
"I don't think I'll take it on, old man," replied Daventry in answer to a brother officer's suggestion. "I've quite a dozen letters to write, and I want to turn in early. Hope you'll have a good time."
So Derek sat in solitary state in the practically deserted ante-room while the revellers proceeded by motor to the scene of the festivities—a distance of nearly thirty miles.
"That's a good job done!" exclaimed Derek drowsily when the last of his correspondence was finished. "By Jove, it's nearly midnight! I'll sleep like a top to-night, unless the returning roysterers rout me out of my bed."
It seemed to the young officer as if he had not been asleep more than a couple of minutes when the electric light in his rooms was switched on and a hand grasped his shoulder.
"Turn out, you blighter!" exclaimed a voice, which Derek failed to recognize as that of the Officer of the Watch. "They're coming over!"
"Chuck it, old bird!" protested the still sleepy man. "If you want to rag anyone, try someone else."
"No kid," continued the O.W. "We've just had a telephone message through to say that a group of Gothas passed over Harwich five minutes ago making towards London. You're the only pilot left on the station, so you'll have to go up."
Derek leapt out of bed and hurriedly threw on his clothes. He was not at all charmed with the prospect, for Torringham lay considerably off the course usually followed by the Hun raiders. To be literally hauled out of bed in the small hours of the morning, and to ascend on a pitch-dark night without any degree of certainty of being within thirty miles of a Boche airman, seemed "hardly good enough".
By the time Derek arrived at the shed in which his Dromedary biplane was kept, he felt that much of his drowsiness had passed. It was a fair night, although slightly overcast. Occasionally the stars shone through the wide rifts in the vapour. There was little or no wind.
"All ready?" he asked of the Sergeant-Mechanic.
"All ready, sir," was the reply.
By sheer force of habit Daventry tested the controls, and assured himself that the petrol-tank was filled. Then, donning his flying-kit, he clambered into his seat.
Along the electrically-lighted ground the biplane ambled, and then rose magnificently into the night air. A moment later and the powerful arc-lamps were switched off, and the countryside beneath the rapidly-climbing 'bus was shrouded in utter darkness.
At six thousand feet Derek found that his sense of lassitude had completely vanished. The bracing coldness of the rarefied atmosphere acted more effectually than the best tonic prepared by human agency. More than once he realized that he was singing at the top of his voice, as if trying to outrival the terrific roar of the powerful motors.
He was now well above the stratum of clouds. Overhead the stars shone brilliantly. He was alone, rushing through space at a speed of ninety miles an hour.
"Goodness only knows why I'm up here," he reiterated. "Anyway, it's a jolly picnic. I'll cut out and see if anything's doing."
Accordingly, Daventry shut off the engine and began vol-planing as gently as possible. He listened intently for the roar of a hostile propeller above the swish of the air past struts and tension-wires.
"Thought so," he muttered, as he restarted the motor. "Nothin' doin'. I'm on a dud stunt. However, I'll carry on."
For the best part of an hour Derek continued his flight, describing huge figures-of-eight in order to keep in touch with the aerodrome. In vain he maintained a sharp look-out for any lurid bursts of flame on the distant horizon that would indicate that the Boche was setting to work, and that the anti-aircraft guns were giving the raiders a hot tonic.
He was on the point of discharging his signal-pistol in order to inform the aerodrome that he was about to make a landing when a dark, indistinct mass shot by a hundred feet below him, and then vanished in the darkness.
"By Jove! I wonder if that's a Fritz?" ejaculated the young pilot. "I'll try and find out."
Almost before the Dromedary began to rock in the eddies in the wake of the mysterious aeroplane Derek swung his 'bus round, banking steeply ere he steadied her on her course. A glance at the altimeter showed him that the height was eight thousand five hundred feet, quite enough manoeuvring space for the work in hand, provided he could find his quarry.
