image: 04_rescue.jpg[Illustration: GV 7 TO THE RESCUE!]
"'Tis a Boche 'bus!" exclaimed the observer, as a circular cloud of white smoke shot up a few feet astern of the tramp. "By Jove, what a beauty!"
Whether the N.C.O. was in earnest, or merely speaking sarcastically of the Hun machine, Daventry could not determine. His attention was centred upon the darting form of a possible antagonist, who, as yet, was ignorant of the British biplane's presence. The Boche machine was remarkable for the unusual appearance of its wings, or rather non-appearance, for they were made of some sort of transparent fabric that rendered them almost invisible. It was only when the aeroplane banked steeply as she hovered over her intended victim that the rays of the setting sun, glinting on the tilted planes, revealed the presence of the V-shaped wings. Even the black cross was absent, as far as the planes were concerned, although they were painted on the top and sides of the fuselage. The elongated body was fancifully decorated in various colours, the whole resembling a freak machine that might, or might not, prove to be a tough customer.
"Wonder if it's Biggs's old pal, Count von Peilfell?" thought Derek. "It's not a seaplane, and the guy is a jolly long way from his base."
A thousand feet—five hundred—three hundred.
"Let him have it," signalled Derek.
The staccato of the Lewis guns mingled with the roar of the motors. Apparently taken completely by surprise, the Hun side-slipped, spun on one wing for several seconds, and then burst into a furnace of smoke and flame.
Boldly into the trailing smoke plunged GV 7, keenly in pursuit of the crippled and falling Hun. Half-blinded by the smoke, and choking from the pungent fumes, Derek held on, until a rapid glance at the altitude-gauge showed him that he was but a few feet above the sea.
Like a meteor, the British battleplane flattened out, and, emerging from the smoke, began to encircle the fiercely-burning wreckage on the sea. It was not until several minutes had elapsed that the vapour cleared, and Derek realized that he had been badly tricked.
The Hun, in diving, had thrown out a novel kind of smoke-bomb, and, surmising that the British biplane would dive in pursuit, the German had climbed to a terrific height, unnoticed by his too eager and credulous antagonist.
"We've been on a dud trail," muttered Derek disgustedly, and, glancing aloft, he saw the faint outlines of the Boche machine, looking much like a tadpole, scurrying home at a rapid pace. The advantage of altitude, and the intervening distance, rendered pursuit impracticable, and, reluctantly, Daventry had to recognize tactical defeat.
He had, however, saved the tramp steamer from destruction, and, since his orders were definite, he now had no option but to resume his flight for the battle-front. Nevertheless the wireless operator was busily employed reporting the presence and direction of a Hun to the aerial-patrol off Dunkirk, and, with luck, the strong Allied Air Squadron ought to be able to intercept the returning raider.
The tramp expressed her gratitude by giving a series of whoops on her siren, and, steadying on her course, headed towards a number of M.L.'s, which, called up by wireless, were hurrying to her aid.
The sun was still above the horizon when Derek "cut out" preparatory to descending at the aerodrome. Miles away the sky was stabbed by countless flashes that more than held their own against the glow of departing day, while the air reverberated with the roar of heavy guns. In spite of the volplaning air-craft's rush through the air, and the shriek of the wind, the ceaseless rumble was plainly audible. Ahead, right and left, as far as the eye could see, the lines of flashes continued. A big engagement, not merely a series of local operations, was in progress.
The Sergeant-Observer actually grinned in his officer's face, for there is such a thing as a companionship of the air that makes small beer of cast-iron methods of discipline.
"We're not too late, after all, sir," he exclaimed through the voice-tube. "They're going it hammer and tongs."
Making her distinctive signal, GV 7 circled around the landing-ground until the coast was clear, for there was much aerial activity in progress, machines rising and descending almost ceaselessly.
"All clear, sir!" reported one of the battleplane's crew, as a tri-coloured flare rose from the gathering shadows betwixt the hangars.
"Right-o!" rejoined Derek. "Down we go."
A succession of jerks announced that the battleplane had renewed acquaintance with the earth, although it was the first time as far as the soil of France was concerned.
Derek stood up in his "office" and pushed back his goggles. The scene that awaited him was very much like that of an aerodrome in England. There were mechanics hurrying towards him, while in a few moments a couple of flying-officers strolled up.
"New 'bus?" enquired one casually. "Just out? What's doing in town?"
Daventry did his best to reply to the widely-divergent questions, and dared to ask how things were going out there.
"Doing? Heaven only knows!" replied one of the two officers. "Apparently we're doing a sort of fox-trot backwards. 'T anyrate we've orders to pack up before morning. The Boche is, we understand, about twelve miles away, and during the last three days has been pushing on at three miles a day. Come along to the mess and see what's going."
The hut signified by the name of mess was the result of a poor attempt to turn an inadequate building into a dining- and living-room for hungry airmen. The furniture consisted of a few trestle-tables each covered with an army blanket of different shades. Long wooden stools contrasted with aggressive hardness with the dark browns and greys of the tables, while a solitary chair, resting insecurely on three legs, indicated the appointed place of the C.O. In one corner was a much-battered piano, a partly-reconstructed derelict from a now demolished château. The inevitable gramophone, which proclaimed in wheezy tones "The Parson's waiting for me and my Girl", occupied the top of the piano in partnership with a decrepit melodeon. The windows were heavily curtained with blankets, while the blue-washed walls were adorned with a vivid selection of Kirchner prints.
