An irresistible impulse prompted Derek to make a landing. It was something more than morbid curiosity or sentiment that made him do so. Why he knew not, but land he did, pancaking faultlessly in an untitled field covered with long, rank grass.
Scanning the immediate vicinity, and finding nothing of a suspicious character, Derek descended from his 'bus, and, automatic-pistol ready for instant action, made his way towards the nearest pyre.
Fifteen yards away was a battered corpse, lying in a hole three feet deep made by the terrific impact. By the colour of the flying-coat, in spite of its being badly burnt, Dick knew that it was not his chum's body. A short distance away, and almost hidden in the grass, were two more bodies, those of the Hun pilot and one of the machine-gunners.
While Derek was contemplating the wreckage, he saw someone approaching—a figure literally crawling on hands and knees.
It was Kaye. In spite of the blistered face, burned and battered coat—which was still smouldering—Derek recognized him. At full speed he ran towards him, thankful to find his comrade alive, and still more so to find that Kaye could both see and speak.
There was no time for questions. The sharp whine of a bullet, quickly followed by others, gave stern warning that a Hun patrol had arrived upon the scene. Derek could discern several field-grey figures advancing rapidly across the untilled fields, the nearmost being only eight hundred yards away. Grasping Kaye's arm, Derek ran. It was a case of discretion being the better part of valour. With bullets whizzing past their heads, the two pilots succeeded in reaching EG 19, through the planes of which the German missiles were cutting furrows in the doped canvas.
Assisting Kaye to mount the fuselage, and telling him to throw himself at full length in the wake of the pilot's seat, Derek swung the prop. The motor fired, faltered, and stopped. Advancing the spark at the risk of a back-fire, he made a second attempt—this time successfully.
Daventry rose across the wind. It was a precarious business, but, with a dozen Boches running with the wind, and only a short distance away, there was very little choice in the matter. Pursued by a fusillade of innocuous shots, the monoplane climbed rapidly and steeply to a height of two thousand feet.
A thump in the ribs made Derek turn his head. Kaye was hanging on with one hand and pointing to the only serviceable machine-gun with the other. Daventry understood: his companion was mutely proposing that they should return and give the Hun patrol a little lesson upon the folly of attempting to fire upon a serviceable British machine.
"Work it, then!" bawled Derek, and, putting the 'bus into a steep vol-plane, he made for the spot where the Huns, winded by their long run over heavy ground, were gathered in a tempting group in the open.
Directly the Boches saw that the biplane was descending in their direction they scattered. The field was dotted with grey-clad figures making a bolt for cover that did not exist.
"We've got 'em cold!" exclaimed Derek, as the machine, moving at will at a speed of over a hundred miles an hour, was directly above the heads of the terrified men, who at their best were not able to run at one-tenth the rate of the biplane. "Why the deuce isn't Kaye turning on the tap?"
He waited in vain to catch the rapid reports of the deadly weapon. The opportunity passed. EG 19 was beyond her quarry. To ensure opening fire, the biplane had to turn again to approach the panic-stricken Huns.
Derek glanced over his shoulder to find Kaye feverishly manipulating the mechanism of the gun. Like its fellow, the weapon had jammed at an awkward moment.
"'Pose some sort of good luck attends even Huns at times," he soliloquized. "There's one blessing, I've scared 'em stiff. Now for home."
He laughed to himself at the idea of calling the ramshackle collection of huts comprising the aerodrome as "home", then, putting the old 'bus up, he turned towards the British lines.
In spite of a load well above that for which it was constructed, the single-seater behaved magnificently. Derek took her up to nine thousand feet in order to cross the opposing lines at a fairly safe height, as far as danger from gun-fire from the ground was concerned.
Presently he caught sight of an object in the air at about a distance of two miles. It resembled an inverted bottle with a stumpy neck.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed, "if that's not a Hun with invisible wings I'm a Dutchman. Wonder if it's old Von Peilfell's 'bus? There was a rumour that the old brigand was buzzing around in this sector. And our guns are jammed, too."
Kaye also noticed the approaching aeroplane, and called Derek's attention to it. Just then the Hun, encountering an air-pocket, dived a couple of hundred feet, the sun glinting upon the transparent fabric of the broad wing-spread.
"Hun!" he bawled. "Von Peilfell's, for a dead cert."
Derek had to make up his mind. There was a choice between flight and pure bluff. He chose the latter.
The Hun and the British machines were on widely-converging courses. Already the lurid colourings on the former's fuselage were plainly visible. He was closing with the evident intention of taking stock of a possible opponent.
"I'll make him sit up," declared Derek, as he swung round and headed straight for the Hun.
Count von Peilfell—for it was he who piloted the gaudily-painted 'bus—at first made no effort to avoid a possible collision. It was not until Derek was within fifty yards that he dived steeply, and, looping, came up under the tail of the British biplane, a manoeuvre which Derek encountered by looping and practically sitting on his adversary's tail.