It was almost like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. Even taking into consideration the superior speed of the Dromedary, the initial start obtained by the Hun (supposing that Derek's surmise proved to be correct) and a slight divergence of courses would result in the two aeroplanes being separated by miles of darkness.
Still keenly on the alert, Derek held on, at the same time putting a tray of ammunition to each of the two Lewis guns, the heels of which were within a few inches of the pilot's face.
"I've missed the beggar," declared Daventry, after continuing the phantom pursuit for nearly a quarter of an hour. "Hard lines if the fellow were a Boche. I'll give myself another five minutes——By smoke! now what's that?"
Right ahead, but on a slightly-lower level, was something gaunt, indistinct, and moving. For a few seconds Derek could hardly credit his good fortune, thinking that in the stress and strain of the night-flight he was the victim of a hallucination. Another minute, however, removed all cause for doubt. It was a 'plane; more, it was a Boche, for the black crosses of infamy were discernible in the cold starlight.
The Dromedary was rocking in the tail-stream of the Hun machine. Gently Derek brought his 'bus up, until it was flying in comparatively still air. Eighty yards away was the Boche, flying serenely in blissful ignorance of the fact that a British machine was literally sitting on its tail.
Deliberately, and without the faintest compunction—for the night-raider had none when dropping his powerful bombs upon the civilian population of London and other cities and towns—Derek brought the sights of the right-hand gun to bear upon the back of the Hun pilot. A burst of vivid flashes, and the deed was done.
The German machine dipped abruptly, and dropped into a spinning nose-dive, while a long trail of reddish flames, terminating in a cloud of fire-tinged smoke, told its own tale. The petrol-tank had taken fire, and the doom of the raider was sealed. No amount of trickery would avail. It was impossible for Fritz to attempt his now well-known spin in the hope of deluding his antagonist, and then, by flattening out, get clear away. The fire had "put the hat" on that, even if the pilot had not been killed outright by the hail of Lewis-gun bullets.
"May as well see what happens," soliloquised Daventry. "So here goes!"
Diving almost vertically, he followed the visible track of the crashing Hun. With his feet braced firmly against the rudder-bar, and his head and shoulders well back, Derek maintained the plunge, ready at the first inkling of danger to either loop or flatten out. In spite of the terrific pace, the flaring debris of the vanquished Gotha was falling even faster, followed by a galaxy of falling embers.
Suddenly a blinding flash seemed to leap out of the darkness within a few yards of the diving Dromedary. Another and another followed in quick succession, and although the noise was drowned by the roar of the engine, Derek guessed instantly and rightly.
"Shrapnel, by smoke!" he exclaimed. "I'm being strafed by our own antis."
With a sudden jerk that would have spelt disaster had any of the struts and tension-wires been of faulty workmanship, the Dromedary checked her downward plunge in order to avoid the unpleasant attentions of "Archibald", while for the first time Derek became aware that he was in the concentrated and direct glare of half a dozen powerful searchlights.
"Why on earth can't the idiots see my distinguishing marks!" exclaimed Derek petulantly, forgetting that when a machine is diving steeply the planes present to an observer on the ground the appearance of two parallel lines. He groped for his Very's pistol in order to give the customary signal to show that it was a British aeroplane that was the object of the anti-aircraft gunners' attention, but in the steep nose-dive that important article had slid from its appointed place.
Rocking and pitching in the rudely-disturbed air, the Dromedary dodged and twisted, vainly attempting to elude the beams of the searchlights. Then, with a most disconcerting crash, a couple of struts were shattered like matchwood, and the next instant the 'bus, badly out of control, began to drop through the intervening thousand feet that separated her from the ground.
Derek prepared for a crash; sliding as far as possible under the cambered deck of the fuselage, he waited for the inevitable. The biplane on crashing would almost certainly land on her nose and turn completely over. It was possible to survive the impact, but the greatest danger lay in the possibility of the luckless pilot being hurled against the knife-like tension-wires, or having his head battered against the heels of the two machine-guns.