Curled up around the almost red-hot tortoise stove were some of the animals that are to be found in every well-ordered mess: three dogs and a large yellow-and-white cat, all serenely indifferent to a lively scrap between two lively young bloods who were settling an argument as to who should not pay for certain liquid refreshment. The rest of the mess were deriving exhilarating enjoyment from the friendly little bout, the din completely outvoicing the gramophone's announcement as to a certain padre's present occupation.
There were present between twenty or thirty officers. Some, just back from a desperate errand across the enemy's lines, were still wearing their yellow-leather flying-coats, and, while watching the struggle between two of their chums, were warming their benumbed hands at the stove. Others, about to fly, were similarly attired. Others, off duty for a very limited space of time, were rigged out in a medley of garments culminating in British warms and much-soiled trench-coats. All were smoking cigarettes of a brand known throughout the British army and Royal Air Force as "gaspers", and, judging from the buzz of conversation, their thoughts were far away from the war, despite the fact that the forefront of the much-advertised Hun offensive was now but a few miles off and was still advancing.
"Blow in!" was Derek's newly-found friend's invitation. "Blow in, and make yourself at home. Sling your gear over there,"—indicating a small mountain of thrown-off coats—"sorry there's no clothes-rack. Last time Jerry came over here dropping eggs our mess-room got it. We haven't replaced camp equipment yet. Hallo! No dinner ready yet? What's up with the messman this evening?"
Just then an orderly stepped briskly into the room, and, saluting, delivered a sealed envelope to a small, undersized youngster whose badges of rank proclaimed him to be a major. Although barely twenty-four this officer was a senior major, and wore across his right breast a double row of ribbons belonging to much-prized distinctions. In addition he had "put up" three wound-stripes.
Almost languidly the Major opened the envelope. It was about the fiftieth he had received that day. Then, dismissing the orderly, he strode across the room and pinned the contents to the notice-board.
"Urgent, you fellows!"
Bedlam ceased. The combatants broke away, and arm in arm joined in the throng around the board.
It was an order from the General Officer Commanding, briefly stating that the enemy was still advancing in force and the squadron was to attack by low-flying machine-gunnery. "It cannot be expected," concluded the order, "that this work can be performed without considerable loss."
Brief and to the point. The officers read it carefully. There was silence in the room. Everyone knew what the work entailed. Some, perhaps many of them now present, would go and not return. The already heavy casualty list of the R.A.F. would be greatly augmented.
"Some stunt this!" remarked a voice. "But I say; what's wrong with dinner? Ring the bell for that messman, somebody."
There was little rest for anyone that night. In spite of the outward show of levity every man realized more or less the gravity of the situation. Taking advantage of heavy mists that caused the deadly poison-gas to roll sullenly over the British lines, the Huns were pushing forward regardless of the cost. Their High Command knew perfectly well that it was a gambler's last throw. Failure meant a total and sudden crumpling up of the German Empire on all fronts. It was a despairing effort to aim a knock-out blow at the British, in the hope that it would result in a relaxation of the British navy's strangle-hold upon every subject of the Kaiser.
Yet, although from an Allied point of view the situation was serious, not for one moment did the British, from the Commander-in-Chief down to the latest-arrived Tommy, entertain any doubts as to the issue of the titanic conflict. We were going back, it was true, but sooner or later the pendulum would swing in the opposite direction, and the Hunnish hordes would either be smashed by Foch, or else driven pell-mell across the Rhine.
Already airmen were busily engaged in getting stores and material away. Rumours, often too true, were coming through of vast quantities of stores falling into the hands of the enemy, often owing to the blind confidence of those in charge in the ability of a comparatively few British troops to withstand ten or even twenty times their number.
Huge motor-lorries, piled high with material, rumbled away as fast as they could be loaded up. Wounded men, some "walking cases", others badly hit, were streaming towards the now perilously-advanced dressing-stations. Troops, both British and French, were arriving to succour their worn-out and harassed comrades, while, almost momentarily, night bombing-machines were either going to or returning from their destructive missions.
The flashes of countless guns and the lurid flares of abandoned ammunition-dumps and petrol-stores illuminated the misty sky, while the sodden earth trembled under the thunder of artillery-fire. At frequent intervals Hun bombing-'planes, soaring at great heights, fearful lest their careers might be cut short by the British machines, dropped bombs indiscriminately, the loud clatter of which was distinctly audible above the roar of the howitzers and heavies. It was an inferno into which men, who a few years ago never thought to handle a rifle and bayonet, plunged bravely and resolutely to give their lives for their country.
Realizing that Flanders and Northern France were Britain's bulwarks, and that should the Channel ports be lost the thorny problem of Ostend and Zeebrugge would be magnified a thousand-fold, every foot of ground was obstinately contested by the hard-pressed troops. Isolated battalions deliberately sacrificed themselves on this account, thus obtaining a temporary respite for their undaunted comrades, while in countless numbers fresh hordes of field-greys hurled themselves by day and night against the dauntless khaki lines.
Derek soon found the reason for his hasty flight to France. With hundreds of other airmen he had been sent across to assist in stemming the tide of Huns. Success or failure in the present struggle depended mainly upon superiority in the air. Not only did aerial combination mean that the enemy's concentration could be clearly observed—mists and fogs alone preventing—but his lines of communication could be constantly interrupted, while a new factor, low-altitude machine-gunning, was "putting the wind up" the German infantry in no half-hearted fashion.