Thus both the British pilot and the Hun had a chance which they ought to have seized, but neither of them opened fire. Derek knew why he could not; his opposite number was in a similar plight.
For a space of four minutes the pair engaged in bluffing tactics, each trying to "put the wind up" the other by bearing down at full speed and then adroitly avoiding a disastrous collision.
Then the encounter fizzled out. British and Hun machines set off on parallel courses at a bare fifty yards apart, the respective crews laughing and gesticulating at each other as if mortal combat in the air was a thing unheard of.
"In working order!" shouted Kaye, tapping the rear machine-gun.
"Good!" yelled Derek in reply. "We've had enough of this joy-stunt. Let rip right aft."
Without a shadow of doubt the Hun, had he been similarly placed, would have fired a tray of ammunition straight at his opponent, but British airmen are made in a different mould. Even at critical moments the innate sporting instinct shows itself.
Directing the muzzle of the gun away from the tempting target afforded by the gaudily-hued Hun, Kaye let rip. For a moment Von Peilfell's face—or rather that portion of it not masked by his goggles—showed consternation and astonishment; then, realizing that the "fool Englander" was chivalrously throwing away a decided advantage, he gave a farewell wave with his gauntleted hand, banked, and was soon a mere speck in the sky.
Four minutes later EG 19 passed over the opposing lines, not a hostile air-craft being in sight, although five thousand to seven thousand feet below the air was "stiff" with 'planes bearing the distinctive red, white, and blue circles. Evidently Fritz was in for a very sticky time, to use a common service phrase.
A violent bump, followed by a succession of sideslips that well-nigh flung Kaye from his precarious perch, gave unpleasant warning that even at a height of nine thousand feet there are dangers from the ground. Ten, perhaps twelve, miles away a long-range naval gun was busily engaged in shelling the Boche back-areas, and a fifteen-inch shell approaching the zenith of its arc is no respecter of persons.
By the aid of his maps Derek succeeded in locating his position. He was a good twelve miles to the south-east of the aerodrome, which, considering the various side-shows connected with his patrol, was hardly to be wondered at.
Then, with less than a gallon of petrol on board, EG 19, despite her bullet-wounds and the weight of a passenger, made a good landing almost at the entrance to the hangar.
"Feel a bit rotten," admitted Kaye, as ready hands assisted him to the ground. "Not a bad stunt, was it? A sticky time, but——"
His voice trailed off into an indistinct murmur.
"Hang on to him, somebody," shouted Derek, leaping from his 'bus.
Supported by two other pilots Kaye was carried off, while Derek, knowing that all that could be done for his chum would be done, hastened to make his report to the Flight-Commander.
As soon as possible he made his way to the field-hospital where Kaye had been carried. The pilot was still unconscious, suffering from no less than three shrapnel-wounds, in addition to being severely burnt by the flaming petrol and shaken by his involuntary crash.
"Wonder if it will be a Blighty business?" thought Derek. "He'll be horribly sick about it if the war's over before he's out again. But, by Jove! it looks like it. We've got Fritz cold."
Fritz was now well on the homeward trail. He knew that the game was up, but, reluctant to give up the booty, was still maintaining a game of bluff. Forced back by relentless pressure on all fronts, deserted by her played-out allies, Germany was on the point of throwing up the sponge. She knew full well that Foch was ready to deliver a decisive blow and gain a victory the like of which the world has never seen. There remained a chance—to enter into an armistice with the victorious Allies. Better, from the Huns' point of view, to temporize, and be prepared to make sacrifices of territory and material, than to lose millions of fit men, who might, at no distant date, be available for the service of the Fatherland.
There were rumours of peace in the air. The British and French troops, although "fed up" with fighting, were loath to let their foes escape from the noose. After more than four years of strenuous warfare, enduring unheard-of discomforts and privations, they were reluctant to allow the Hun to temporize. They wanted a fight to the finish and to deliver a knock-out blow.
It was early in November that Derek Daventry, now a full lieutenant, R.A.F., was sent on detached duty to a flying-base situated nearly fifty kilometres behind the aerodrome occupied by his squadron.
The journey was to be performed by car. For certain reasons Derek was not allowed to fly in the still serviceable EG 19, one of the chief being that there were papers of a highly-confidential nature that were not to be delivered by air.
Seated in a high-powered car of a type that in pre-war days only a millionaire could afford to own, Derek set off. His driver, in civil life a racing-chauffeur on Brooklands track, was a man who knew his job, and revelled in the knowledge that no blue-coated policeman lurked in ambush on thepavéroads. True, there were the military police to take into consideration, but, except at cross-roads and in towns and villages, there was no speed-limit.
Jolting, bumping, sometimes leaping clear of the ground, and frequently swinging round corners with only two wheels touching and slithering over the ground, the car continued its mad, exhilarating pace. Speed-lust gripped both driver and passenger. The keen autumnal air acted like a tonic, while the long-forgotten experience, ground-travelling, where the sensation of speed is far greater than in flying at a height, filled Derek with an uncontrollable exuberance. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice; to urge the driver to even greater speed. He even detected himself in the act of waving airy greetings to pompous "brass hats" by the wayside.