To Derek the biplane appeared to be dropping slowly, although actually very few seconds elapsed before the crash came. The anti-aircraft guns had ceased firing, either because the gunners knew that they had scored a hit, or else the altitude was too small to admit of the guns being fired without risk of doing great damage to the adjacent village. The concerted rays of the searchlights, however, continued to play upon the falling machine, until an intervening ridge masked them. There was a sudden transition from dazzling light to utter darkness—Derek realized that he was now but a few feet from the ground.
Crash!
As he expected, the machine struck nose first. The quivering fabric of the fuselage was suddenly checked, the change of direction causing Derek's knees to bend and hit hard against the deck. A blow like that of a gigantic sledge-hammer seemed to smite him betwixt the shoulder-blades.
Then, rearing, the fuselage toppled completely over, and the next instant Derek found himself being dragged down through icy-cold water.
Rendered well-nigh breathless by the shock of the water following the crash, Derek struggled feverishly to unbuckle the stiff leather belt that held him to the seat. Swallowing mouthfuls of water, until his lungs felt on the point of bursting under the asphyxiating strain, he at length succeeded in unfastening the buckle. Then, scrambling blindly, he endeavoured to extricate himself from the tangle of wreckage that, in his heated imagination, was encompassing him on every side. A severed tension-wire coiled itself round his left ankle. At the expense of his fleece-lined boot he succeeded in disengaging the sinuous embrace of the spring-like metal. Then, almost at his last gasp, the young officer resisted the temptation to struggle to the surface, but, diving under the upturned fuselage, he swam half a dozen strokes before attempting to rise.
Then, hardly able to withstand the numbing coldness of the water, he allowed himself to float to the surface.
Taking in copious draughts of the pure night-air, Derek floated impassively until the instinct of self-preservation urged him to make for the bank.
Silhouetted against the glare of the concealed searchlights were the figures of a score or more of men. Towards them the crashed pilot struck out feebly, until, to his unbounded relief, he saw two men plunging into the water to his assistance.
"Sorry, chum!" shouted a voice, as a pair of hands grasped him under the shoulders. "We thought you were a bloomin' Boche. You'll be all right in 'arf a mo'."
Derek could not reply. He was temporarily speechless, but he was heartily glad of the assistance of the men who had swum out to his aid. Then he was dimly conscious of his feet coming in contact with the muddy bottom and willing hands helping him up the steeply-rising bank.
His senses returning, Daventry was able to take a fairly-comprehensive view of the situation. He was standing on the edge of a large reservoir. In the centre, looming up in the reflected glare of the still fiercely-burning Gotha, was the tail of his trusty Dromedary, resembling an obelisk to commemorate the aerial encounter. A short distance away was a searchlight, its beams slowly sweeping the sky, while, standing out against the rays, was the gaunt muzzle of a heaven-directed anti-aircraft gun, ready for instant action. Round the weapon were the gunners, seemingly oblivious to the British pilot's presence, their whole attention centred upon the patch of luminosity that swung slowly to and fro across the murky sky. Other searchlights were also trained upwards in the hope of spotting yet other undesirable aerial visitors from Hunland.
A quarter of a mile away a red glow marked the spot where the Gotha had crashed, although the actual wreckage was hidden by a considerable concourse of people, both military and civilian, who signified their delight at the raider's downfall by prolonged and lusty cheers.
An anti-aircraft officer, his features partly hidden by the upturned collar of his "British warm", hurried up to the spot where Derek was standing.
"Sorry, old man!" he exclaimed apologetically. "I was responsible for bringing you down, I'm afraid. Didn't know that any of our machines were up. No telephone message came through to us. I hadn't a chance to distinguish the markings on your plane. Deuced sorry—very!"
"There's little harm done," replied Derek as well as his chattering teeth would allow. "My fault entirely. I ought to have——"
"No fear!" replied the anti-aircraft man. "My mistake absolutely. Here; it's no use arguing the point about responsibility. You're coming back to our mess and to get a fresh rig-out."