The young pilot was told off to start at dawn. Provided with a series of aerial photographs of the enemy's positions, and also a map ruled off in squares and numbered and lettered, he was able to obtain a clear idea of the sub-sector over which he was to operate. So elaborate were the preparations that there was hardly a square yard of ground captured by the enemy that was not mapped out for particular attention by the R.A.F. By bomb and machine-gun fire the Huns were to be unmercifully galled—but at a cost.
With the first blush of dawn, when rosy tints glowing beyond the flame-tinged clouds of smoke betokened another wet day, GV 7, in company with others of her kind, was brought from the camouflaged hangar.
During the night her crew had snatched a few hours' sleep, the work of replenishing fuel and ammunition being entrusted to the air-mechanics and ground men. With her cylinders shedding enough castor oil to dose a battalion at full strength, and every part of her construction carefully tested, she stood ready to start upon her errand of death and destruction.
The air was "stiff" with machines as GV 7 began to climb steadily. Derek's whole attention for the time being was to avoid certain "unhealthy" spots where high-velocity shells from the British heavies screeched unceasingly. There were other shells which he might not be able to avoid—those coming from the opposite direction—for he knew that it was not an uncommon occurrence for a 'plane to get in the way of a high-velocity projectile and to vanish into fragments.
In the hollows wreaths of white mist still clung: danger-spots concealing swarms of German troops who had been rushed up under cover of night in spite of the terrific barrage of the guns and bombs from the British air-craft. A few miles beyond the irregular line of contesting foes a Hun sausage-balloon rose rapidly, swaying and jerking at the end of a two-thousand-feet length of wire. In less than three minutes it was spotted and brought down by a direct hit, while a second, in the act of ascending, was promptly hauled down to earth.
Suddenly GV 7 side-slipped, pitching violently in a tremendous air-current. A German eight-inch—a missile that arrived some seconds before its screech was heard—had passed within a few feet of the starboard longeron.
The observer turned and grinned at the nearest machine-gunner. It was his way of expressing the fact that they had had a very narrow shave. Derek, too, realised the danger, although his attention was mainly directed towards his task of piloting the battleplane. Occasionally checking his position by means of his map, he held on until it was time to dive to the attack.
Viewed from a height of three thousand feet the battlefield lost much of its sordid horror. The old trenches, overrun by the Allies some eighteen months previously, were barely discernible. Hardly anyone expected that they would again prove to be the scene of a sanguinary struggle. New shell-holes contrasted forcibly with the older craters, but of new defensive work there was little to be seen. So rapid had been the German onrush that the British on the defensive had but little time to reorganize. They contented themselves by holding desperately to every bit of cover, receiving and giving hard knocks in characteristic bull-dog fashion.
Miles behind the opposing line the air was thick with smoke from burning dumps and stores. Here and there were low mounds of rubble that once were prosperous villages, some others rebuilt only a few months previously to suffer again from an advance of the modern Hun. Here and there guns, scorning the use of camouflage, were firing with open sights at the dense field-grey masses, while farther back on both sides the heavies were exchanging tokens of mutual hate.
A streak of flame plunging earthwards within fifty yards of GV 7 attracted Derek's attention. One glance revealed the sad fact that a British biplane was crashing. He could see the concentric red, white, and blue circles as the doped canvas glinted in the ruddy light. A little beyond two British chaser-machines were climbing "all out" towards a patch of clouds where the Hun who had downed the unsuspecting biplane was "squatting" in fancied security. His dream of safety was soon to be rudely shattered, for the Boche 'plane stood as little chance as a rat when cornered by a trained terrier.
Just as Derek was preparing for a vol-plane, a Hun triplane dashed blindly athwart his path, followed by a British "Camel". The Boche evidently "had the wind up" horribly, for he made no attempt to use his after machine-gun, but merely dodged and banked stupidly in a forlorn attempt to shake off the pursuit. Then with ostrich-like tactics he attempted to fly under, and in the same direction as GV 7, regardless of the fact that the latter could "drop an egg" with unerring aim upon his broad expanse of planes.
Daventry let him severely alone, knowing that the Boche had all his work cut out to defend himself without a chance to fire upwards into the battleplane. It was against the ethics of aerial warfare to spoil another man's bag.
On came the Camel, her speed being only about five miles more than GV 7, although both were tearing through the air at more than a hundred miles an hour. Derek could see the hooded and goggled head of the machine-gunner as he bent over his sights. Then came a rapid burst of flame from the Lewis gun. Daventry looked over the side of the fuselage. The triplane, a litter of rents and fluttering canvas, was plunging earthwards.
Waving his arm in joyous congratulation to the victorious Camel, Derek turned, and began to swoop down upon his objective. As he did so he became aware that he was an object of attention from a particularly-aggressive anti-aircraft battery. The Huns had brought up several Archibalds, mounted on swift armoured-cars, and were doing their level best to counteract the demoralizing attack of the "air hussars".
Banking, Derek brought his machine out of the danger-zone, but not before the wings showed unpleasant signs of the accuracy of the Huns' aim. The rotten part of the business was that he was unable to locate the position of the antis. Right out in the open were several sky-directed guns surrounded by men, but Derek was becoming a wily bird. He knew that both men and guns were decoys, and that the actual battery was some hundreds of yards away and skilfully camouflaged. To fall into the error of attempting to wipe out the decoy would be an act of self-destruction.