In a very short space of time the car had cleared the maze of roads and huts and was speeding across a country devastated by war, and temporarily passed over by the contending forces. The landscape was pitted with waterlogged shell-holes and dotted with jagged stumps of trees, with an occasional gable-end to mark what was once a peaceful dwelling. Shrapnel-riddled Nissen huts, derelict tanks, and transport vehicles added to the desolation of the scene, the only human element being supplied by gangs of Chinese road-menders, while occasionally mechanically-propelled wagons and lorries of the supply column were encountered.
Happening to glance skyward, Derek saw that an aeroplane was passing overhead. There was nothing out of the ordinary in that; for months past the air had been stiff with air-craft, and hardly anyone troubled to crane his neck to watch one.
Derek gave a second look, and looked again, keeping his eyes fixed upon the descending biplane as far as the jolting and lurching of the car would permit. Then, leaning forward, he touched the driver on the shoulder.
"'Bus in difficulties," he shouted. "Slow down, and see what happens."
The speed of the car diminished. The biplane was vol-planing in short spirals immediately above. Evidently the engine had "konked out" and the pilot was seeking a suitable landing-ground.
Down came the machine, pancaking badly. Both tyres burst simultaneously with a loud report, while the tail rose in the air like a mute signal of distress.
Out of the pilot's seat clambered a figure dressed in the regulation outfit. Hardly troubling to examine the damage to his 'bus, he pushed up his fur-rimmed goggles, and, waving his arms, began to run towards the road with the intention of attracting the attention of the driver of the motor.
Derek gave orders to stop, and awaited the arrival of the pilot.
"Mornin', Jimmy," exclaimed the new-corner, on seeing that Derek wore the R.A.F. uniform. "Can you give me a lift as far as Le Tenetoir aerodrome?"
"That's where I'm bound for, old son," replied Derek. "What's wrong?"
"Run out of petrol. Union leaking, I fancy. Rotten old 'bus—never gave a fellow a chance. They are all alike, dash 'em."
"Jump in," interrupted Daventry brusquely. "I'm in a hurry. No, not here, in the front seat, if you please. Right-o!—full speed ahead, driver; let her rip!"
Derek leant back against the cushions, and, holding his precious dispatch-case with one hand, meditatively contemplated the castor-oil-stained back of the airman in front.
With a sudden jerk the car pulled up before the sentry at the entrance to Le Tenetoir aerodrome. It did the tyres no good, but the driver chose the lesser of two evils, since it was decidedly unhealthy to ignore a challenge in war-time, especially when a sentry is smart with his trigger-finger.
"Thanks, old bird!" exclaimed the pilot of the disabled machine, taking advantage of the car being at a standstill, and alighting agilely. "Good of you to bring me home, you blinking Samaritan. See you later in the mess. I'll be on the look-out for you."
Derek signed to the driver to keep the car stationary, then, when the stranger was out of earshot:
"Who is that officer, sentry?"
"Dunno, sir," replied the man. "We gets such a lot o' new officers 'ere it's no tellin' who's who."
"Thank you," replied the Lieutenant. "Carry on, driver."
Arriving at the orderly-room, Derek handed over his documents, and waited until the C. O. had drafted a reply and had passed it on to be typewritten. By the time the official reply was in order, nearly half an hour had gone.
This part of the business completed, Derek was free to commence his return journey. Instead, he strolled into the officers' mess, where he was not surprised to find that the man he had befriended was not present.
He looked round to see if he knew any of the crowd of flying-men. To his satisfaction he recognized a pilot who had been with him at Averleigh.
"Hallo, Canterbury!" he exclaimed. "So you're out here?"
"And well I know it, you old merchant," replied the Lieutenant, shaking Derek's hand. "Had quite a sticky time ever since I joined the squadron. Well, how goes it? Anything I can do?"
"Can you find me the Orderly Officer?" asked Daventry.
"Behold in me the Orderly dog," replied Canterbury, with mock obeisance. "For this day only—until next time. What is it?"
"You have a number of big bombers here?"
"Yes; a number," was the guarded reply.
"Where?"
Canterbury waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep.
"Out there," he answered. "But why this curiosity?"
"Look here, old man," said Derek earnestly. "You can vouch for me. I want to get hold of an armed party. I'll explain why as briefly as I can."
"By Jove! Is that so?" ejaculated Canterbury, when Derek had reported the details required to back up his request for an armed party. "Right-o! I'll turn out a crowd in half a shake. Wait till I've informed the 'Adjy.', and then we'll see what's to be done."
Lieutenant Canterbury was as good as his word. Having explained matters to the Adjutant, he led a file of airmen to the hangars, where the secret battleplanes were jealously hidden from prying eyes by an elaborate camouflage scheme.
At the first of the sheds, in which the giant machines assembled for the purpose of bombing Berlin were stored, the Orderly Officer halted his men.