Up dashed a closed-in motor-car. Into this Derek was assisted, the battery captain accompanying him, and amid the cheers of the now dense crowd of sightseers the destroyer of the Gotha was borne away.
A hot bath and a change of clothing provided by willing hands quickly restored Derek to an almost normal condition—but not quite. Pardonably he was excited at the thought of having accomplished a good deed, but in reply to numerous congratulations he frankly stated that it was a piece of sheer good luck.
News of the destruction of the raider and the victor's crash into the reservoir had been promptly telephoned to Torringham aerodrome, and in reply came the curtly-official message:—
"From O.W. to Second-Lieutenant D. Daventry, R.A.F.—Await arrival of salvage-party. Forward report forthwith—Ack, ack, ack."
The last three words, be it understood, do not bear any relationship to the Teutonic "Hoch, hoch, hoch", but are the usual official way of indicating that a telegraphic or telephonic message is ended.
Generally speaking, the smaller the mess the more hospitably strangers are treated, and at Sisternbury there was no exception to the rule. Although the mess was composed of a captain, a lieutenant, and two subalterns only, the officers did everything they could for the comfort of the crashed pilot.
In spite of the fact that it was early morning and Derek had had very little sleep during the last twenty hours, the young officer tossed restlessly on his bed. The events of the midnight pursuit and its startling finish were photographed so vividly on his brain that he could not banish the mental vision of the Gotha streaming earthwards in flames. Then, just as Daventry was falling into a fitful slumber, he was awakened by a batman bringing him a large cup of hot, sugarless tea, with the announcement that it was eight o'clock and that the salvage-party had arrived.
The salvage-party consisted of a dozen air-mechanics and a couple of corporals and a sergeant, who had come from Torringham on a large R.A.F. lorry, but with them came an unofficial party made up of almost every officer not on duty and as many on duty who could furnish even the flimsiest pretext for joining the "joy-riders".
Having submitted to the many and varied congratulations and caustic remarks of his brother officers, Derek was taken to the spot where the Gotha crashed. Already sentries had been posted and a wire fence erected around the calcined debris of the huge aeroplane, for it was imperative that nothing should be disturbed until scientific and technical examinations had been made by qualified experts.
The motors had fallen with such force that they had made a hole five feet in depth. Thirty yards away were the battered remains of a machine-gun, while other debris had been discovered half a mile from the main wreckage. The Gotha had had a crew of five men, their corpses, horribly burnt and battered, being found at widely different distances. These had already been removed to be given a military funeral, for, notwithstanding the undoubtedly cowardly methods adopted by Hun raiders, the German airmen were acting under orders, and had met their fate in much the same way as soldiers on the field of battle.
As for the poor old Dromedary, it looked a pitiable object when removed from the reservoir. Never again would the battered object soar proudly through the air. As a fighting-machine its days were ended. Its fate, after the more important parts had been removed, was to be burnt.
"I think I can claim the old prop.," remarked Derek to a brother officer. "I'll get a clock fitted to it and send it home to my people. It will look all right in a hall, won't it?"
So the badly-chipped propeller was removed and placed in the lorry until it could be converted into a novel timepiece. Then, having seen the valuable portions of the crashed Dromedary safely in the huge petrol-drawn vehicle, Derek bade farewell to his newly-found friends of the Sisternbury Anti-aircraft Force and was motored back to Torringham.
It was a sort of triumphal progress, for the now thoroughly-excited officers, jubilant at the idea that the raider had fallen a victim to one of their depot, were "letting themselves go" with no uncertain voice.
With motor-horns adding to the din, and a tattoo of sticks beating the covers of the cars, the motor cavalcade swept into the aerodrome, where Derek, taking to his heels, fled precipitately to his quarters.
It was not long before the C.O. sent for the victorious pilot.