A battalion in mass formation moving by the side of a straight stretch of canal afforded fair sport. Derek dived almost perpendicularly, with engines "all out" until within two hundred feet from the ground, then, flattening out, made straight for the head of the field-greys.
At the sight of this startling apparition the Boches were instantly thrown into a panic. They broke ranks and fled. Barred on the right by the canal, they were compelled to surge in a disorderly mob across absolutely open ground. Impeding each other, literally falling over one another, the wretched Boches were at the mercy of the swift battleplane. Machine-guns and bombs both took heavy toll, hardly a shot being fired in return.
Not once, but many times, did GV 7 swing round and return to the attack, until the thoroughly terrified survivors took refuge in isolated shell-holes until the immediate danger was past.
Then back to the almost deserted aerodrome Derek flew, replenished petrol and trays of ammunition, and returned to the fray. He was but one pilot of hundreds engaged upon the same errand. Truly the magnificent work was being accomplished at heavy cost, but temporarily at least the rush was stayed, and the much-harassed infantry—the troops who invariably bear the brunt of both attack and defence—were able to take breathing-space.
"We're holding the blighters all right, sir," reported the Wing-Commander to the General of the Division.
"Quite so," rejoined the other dryly. "Unfortunately, the line is bending both on our right and left flanks. 'Fraid we'll have to give the Boche a little more ground."
For three more days the retirement, under excessive pressure, continued; and during the whole of that time massed squadrons of air-craft were continuously in the air—bombing, machine-gunning, undertaking reconnaissance work, and altogether making things very uncomfortable for the Huns. But there were undoubted evidences that the greatly-advertised Boche offensive was slowing down. Already the advance through Noyon towards Paris was an admitted failure, and both British and French, assisted by small American forces, were preparing for the gigantic counter-attack. Fritz had shot his bolt and had missed his target.
The Flight-Sergeant surveyed GV 7 dispassionately. It was part of his job to condemn unserviceable machines, and the frequency of having to do it bored him.
"It's a wonder you got back, sir," he reported. "Why the motors didn't konk out puzzles me, and there's hardly a strut that's perfect. No, sir; I can't pass her. May as well set her on fire and have done with it."
And so GV 7, after a week of gallant and strenuous service, received her death-warrant. At the best of times the life of an aeroplane is a brief one, and in active-service conditions the wastage is simply astounding. Every machine must be of the very best workmanship possible and kept in perfect tune, otherwise it must be scrapped and replaced by another of the vast quantity turned out in the numerous air-craft factories at home.
Derek heard the mandate, against which there was no appeal, with genuine regret. In a few days he had gained an affection for his old 'bus, much as a cavalryman does for his charger. Nevertheless he realized that the verdict was a just one. He, too, could not help wondering how the badly-scarred biplane had brought down her crew in safety, for there were thirty-three holes in the wings and tail-planes and seven perforations of the fuselage, while most of the struts were chipped and several of the tension-wires severed.
Accordingly the motors were removed, together with the more important fittings. These towed to a safe distance, the doomed battleplane was set on fire. Her late pilot watched her burn. It was a sight that fascinated him. It was as though he had destroyed a favourite dog. He waited until nothing but a charred mass remained, and then made his way back to the newly-erected aerodrome—quite twenty miles farther back than the one abandoned on the night of his first flight across the enemy lines.
"I'll have to find the Equipment Officer," thought Derek, "and get him to let me have another 'bus. Wonder where his show is?"
Failing to find the desired officer, Derek turned to enquire of a goggled and leather-coated pilot who was literally smothered with grease and castor oil.
"Bless me, Daventry! Who on earth expected to run across you in this Johnny Horner hole?"
For some moments Derek stared at the apparition in perplexity, unable to recognize either the voice or its owner.
"Give it up!" he replied. "Hanged if I can fix you, George."
"What! Forgotten poor little Johnny Kaye! An' we vowed life-long friendship an' all that any-old-thing sort of tosh, old bean!"
The two pilots shook hands.
"I've been here a week on different stunts," continued Kaye. "They don't forget to work you here, by Jove! Not that I mind though. Derek, old man, I had the time of my life yesterday, when two Huns thought they had me cold. Led 'em a pretty dance, and finally persuaded them to collide. One Boche plopped fairly on top of my tail-plane, and I had cold feet pretty badly until I looped and let him slide off. The funny thing was that I hadn't a single round of ammunition left. How long have you been here? You were asking for the Equipment Officer, I believe. There's his show. Smithers is his name. He'll fix you up with anything you want, from a double-seater to a cotter-pin."
Linking arms with Kaye, Derek made his way by means of a duck-board track to the Nissen but wherein the Equipment Officer held court. Smithers was a grey-haired lieutenant of fifty, who, heart and soul devoted to his work, was obsessed by the idea that he was the one and only man who did any real work in the aerodrome.
"State your wants briefly," he began, before Derek could say a word. "I'm terribly busy."
Derek did so. The Equipment Officer consulted a board festooned with red, blue, and yellow tabs.
"A single-seater is all I can manage just at present. Suit? Good. EG 19's the bird. Mornin'."
Enquiries at the hangars showed that EG 19 had alighted, owing to slight engine defects, in a field at a distance of two miles from the aerodrome. That occurred three days previously, and the former pilot had been sent away to another squadron. Repairs had been effected, and the machine was now ready for flight.