"Carry on, Daventry," he said. "See if your merchant is knocking around. We'll stand by in case of an accident."
Derek's investigation of the first shed drew blank. As he was entering the second he came face to face with the flying-officer he had befriended.
"Hallo, George!" exclaimed the pilot of the disabled machine. "You're just the fellow I wanted to see. Hung around the mess for a deuce of a time, but it wasna poo."
"Better late than never," rejoined Derek. "We'll stroll back. S'pose you can spare the time?"
The officer hesitated. Then:
"Right-o! I'm on!" he exclaimed. "Can't stop very long, though. I'm on a special stunt with these bombers. By the way, do you happen to know——"
Derek laid his hand heavily upon the pilot's shoulder.
"Count von Peilfell," he said sternly, "I arrest you as a spy!"
Instantly the armed guard surrounded the prisoner.
"By Jove! This is great—absolutely!" he exclaimed, bursting into a roar of laughter. "Count who? You silly juggins, it's you who'll have to count, I guess! Quit fooling, and don't be a silly ass!"
The armed party showed signs of incredulous astonishment. Canterbury looked at Derek as if he had been one of the victims of a practical joke. Even Daventry began to wonder whether he, too, had made a grievous error in placing the stranger under arrest. Then he nodded to the Orderly Officer in a manner that showed confidence in his action.
"Carry on; remove the prisoner," ordered Lieutenant Canterbury.
The formalities before the Adjutant having been completed, the accused, still protesting that it was all an idiotic mistake, was removed to the guard-room. On being subjected to a strict search—which resulted in the discovery of nothing of an incriminating nature—the prisoner was informed that he would be given facilities for proving his identity, and that no doubt some of his brother officers would appear to establish his innocence.
Then, to the surprise of all present, the accused turned to Derek.
"You are very smart," he remarked in quite a casual way. "I am Count von Peilfell. I should like to know how you spotted me?"
"Considering that we were flying side by side a short while ago," replied Derek, "and you were making faces at me the whole time (perhaps you recollect the incident), I think I've good cause to recognize you again."
"Der Teufel!" ejaculated the Count. "It was a thousand pities that on that occasion my ammunition was expended."
"I am sorry to hear that," replied the British pilot enigmatically.
Count Hertz von Peilfell, on finding himself alone under lock and key, began to rave in genuine Teutonic style. He realized that he had made a mess of things generally. His calculated plans had gone wrong simply through a careless lack of caution, and now he was confronted by the prospect of ending his career in front of a British firing-squad.
The Count was a man who did not hesitate to take certain risks, but invariably he weighed up his chances. Cool and calculating, he was not one who would embark upon a project for the mere love of adventure.
His record as an airman was well known to the R.A.F. The latter admired his audacity, although they had no love for the means he employed. He was typical of the brute force of Prussianism—his mission as an airman was to destroy, ruthlessly and methodically, and, when the odds were against him, his gaudily-painted biplane was not to be seen aloft.
So when the time came that the Hun in the air was "having a sticky time all round", Von Peilfell discreetly kept clear of the British flying-men. He became an instructor, teaching German quirks to fly in machines that, by nature of the shortage of certain raw material in Hunland, could never hope to hold their own against the magnificently-constructed and powerfully-engined craft bearing the distinctive red, white, and blue concentric circles.
Then came rumours—rumours that were based upon solid facts—that the British and French airmen were bent upon reprisals for wanton night-bombing of undefended towns. Berlin was to be the supreme objective of the numerous squadrons of huge bombing-'planes that were being concentrated on the Western Front.
In desperation the German High Command called a conference, to which the "star" airmen of the Imperial Air Service were summoned. The return of the boomerang was a prospect that the apostles of kultur not only failed to appreciate, but dreaded. At all costs the peril must be staved off—either by counter-active measures or by hypocritical appeals to neutrals, or, as a last resource, by applying for an armistice.
It was Von Peilfell's chance. A popularity hunter, he knew that the cessation of his aerial achievements was rapidly placing him on the list of fallen idols. The pulse of the German populace—the picture-post-card dealers—told him this. Where once a hundred thousand photographs of the "Sky Hussars" were sold, now barely a thousandth part of that number were disposed of.
To regain his vanished prestige, the Count suggested a scheme, namely, that he should enter hostile territory disguised, and find out where these mysterious battleplanes were concentrating, and also note the details of their construction.
Von Peilfell had carefully counted the risk. He was a fluent speaker of English. His accent was almost faultless. Several years spent in England, including a period at a public school, had given him a remarkable insight into the life of an Englishman, while in pre-war days he had made the acquaintance of several British officers, with the sole view of making good use of the knowledge thus obtained when "Der Tag" dawned.
Having obtained official sanction, Von Peilfell proceeded to put his plan into execution. A slightly-damaged EG biplane had fallen behind the German lines, and its pilot had been captured. The machine was repaired; the Count, dressed in the complete uniform of the captured airman, set out just before daybreak to attempt his hazardous errand.