"In case you may be suffering from swelled head, Mr. Daventry," he remarked, at the conclusion of a congratulatory interview, "I think we'll have you posted for active service in France. That, I think, is a fitting reward, and I hope that you'll recognize that it is so. Meanwhile I must warn you that on no account must your name figure in the press. It is an unwritten law in the R.A.F. that individuality should be eliminated as far as possible, and the undoubted honour shared by the unit to which you belong."
Within a week Derek's orders to proceed across Channel came through. His field-kit was soon packed, and after a couple of days' leave Daventry found himself at Richborough,en routefor Dunkirk.
Contemplating a journey by the now famous Channel ferry, Derek was soon to learn how, at the very last moment, official plans are apt to be altered.
For some reason, possibly on account of information received of possible enemy action at sea, the train-boat was ordered to stand fast, while a telegraph message was received, ordering Second-Lieutenant Daventry to proceed to an aerodrome in Sussex, and to fly a large battleplane across to an aviation camp near Etaples.
"This is some luck," thought Derek; for the opportunity of flying across to France was one that he had yearned for; and, accordingly, he left his kit to be sent across by boat, and took train to the point of his aerial departure.
The battleplane was a brand new machine that had just been delivered from the manufacturers. It had gone through its trials, and, owing to the serious nature of the military situation on the Amiens front, was urgently required for the purpose of checking the Hun offensive.
Besides Derek as pilot, the machine carried a crew of four—observer, mechanic, and two gunners. With a wing-spread that far out-classed the celebrated Dromedary, and possessing motors of nearly twice the horse-power, the GV 7—such being the official designation of the biplane—was capable of a one-thousand-two-hundred-mile flight without having to alight for petrol.
It was, indeed, a formidable type of battleplane. Portions of the fuselage—especially the underside—were armoured with nickel steel sufficient to resist fragments of anti-air-craft shells, while ample protection was afforded to the crew. Short of a direct hit, or the smashing of a wing or tail, the machine was able to bear a severe gruelling without becominghors de combat. Being of an entirely novel and formidable type, it was considered to be far and away a match for any air-craft that, up to the present, the Hun possessed.
It was within two hours of sunset when Derek started on his maiden cross-Channel trip. A steady north, or following wind gave every indication of holding, while an almost cloudless sky betokened a continuance of fine weather.
With her full crew and equipment, the GV 7 "took-off" magnificently, the enormous fabric answering quickly to the controls. Compared with the old Dromedary, with its short wing-spread and stumpy fuselage, the battleplane was as a battleship is to a cruiser. There was an almost complete freedom from lack of space, which contributed in no small degree to comfort, although all controls were within easy distance of the pilot.
Before the machine was over the English coast, an altitude of seven thousand feet was attained. In the clear atmosphere, the low cliffs of France were clearly discernible. It seemed as if a small silvery streak of water—which to the ordinary traveller to the Continent is an object of dread—was a very negligible quantity. By air, Great Britain and France, one-time sworn foes, were to be united in a bond of mutually self-sacrificing friendship.
GV 7 proved herself to be an exceptionally rapid climber, rising at a steep angle without evincing any tendency towards side-splitting. As steady as a rock, she settled down to her flight across the silvery streak of the English Channel, and, although throttled down, her speed was not far short of ninety miles an hour.
Within five minutes of passing over the coastline, the observer called Derek's attention to a mere speck on the waters. By the N.C.O.'s manner, it was evident that something was amiss.
"Boche 'plane up to mischief, sir," reported the man by means of the voice-tube. "Steamer getting it hot, I fancy."
Without hesitation Daventry dived steeply, the men standing to their machine-guns and bomb-dropping gear. By the aid of glasses the speck, which was momentarily increasing in size, resolved itself into a large tramp steamer. She had just starboarded her helm in order to maintain a zigzag course, while clouds of smoke pouring from her funnels indicated that the engineers and stokehold staffs were hard at work in their efforts to shake off pursuit.