"I'll take a tender," declared Derek. "Come along, old man, and keep me company. You can return in the tender, you know."
"Right-o!" agreed Kaye, divesting himself of his flying-coat and tossing it to an orderly. "Just as likely I'll tramp back after I've seen you started."
The tender, a covered-in Ford van, was soon forthcoming, and the two chums seated themselves under the canvas tilt. The view was strictly limited to the ground already covered, but this mattered little, since the two pilots had plenty to talk about.
The road was typically French. It ran in a straight line as far as the eye could see. In the centre was a strip ofpavé, interrupted at frequent intervals by shell-holes—some of recent origin, others filled in with material that was subsiding badly. On either side of thepavéwas nothing more nor less than a morass, the road being torn up by ceaseless heavy traffic. Bordering the highway on either hand were tall, leafless trees, many of them having been splintered and cut down by shell-fire.
Swinging along the mud-coveredpavéwas a battalion newly arrived from the base—men with shoulders hunched under the weight of their equipment. They were marching at ease—incongruous term. Most of them were smoking. Some were carrying their comrades' rifles in addition to their own. Others were tugging at their new equipment to ease the cutting strain upon their shoulders. Few, very few, were limping. It was not the fault of the army that they limped, for the army takes particular pains to equip the men with good marching-boots. It was the neglect of ordinary precautions that was punishing them.
They marched well notwithstanding. Weeks of hard training were apparent in the bearing of the Tommies, as, with tunics unbuttoned at the neck, revealing bronzed throats that blended with the sombre khaki uniforms, they moved along the highway at the regulation pace of three and a half miles an hour.
"Those fellows will give a good account of themselves, I guess," remarked Kaye. "Sometimes, old thing, I almost wish that I were in the infantry."
"They get all the kicks," rejoined Daventry. "Our guns start strafing the Boche. Boche gets angry and starts to shell back. Shell what? Not our guns so much as the poor beggars of infantry in the trenches. They always get it in the neck."
"All the same, I envy 'em," continued Kaye. "We don't get a chance of surging over the top in a yelling, cheering mob. That's life, if you like. Were you ever in the neighbourhood of Courcelette? If—— Hallo! What's this? A Boche?"
High over—three thousand feet—a large German biplane was circling as if looking for a quarry. The Hun was alone, for practically every available machine was up and away from the aerodrome. Either the hostile airman was engaged in taking aerial photographs of the "back areas", or else he had spotted the battalion moving slowly in column of route.
The troops were fully aware of the undesirable presence of the Boche airman, and now came a test of discipline. It was one of those occasions when a British soldier must not look danger in the face, for a quadruple line of upturned faces would be clearly visible to the Hun pilot, while the battalion might escape notice by keeping their heads bent down.
Derek and his companion remained perfectly still, taking doubtful cover under a gaunt tree. From where they stood they could watch practically the whole of the now motionless column. Officers and men, although tempted to see what was going on up above, were standing rigid, not knowing whether a bomb might scatter wounds and death amongst the compact crowd of troops.
"Good heavens!" whispered Derek, although there was not the slightest reason why he should have lowered his voice. "I believe Fritz has spotted the column. He's coming down to make sure."
"You're right, old man, I think," agreed Kaye. "There'll be an unholy mess of things in——"
Bang.
A violent concussion almost deafened the two airmen. It was only a paramount feeling that the Tommies might roar at them that prevented Derek and his companion from throwing themselves flat upon the ground. Turning, they heard the metallic clang of a breech-block being swung home, and were just in time to see the long pole-like chase of an anti-air-craft gun rise from a cleverly camouflaged pit not twenty yards from where they stood.
There was no need for a second shot. The shell from the "anti" burst with mathematical precision right in front of the black-crossed aeroplane, and the next instant the machine began to fall earthwards.
It was not until the enemy biplane crashed that the Tommies were aware of the turn of events, and a roar of cheering burst from eight hundred throats.
"Pretty shot that," remarked Kaye approvingly. "Hanged if I knew that there was an A.A. battery about here."
The appearance of half a dozen men wearing crested steel helmets helped to solve the problem. It was a French anti-air-craft gun, cunningly concealed in a camouflaged shell-hole, that had scored the direct hit, and the Frenchmen showed their delight with typical Gallic exuberance.
Within a few minutes the highway resumed its usual war-time aspect. The battalion moved on; horse and motor transport scurried to and fro; while a gang of Chinese coolies set to work to remove the debris of the crashed Hun machine, and to mend the hole in thepavéwhere the raider's bomb had fallen.
EG 19 was found at the indicated spot, the air-mechanics having completed the slight adjustments necessary for the machine to resume flight.
Derek examined his new steed critically. The biplane showed signs of being a "flyer" in the truest sense of the word. With a comparatively short fuselage and wing-spread, it looked a businesslike craft. Being a one-seater, the pilot had to do everything necessary when in flight, even to work the two automatic-guns, one of which was mounted in front of the "office", the other, for use when being pursued, was immediately in rear of the seat.
"Nice little 'bus," declared Kaye, as he helped his chum to don his leather coat. "I've had 'em, and know what they'll do. Well, good luck, old man. S'pose you'll get back to the aerodrome before me. Gadfathers! I guess we'll be on the same patrol to-morrow, and then there'll be dirty work at the cross-roads."