The German Head-quarters Staff knew exactly the aerodrome from whence the captured EG machine had come. The Count, therefore, decided to give that locality a wide berth, and, by assuming the rôle of a pilot who had lost his way and had been compelled to descend owing to engine failure, make his way to Le Tenetoir aerodrome, where, if his information proved correct, he would find the giant aeroplanes making ready for their flight to Berlin.
But when he alighted in view of the car carrying Lieutenant Derek Daventry, R.A.F., he unwittingly committed two grave errors. He was unaware that Derek, who was in the habit of piloting one of the somewhat small number of EG's, immediately took a keen professional interest in the apparently crippled machine. He was also ignorant of the fact that Derek was his antagonist on the occasion when both British and German pilots were unable to exchange a single shot; nor did he know that when he raised his goggles and grinned at his rival, that grimace had been indelibly printed upon Derek's memory. These two instances led to the Count finding himself under lock and key in a dug-out that served as a cell.
Like a caged bird Von Peilfell paced to and fro. He realized that his case was a desperate one, and that his shrift would be short; a drumhead court-martial at eight in the evening would be followed by execution at dawn.
For nearly an hour he maintained his restless promenade, a prey to dejection. The dug-out was barely twenty feet in length and seven in breadth, so that there was little room for exercise. He tried to formulate a plan of escape, but none seemed feasible. The place was unlighted, save by the dim glimmer of a candle set in a stable lantern. Ventilation was provided by means of a length of bent stove-pipe passing between two of the massive girders supporting the concreted and sand-bagged roof. The walls were heavily timbered, and, upon examination, found to be backed by cement. A flight of steep and narrow steps gave access to the open air, but at the top was a massive oaken door. Incidentally, the Huns who had constructed the dug-out, had removed the door of the Abbaye de Ste Marie, at Le Tenetoir, to serve a similar purpose for this subterranean retreat.
The heat was stifling, for, outside, the autumnal air was damp and humid. Von Peilfell began to feel oppressed by the weight of the leather flying-coat. Mechanically he unbuckled the straps, and threw the garment on the wooden bench that served as a seat and a bed. As he did so his eye caught sight of a glint of scarlet. The lawful owner of the flying-coat had been guilty of a breach of discipline by investing in several red-silk handkerchiefs, whereas, by virtue of an Air Ministry order, he should have provided himself with those of a khaki colour.
The Count consulted his wristlet watch—a Nurnberg timepiece studded with jewels. It was a gift from a number of his admirers when he was at the zenith of his fame. He found himself wondering why his captors had not taken it from him. The Germans invariably plundered their captives. Perhaps these Englanders would not do so until he was dead. He shivered at the thought. In another eight hours all would be over.
Then his thoughts went back to the square of scarlet silk. Even as he gazed dully at the sheeny fabric an inspiration flashed across his mind. He glanced at his watch once more. In another ten minutes or so he would be visited either by the Sergeant or the Corporal of the guard.
Grasping the handkerchief, he tore the silk into ragged strips. His next step was to place the lantern on the edge of the plank-bed, so that the strongest possible light fell on the floor. Then, holding the torn handkerchief, he waited, every sense on the alert, ready to act the moment he heard sounds of the visiting guard.
The remaining interval seemed interminable. Through the securely-fastened door he could hear the howling of the wind. It ought to have been a bright moonlight night, for, according to the calendar, it was the time of full moon. He hoped that the shrieking, moaning wind meant a cloud-laden sky and also a downpour of rain.
Selecting four of the strongest strips of silk, Von Peilfell knotted them into a long loop. This he hid behind the bench, reflecting that if his first plan went astray there was material at hand to enable him to cheat the firing-squad. He found himself wondering which was the least painful course—for he was a coward when it came to having pain inflicted on himself—to face the muzzles of a dozen rifles, or to end his own life by strangulation.
His reflections were interrupted by the tramp of heavily-shod feet. The visiting N.C.O. was about to enter the dug-out.
Noiselessly the Count placed himself on the earthern floor, and laid a bright-scarlet strip of silk round his throat. Then with outstretched arms he waited, scarce daring to breathe.
A key grated in the door. The oak, swollen by the wet, refused at the first attempt to yield to the Corporal's efforts. Von Peilfell heard the man swear at the recalcitrant door. Then, with a groaning noise, the door swung open on its rusty hinges. "Where the——" ejaculated the Corporal; then, turning to the two men who accompanied him, he shouted excitedly:
"The Boche 'as cut his bloomin' throat! Run, you blokes, for all you're worth, and fetch the doctor."
The men obeyed promptly, while the Corporal, setting his lantern on the floor, approached to examine the prostrate form of the prisoner. It was an act of mere curiosity on his part. The N.C.O., who less than twelve months ago was a meek and mild grocer in a quiet country town, had seen plenty of ghastly sights during the last six months. The mere sight of a dead Hun hardly troubled him. Without a tremor he bent over the supposed corpse.
Judging that by this time the two men were a hundred yards or more away, Von Peilfell took prompt action. Before the Corporal realized that there was plenty of energy in the "dead" man, the Count drew up his knee, and, launching out with his right foot, caught the luckless N.C.O. a knock-out blow on the solar plexus.
Without a sound the Corporal collapsed upon the floor; while the Hun, waiting only to place his victim's cap upon his head, ran stealthily up the steps leading to the entrance to the dug-out.
Even as he ran the Count, in a typically Prussian manner, regretted that he was wearing rubber-soled flying-boots. Iron-shod footgear, he reflected, would have been more effective when he hacked at the luckless Corporal. In order to carry out a test effectually, it was necessary to do it brutally. That is the Hun method of thoroughness.
Through the open door of the dug-out and into the darkness Von Peilfell ran. Dazzled, even by the comparatively-feeble light within, he could hardly see his hand before his face in the rain-laden, inky blackness without. He paused, fearful lest he should blunder blindly into some obstacle, and rubbed his eyes vigorously with his knuckles. Then, pulling his recently-acquired cap well down over his bullet head, he settled down to a rapid walk.
It had been part of his training always to take stock of his surroundings, and the knowledge thus obtained when a few hours previously he had walked into Le Tenetoir aerodrome was now of inestimable service. Carefully avoiding the sentry of the gate, and crawling through a barbed-wire fence, he gained the open, devastated country, for the time being a free man again. But between him and the German lines lay fifty miles of ground firmly held by the victorious Allies.
For the second time within twelve hours Derek Daventry made a journey by car to Le Tenetoir aerodrome. On the second occasion it was to give evidence against the airman-spy Count Hertz von Peilfell; but upon arriving at his destination he found that the court-martial had been summoned to no purpose. The prisoner had escaped, and, although his description had been circulated all along the Allied front and over the back-areas, the Count was still at large.
Amongst the British airmen the general tone of expression was one of sympathy—as far as sympathy could be extended to a Hun. Von Peilfell was a crack airman; his rôle of spy was quite in accordance with modern warfare, for both British and French air-craft had frequently landed spies well behind the German lines. It was almost unanimously felt that, if Count von Peilfell were to fall, a fitting end to him would be in aerial combat. If he fell on territory occupied by the Allies he would be buried with full military honours; if on soil temporarily held by the Huns, then a British aeroplane would doubtless circle over the funeral-party and drop a wreath bearing a tribute to the crack Hun flyer's prowess.
But sterner work was on hand. It was a carefully-kept secret that at dawn on the next day following the spy's escape a frontal attack was to be delivered upon the Huns, still holding a strongly-fortified section of the line—a front of twenty miles, protected on both flanks by broad canals, and defended by mazes of trenches and barbed-wire entanglements.
Once this section were pierced, the whole German line would be in danger. Army corps would be practically surrounded and forced to surrender, while a broad wedge would be driven between the Huns in Flanders and those who were stoutly resisting the Franco-American troops in the neighbourhood of Metz.
An infantry attack would be too costly. Heavy artillery bombardment would give the Boches an inkling of what was about to develop. On this account the British guns had of late remained comparatively inactive, in order to lull Fritz into a state of false security.
So the assault was to be delivered by tanks, supported by relatively small detachments of infantry, while the R.A. F. were ordered to co-operate to their utmost capacity. Every available machine fit for offensive work was to be employed in the operations, the idea being not only to paralyse the Huns in the firing-line, but to prevent reinforcements and supplies reaching them. In brief, the whole of a certain German sector was to be wiped out.
At five in the morning, or two hours before dawn, the tanks were to start upon their grim errand. Every square foot of ground occupied by the enemy in the coveted sector had been photographed and re-photographed by daring airmen. The work had been efficiently performed, but at a cost, as the long R.A.F. casualty list testified. It was not in the heat of combat that these daring aerial photographers had been shot down, but in the cold, methodical pursuit of an art that the demands of modern warfare had relentlessly absorbed.
With an accurate knowledge of the nature of the terrain the task of the tanks had been rendered fairly straightforward. There were, of course, hidden pitfalls which the almost all-seeing lens of the camera failed to detect: cleverly-camouflaged gun-emplacements and nests of machine-guns that were not shown on the finished photograph-prints; but even here the work of the airman was evident. Cryptic markings on the prints gave the staff officers certain clues—an anti-aircraft battery here; a booby-trap there, an observation-post in that place. The science of detecting screened pitfalls was almost as perfect as the skilful art of camouflage.
There were tanks and tanks. The ground trembled under the pulsations of their powerful engines. Whippets, male tanks, female tanks, "Rolls" tanks capable of doing twenty miles an hour with their 250-h.p. engines; tanks mounting six hundred quick-firers, tanks bristling with machine-guns—a veritable armada of land-ships moving forward in what appeared to be a solid, compact mass.