It was shortly after midnight that Derek was roused from his straw bed by the sounding of a tocsin-gong warning of the approach of hostile air-craft.
The young pilot received the intelligence without emotion. He was getting accustomed to being turned out at unearthly hours, and the regularity of the proceedings made him stiff, especially when, in nine cases out of ten, the Hun failed to put in an appearance.
With very few exceptions, the German airmen now rarely flew over the British lines during the hours of daylight. If they did, they generally paid dearly for their temerity, as frequently a whole squadron of chasers promptly pounced upon them. But at night there were opportunities, and the Boche was not slow in seizing them. Rising to an immense height above the aerodromes, they could glide, unseen and unheard, for miles, until they imagined that they had avoided the British air-patrols.
Consequently alarms were frequent, but in the darkness the Boche often went wide of his objective, unless that objective happened to be a hospital, the roof of which was marked at night by an illuminated Red Cross—a Red Cross to a Hun being like a red rag to a bull.
"'Nother of 'em," he muttered. "Getting fed up with dud calls. Jack, turn out, you lazy blighter!"
Kaye, who was fully dressed, with the exception of his boots, rolled heavily from his uncomfortable couch. In the dim light of a guttering candle he commenced to pull on his footgear, and took the opportunity to philosophize.
"Deuced queer how a fellow gets used to things in this jolly old war," he began. "Didn't know what it was to be wakened out of my beauty-sleep until some time in 1915. No wonder my thatch's getting a bit thin on top. And now, when a Boche is about dropping his rotten eggs, we grumble because it's a cold night and we have to turn out. Funny thing too: yesterday a Tommy came up and saluted, and asked if I remembered him. Wiry sort of chap, as hard as nails, smothered in mud, an' just off back to a rest camp. He was the pater's gardener, a fellow well over forty, who didn't know one end of a gun from t'other back in '14. Now he's a sergeant and a D.C.M. man, while his young brother, a hefty lout who used to weed the parson's garden when he wasn't poaching, has managed to get exemption as an engineer. Lord! after the war, won't there be a gulf between men and slackers?"
"One will feel sorry for the slackers. They won't be able to hold their heads up," remarked Derek.
"Not they," corrected Kaye, giving his bootlace a vicious tug. "They'll have whole skins and fat purses. The blighters who've done all the work and gone through all the danger will be back numbers when the war's over—if it's ever going to be over."
"I remember a school-chum of mine," continued Daventry, "Brown, by name; a fellow who hated sea-water like poison. Last I heard of him was that he was in command of an M.L.—they call M.L.'s Harry Tate's navy, I believe, but the men who run them are all O.K.—and he's been given the D.S.O. for some harum-scarum work off the Belgian coast. They are fond of putting square pegs into round holes in the services, but sometimes the edges of the pegs get worn down, and then they fit right enough. By Jove! That was a near one. Time we sought our little funk-hole."
A crash, followed by two others in quick succession, gave plenty of indication that Fritz was setting to work. Then the antis joined in the deafening roar, firing at a swiftly-moving object showing like a silvery gossamer in the rays of a searchlight.
It was less than fifty yards from the two chums' hut to the mouth of the dug-out, but during their deliberate and leisurely progress across the open ground Daventry and Kaye had an opportunity to observe some of the results of the raider's work.
A quarter of a mile away a fire was blazing fiercely. In that direction lay the hospital. Nearer, but in the opposite direction, was another but smaller blaze. A babel of excited voices could be heard between the crashes of the anti-air-craft guns and the explosion of the bombs.
"Chinks' quarters," remarked Kaye laconically.
"Yes; it'sthe Chinese compound," agreed Derek. "Pity the Boche didn't make a mistake and drop an egg into the barbed-wire enclosures to the right. There are about four hundred Prussians there, men of the lowest type of Hun I've ever met. Hallo! what's Fritz doing?"
Both officers stopped and gazed aloft. The German biplane was diving rapidly right into the eye of the searchlight. It was a deliberate move. The Hun was descending under perfect control, with his engine running all out, straight for the searchlight projector.
"Look alive, old man!" exclaimed Derek, gripping his chum by the arm and forcing him into the dug-out.
The two were only just in time, for as they descended the steps they could hear the rattle of a machine-gun and the splaying of hundreds of bullets upon the concrete.
Five minutes later the raid was over. The daring Hun had got away apparently untouched. Not only had he bombed the hospital, the Chinese compound, and part of the aerodrome, but by flying down the path of the searchlight and making good use of his machine-gun he had "wiped out" the entire crew of the searchlight itself.
While deprecating the wanton attack upon a Red Cross building in no mild terms, the R.A.F. men were not slow to praise the nerve and daring of the Boche, who, braving the Archibalds, had descended to within fifty feet of the ground in order to use his machine-gun with the deadliest results.
"Have a gasper?" asked Kaye, tendering a battered cigarette-case in which every dent had a story attached to it. "There's nothing like a cigarette when you've been turned out."
"Thanks, no," replied Derek. "Think I'll try a pipe before I turn in again. Wonder if there'll be any more stunts? Hope not, as I'm on patrol to-morrow—or to-day, rather," he added, glancing at his wristlet-watch.
A minute or so later Derek knocked the ashes from his pipe, dived between the blankets, and was fast asleep, as if a hostile bombing-raid was merely one of the side-shows of life.