They moved slowly at first, each section led by an officer on foot towards the as yet invisible German lines. There had been a spell of quietude on this part of the front of late. The Huns considered their defensive works so perfect that a frontal attack would be impossible, and, being let severely alone, they had refrained from their usual lavish display of star-shells.
Grunting, groaning, coughing; ejecting vile, sulphurous fumes from their noisy exhausts, the steel-clad mastodons ambled onwards until Fritz, suddenly aware that danger was at hand, opened a furious fire that threw a dancing, lurid glare upon the crater-pitted plain over which the hordes of tanks surged like a sullen ground-swell beating upon a flat shore. Vivid red and white rockets—Fritz's S.O.S. signals—soared skywards, an appeal by the field-grey infantry for support from their heavy artillery.
It was at this juncture that Derek Daventry, one of the host of aerial fighters, found himself flying at a few hundred feet above the Boche lines.
In the reflected glare of the rifle- and machine-gun fire he could discern the array of tanks advancing. The slow-moving tanks were in the van, theirraison d'êtreto flatten down the hostile wire and pave a way for the whippets and "twenty-milers" of the land-fleet. Machine-gun bullets were rattling against their armoured snouts, while here and there bursts of vivid-red flame gave token that the anti-tank bullets—steel-cored and copper-encased missiles—had put more than one tank out of action.
All this Derek took in as the result of a few seconds' flight. Then, over the hostile front, his work began. In darkness, save for the intermittent flashes of the guns, the British 'planes sped to and fro. Unavoidable collisions brought friends crashing to earth; oft-times the machines were flying blindly through clouds of black, nauseating smoke. Rocking, side-slipping, bumping, and banking, the aerial-fleet continued its work in hammering with the land-armada of tanks. Machine-gunning, bombing, and dropping poison-gas cylinders, the airmen hovered remorselessly over the now-demoralized Boches, while the tanks, surging onwards, beat down acres of barbed-wire and flattened out whole sectors of trenches.
Derek had just fired his ninth tray of ammunition when he felt the joy-stick give. A fragment of shell had severed the "nerve-centre" of the biplane, and the 'bus was now practically out of control. A touch upon the rudder-bar turned EG 19 in the direction of "home", but almost immediately the engine "konked". In the darkness it was impossible to see what had happened, but another fragment of shell had lodged fairly in the magneto.
EG 19 had to come down. How she came down depended upon sheer luck, since the skill and nerve of the pilot were useless to avoid the threatened calamity.
Derek steeled himself to meet the tremendous crash, but the shock never came. By one of those eccentricities of movement that aerial-craft occasionally perform, the biplane flattened out within twenty feet of the ground, dipped her nose, and then pancaked upon the shelving side of a large shell-crater. Without a scratch the pilot scrambled out of the fuselage and gained the ground.
He promptly threw himself at full length in the stiff mud that lay in the bottom of the crater, and listened to the appalling racket overhead. Shells of light calibre were screeching and bursting all around, their uproar punctuated by the heavier concussion of aerial-bombs. A crescendo of machine-gun fire added to the deafening roar, while the hail of bullets directed upon the imperturbable tanks sounded like a continuous tattoo.
Almost on the lip of the crater a large tank had come to a standstill. Two jagged holes in her fantastically-painted sides showed that a Hun anti-tank gun had scored direct hits, but whether these had put the mobile fort out of action Derek was unable to determine.
While debating whether it would be safer to take cover under the lee of the tank or to remain in the doubtful security of a wide shell-crater, Daventry saw the door in the wake of the tank's sponson thrown open, and a couple of mechanics crawl through, followed by a waft of brownish smoke.
At first sight the flying-officer imagined that the men were the sole survivors of the land-ship's crew, but he was mistaken. It was a case of engine failure that had brought the tank to a halt, and since the only means of "cranking-up" was performed from without, the mechanics were risking death in the open in a laudable effort to restart the motors.
Even as the men strained frantically at the handle a shell burst within five yards of the tank. One of the mechanics, caught by the direct blast of the explosion, was wiped out of existence; the other, by one of those inexplicable freaks of fortune, escaped with only a slight shock. Although only a few inches from his luckless comrade he was evidently in the so-called safety-zone of explosion. Slightly dazed, and apparently oblivious of the fact that he had missed death by inches, he sweated at the cranking-handle in a vain attempt to overcome the compression.
Acting purely upon impulse, and not taking into account the risk, Derek scrambled up the loose mound of earth, against which bullets were burying themselves with a succession of dull thuds. Then across the few yards of open ground he ran, and threw himself at the starting-gear.
The mechanic took no notice of the new arrival. His whole mind was set upon his task. Even had Derek been a Boche it is doubtful whether the man would have given him a thought.
"Hold out there, mate!" shouted the mechanic, without raising his head. Derek grasped the cranking-handle. The other, placing his foot upon the metal, brought his whole weight down. Over swung the crank, and with a thunderous roar the powerful motor fired—and continued to do so. Through the eddying fumes Daventry could discern the mechanic, with hunched shoulders, stumbling towards the still open door.
"This is a stunt that will suit me," exclaimed the young officer. "A change is as good as a rest." The next thing he remembered was barking his shins on the sharp, metallic edge of the threshold. Then, coughing and spluttering in the petrol-laden fumes, he heard the door clang behind him.
The interior of a tank was not strange to Derek. Several times previously he had gone for joy-rides in the land-ships, but now he was experiencing a novel sensation, that of being cooped up in a mobile armoured fort in action.
There was very little room to move about. Most of the interior was occupied by the powerful motors and fuel-tanks, six-pounder guns mounteden barbette, and machine-guns, to say nothing of fifteen men of the original crew. The tank was in reality a moving magazine, for, in addition to the large quantity of petrol and ammunition, she carried a stock of phosphorous-bombs, smoke-bombs, and gun-cotton. The latter explosive was for use in the event of the tank becoming disabled and in danger of falling into the hands of the enemy, and it was the duty of the last surviving member of the crew to blow the land-ship to bits should there be a danger of capture.
Derek, not content to be a mere passenger, looked around for something to do. The commander of the tank was too busy to notice the new arrival. His sole attention was directed towards the enemy through the periscope sights in the roof of the mastodon.
An unattended machine-gun attracted Derek's notice. A brief examination showed that the mechanism was intact. There was ammunition in plenty. A neatly-punched hole just above the sighting-aperture told its own tale. An anti-tank bullet had passed through the armour, and had hit the machine-gunner fairly in the centre of his forehead.
The tank was now lurching forward. Machine-gun bullets were splaying against its nose and sides. Fragments of nickel were forcing their way through the joints in the metallic beast's armour, and a sliver, cutting Derek in the cheek, gave him warning that he was not properly equipped for the task.
Discarding his triplex glass goggles he donned a "tin hat" and steel visor that were lying on the floor. They had been the property of the dead machine-gunner, and had he been wearing them it is just possible that the anti-tank bullet that had laid him out might have glanced from the convex surface of the steel helmet.
By this time the tank had skirted the edge of the crater and was bearing down upon a nest of Hun machine-guns. Even as it passed what appeared to be a pile of rubble an anti-tank gun was fired at a range of less than forty yards.
Derek felt the windage of the missile as it passed completely through the armoured sides. Fragments of copper and steel rattled against his visor.
Bending over the sights of his machine-gun, Derek prepared to deluge the concealed Huns under a hail of nickel, but before he could open fire the tank made a half-turn almost in its own length and went straight for the snipers' lair.
The Huns saw it coming and promptly bolted. They had but two choices: one was to hold their ground and risk being pulverized under the banded wheels of the tank; the other to risk being shot down in the open. Bending low they ran. Few covered more than twenty yards, for the British machine-gunners were taking a heavy toll. Enfiladed by other tanks, the anti-tank gunners were completely wiped out with less compunction than if they had been rabbits in a warren.
Then, swinging back into line, the tank in which Derek had "signed on" as an unofficial member of the crew pressed forward towards another belt of almost intact wire, against which hundreds of demoralized Boches were held up in their precipitate retreat.
On breasting the ridge the armada was greeted by a heavy fire at short range. Several tanks came to an abrupt halt, burning fiercely from end to end. Others, regardless of a heavy fire, held resolutely on their course, methodically flattening out obstacles and crushing Boche machine-gunners out of existence.
Suddenly an anti-tank bullet passed through the forepart of the tank on which Derek was busily engaged with his machine-gun. The steel core passed through the head of the pilot, glanced from a metal girder, and penetrated the chest of the Commander. Not content with this, the deadly missile pulverized the magneto and disappeared through the floor of the tank.
Promptly the huge land-fort came to a standstill. To all appearances its term of life was approaching its end. Flames began to issue from one of the carburettors. In another moment the tank would have become a raging inferno but for the action of one of the drivers. Grasping a "pyrene" extinguisher, he directed the oxygen-destroying chemical upon the flames. Almost immediately the fire was quenched, but the noxious fumes from the extinguisher made the interior untenable. Even those of the men who wore gas-masks found that these were no protection from the choking fumes, for owing to the showers of metallic splinters in the interior of the tank not a mask remained serviceable.
"Out of it, lads!" spluttered the second in command, a subaltern of the Tank Corps. His voice trailed off into a queer little squeal of pained surprise, for a bullet, passing through a rent in the tank's side, shattered his left arm at the wrist.
Quickly, yet in an orderly manner, the evacuation was carried out. The wounded men were assisted to a place of doubtful shelter afforded by an abandoned trench, while Derek and the eight unscathed members of the crew followed to await developments.
Even as Derek crouched in the shallow trench, the greater part of which had been flattened out by tanks crossing the obstruction, he noticed an officer in the uniform of a major of the Tank Corps running along the irregular parados.
"Back, back, all of you!" he shouted. "Pass the word along. Signal to the Tank-Commanders. We're held up, and the ground is heavily mined. Retire!"