Just as the first streaks of dawn stole across the eastern sky the airmen were turned out by another alarm. Officers and men doubled on to the parade-ground to the accompaniment of a regular fusillade of bombs detonating at no great distance away.
"No. 1 Flight—in fours—right—double march!"
No. 1 Flight, detailed for special duty, promptly hurried off, while the remaining flights were ordered to stand at ease.
The nature of the commotion was soon obvious. The Chinks, as the Chinese labourers are termed, were seeking revenge for the deaths of several of their fellow-countrymen during the raid. With true Oriental cunning and stealth they had raided a store containing live Mills's bombs, and, armed with these sinister weapons, had surrounded the barbed-wire enclosure where the German prisoners were caged.
Before the handful of sentries realized what was taking place a terrific fusillade of bombs was directed upon the cage, and the strafing was still in progress when the airmen arrived upon the scene.
It did not take the new arrivals long to restore order. The Chinamen, expostulating and explaining in their quaint "pidgin" English, were relieved of the few bombs that had not been thrown across the barbed wire, and were marched back under escort to their compound.
"Bochee-man him dropee bomb on Englishman," declared an old coolie imperturbably. "Englishman he dropee bomb on Bochee-man—can do. Bochee-man dropee bomb on Chinaman; him dropee bomb 'on Bochee-man—no can do."
The British overseer explained that the victims of the Chinese were prisoners of war and must be protected; to which the Chinamen replied that they, too, were in a compound enclosed by a wire fence.
"Hanged if I know how to answer that argument," explained the Englishman to a staff officer. "Evidently it's a case of reprisals. I don't know what's to be done, but there'll be a fine old row over the business."
There was no more rest for Derek after that. Returning to his quarters, he found that his batman had made his bed and tidied his room with a precision that one would hardly expect to find within a few miles of the front. There was also a steaming hot cup of tea ready; and a batman who attends to his master's personal comfort under adverse conditions is a priceless treasure.
Derek sipped his tea gratefully, washed, shaved, and prepared for the coming day's work.
At 10 a.m. Derek Daventry started off in EG 19 on patrol. Kaye, flying a machine of the same type, had risen five minutes earlier. According to instructions the two airmen were to make a reconnaissance above the important railway junction of Les Jumeaux, where the Huns were supposed to be detraining a number of tanks for the avowed purpose of holding up the British and French counter-advance.
Everywhere the Huns had been held. In certain sectors their line was cracking badly. There were evidences of a retreat on a large scale. Demoralization was sapping their ranks like a canker, while the morale of the Allies, never low in spite of reverses, was again on the rise. At the same time Fritz still had a certain amount of kick left in him. He might strive to stave off disaster by rallying the best of his badly-shaken troops and attempt another break through, in the hope that if the operation were successful he might be able to effect a possible peace by negotiation.
It was therefore necessary to keep a vigilant watch upon the Germans' back-areas, to observe any great concentration of troops or material, and to continue harassing his lines of communication; and the only way to do this was by means of that juvenile but virile branch of the service, the R.A.F.
That day machines were up in hundreds. The sky seemed stiff with biplanes and monoplanes, all bearing the distinctive red, white, and blue circles. Each machine had a definite object in view—a set task to perform.
On the other hand the Boche was chary of going aloft. Not a single black-cross machine crossed our lines. Even the famous Hun circuses kept well away from the scene, since Fritz recognized the Allied superiority in the air, and rarely, if ever, tried conclusions with superior numbers. Therein lies the difference. British and French airmen are sportsmen, ready to rush in whenever an opportunity offers, and scorning to decline a combat against heavy odds; German flyers are almost invariably cold-blooded, scientific men who calculate their chances deliberately before venturing to meet their aerial foes.
Keeping Kaye's 'bus in full view, for both airmen were bound for practically the same destination, Derek flew all out, passing over the German lines at less than two thousand feet. Not an Archibald greeted his appearance. Fritz was getting tired of being strafed, and was beginning to find that it paid better to lie doggo than to invite a few bombs or a hail of machine-gun fire from passing aeroplanes.
Steering partly by compass, and correcting his course by observation of prominent landmarks, Derek held on. Other 'buses passed and repassed—bombers, chasers, and reconnaissance machines—some of the pilots waving a greeting to the squat, businesslike EG 19.
It was a bright, sunny day, although here and there dark clouds drifted slowly across the sun. The ground beneath was honeycombed with shell-craters, and dotted with mounds that at one time, not so very long ago, were prosperous villages. A canal, almost dry owing to the destruction of the locks, cut the landscape in an unswerving straight line, while a network of railways, most of them constructed immediately after the big German offensive, spread like a gigantic cobweb as far as the eye could see.
There was plenty of smoke, for it was now the Huns' turn to set fire to their own ammunition-dumps, while at frequent intervals long-distance naval guns would drop their gigantic projectiles, that burst in a mighty cloud of black and orange-tinted smoke.
Viewed from the air, the scene of the mighty battle was tame. Distance hid the hideous and ghastly details, while in the pure atmosphere the indescribable but distinctive stenches from the field of carnage were not perceptible. If distance did not exactly lend enchantment to the view it certainly threw a kindly veil over most of its shortcomings.
Half an hour passed. Kaye's 'bus was still in sight. If anything, Derek was gaining on her, but in the air five minutes' start is a long one. The two biplanes were now practically alone, although a flight was visible at a great distance to the south-east.
The objective, Les Jumeaux junction, was now in sight, like a four-pointed star; for all around the converging railway lines were sheds and huts that were not in existence three months previously. That the spot was protected by anti-air-craft guns there could be little doubt, while Derek could see a huge sausage-balloon being rapidly hauled down—a sign that Fritz was aware of the approach of British 'planes.
Suddenly Kaye swerved from his course and held on in a southerly direction.
"Wonder what's happened to the old bean?" thought Derek. "He was making straight for the jolly old place, and now he's wandering off the track."
Fifteen seconds later Derek solved the mystery, for, approaching the British biplane, was a small monoplane of unmistakably Hun construction—one of the admitted failures of the German Air Service.
The Hun hesitated, banking and circling as if doubtful whether to meet the British craft or to seek safety in flight, while Kaye, all out, bore down to the attack.
"Kaye'll mop him up in a brace of shakes," declared Derek, as he too swung round. "I'll stand by and see the scrap."
Then, seized by an inspiration, he added, "Supposing Fritz has a card up his sleeve?"
Just then the German spun round on one wingtip and began to fly from his antagonist. Kaye's biplane was then about four hundred yards away from, and considerably higher than, the monoplane, and manoeuvring in order to pump a trayful of ammunition into the other's tail.
"Juggins!" ejaculated Derek; "he's let himself into a pretty hole. Properly tricked."
For out of a rift in the clouds, through which the brilliant sunshine poured dazzlingly, three large Hun triplanes swooped. It was an old trick, but Kaye looked like falling a victim to the ruse. His whole attention centred upon the monoplane, which was merely a decoy, he was quite ignorant of the presence of three machines that were waiting to pounce down upon the swallower of the aerial bait.
Derek began to climb, at the same time changing direction in an attempt to intercept the trio of Huns. Without a doubt they had spotted him, but contemptuous of the almost insignificant EG 19 they held on, with the evident intention of first strafing the pursuer of the decoy, and then "mopping up" the second British machine.
Suddenly the decoy, finding that Kaye was perilously close to his tail-plane, dived vertically. Kaye promptly followed suit, while the triplanes, owing to their dead-weight, hesitated to imitate the dangerous stunt.
For a good two thousand feet the Hun monoplane dropped like a plummet, with its engine all out and a long trail of vapour from its noisy exhaust. Then the Hun began a loop that finished him. Making too sharp a curve, the monoplane burst two of the most important tension-wires, and the next instant the wings folded like those of a resting butterfly.
Kaye, finding his antagonist crashing, flattened out, and, as he did so, became aware of the presence of the three triplanes and of his chum flying at full speed to intercept them.
Without hesitation Kaye joined in the fray. There was no loss of time, for the combatants were approaching an aggregate speed of well over two hundred and twenty miles an hour.
A mutual exchange of machine-gun fire produced no visible result, although several tracer-bullets passed perilously close to Kaye's 'bus. Then, banking steeply, the triplanes again endeavoured to close.
It was Derek's opportunity, and he seized it. Broadside on to two of the Huns, he let fly with his machine-gun. Down went one of the triplanes in flames, while the second, considerably damaged, rocked violently until the pilot succeeded in getting the machine again under control.
Fitting a fresh drum of ammunition, Derek again manoeuvred to renew the attack. As he swung round he saw, to his consternation, that Kaye's 'bus was falling, while long-drawn tongues of flame showed that his chum's machine was not only shot down, but that it was shot down in flames.
Filled with a blind rage, and eager to avenge his comrade, Derek dived steeply upon the triplane that had sent Kaye's 'bus on its headlong flight.
The German machine-gunner at the after gun was pumping in lead as fast as he could. Bullets, many of them of the tracer pattern, whizzed and screeched past the little British machine. A tension-wire snapped like a harp-string, one end cutting through Derek's flying-helmet and drawing blood from his forehead. He was dimly conscious of jagged rips in his leather coat, of rents in the planes, and particularly of a bullet cutting a deep groove in the three-ply decking of the fuselage. Then, just at the critical moment, the gun jammed badly.
Desperately Derek strove to rectify the defect, the 'bus meanwhile steering itself. Once he glanced up to see where his antagonist was. The triplane had vanished. Struck in a vital part a few seconds before the jamming of the British aeroplane's gun, the Hun was falling absolutely out of control.
To change over the two automatic-guns was a matter of a few moments; then, again fit for action, the biplane made towards the remaining Hun. The triplane, however, had had enough. With her powerful engines all out she incontinently fled from her much smaller antagonist.
Leaning over the side of the fuselage Derek looked earthwards. The ground was well-wooded, and apparently flat, although the pilot knew the deceptive aspect of undulating land when viewed from a height. Two columns of smoke, trending towards the west, marked the spots where the British and the Hun machines had descended in flames.
Vol-planing spirally, Derek kept a sharp look-out for signs of enemy occupation. He saw none. No Boches sent their obnoxious shrapnel-shells screeching through the air; no field-grey patrols opened fire with their rifles and machine-guns upon the now low-flying biplane. There were no signs of the civilian population. Thirty miles behind the battle-line Derek had struck a desolate and deserted patch of what had been, and was soon to be again, the soil of La Belle France.
The British and German machines had crashed within four hundred yards of each other. Which was which Daventry could not determine, for already the huge triplane and its small antagonist were little more than heaps of fiercely-burning debris.