CHAPTER I

On Parade

"On parade!"

The cry, taken up by a score of youthful voices, echoed and re-echoed along the concrete-paved corridors of the Averleigh T.D.S.—such being the official designation of the Training and Disciplinary School—one of those mushroom-growth establishments that bid fair to blossom into permanent instruction schools under the aegis of the juvenile but virile Royal Air Force.

Ensued a wild scramble. The morning mail had arrived but five minutes before the momentous summons. Some of the cadets had seized upon their share of letters, and had retired, like puppies with dainty tit-bits, to the more secluded parts of the building, in which little privacy is obtainable. Others, with scant regard for their surroundings, were perusing their communications when the order that meant the commencement of another day's work brought them back to earth once more.

"Where's my cap?—Who's pinched my stick?—George, old son, what did you do with those gloves of mine you had last night?—Now, then, my brave, bold Blue Hungarian bandsman, get a move on."

The wearer of the latest pattern of the R.A.F. blue uniform raised his hands deprecatingly. One of a few similarly attired amid a swarm of khaki-clad flight-cadets, he was beginning to feel sorry for himself for having been up-to-date, and vindictive towards the Powers that Be who had given instructions for him to appear thus attired.

"Chuck it!" he exclaimed. "Not my fault, really. If this is the R.A.F. idea of a sensible and serviceable get-up, I'm sorry for the R.A.F."

"It'll come in handy when you sign on as a cinema chucker-out aprÈs la guerre, George," chimed in another, as he deftly adjusted his cap and made sure that his brightly-gilded buttons were fulfilling those important functions ordained by the Air Ministry Regulations and Service Outfitters. He shot a rapid glance through the window, for the long corridor was now ejecting the crowd of cadets in a continuous stream of khaki, mingled with blue.

"Buck up, George!" continued the last speaker, addressing a slightly-built youth who, red in the face, was bending over his up-raised right knee. "What's wrong now?"

The individual addressed as George—and in the R.A.F. it is a safe thing to address a man as George in default of giving him his correct name—explained hurriedly and vehemently, directing his remarks with the utmost impartiality both to his would-be benefactor and to a refractory roll of cloth that showed a decided tendency to refuse to coil neatly round his leg.

"These rotten puttees, Derek!" explained the victim. "I've had a proper puttee mornin'—have really. Got up twenty minutes before rÉveillÉ, too. Razor blunt as hoop-iron; hot water was stone cold; three fellows in the bath-room before me; an' some silly josser's pinched my socks. Not that that matters much though," he added, brightening up at the idea of having outwitted a practical joker. "I'm not wearing any. Then, to cap the whole caboodle, I lost a button off my tunic in the scrum at the mess-room door."

Derek Daventry, one of a batch of newly-entered flight-cadets at Averleigh, was a tall, lightly-built fellow of eighteen and a few months. Dark-featured, his complexion tanned by constant exposure to sun and rain during his preliminary cadet training, supple of limb and brimful of mental and physical alertness, he was but one of many of a new type—a type evolved since the fateful 4th day of August, 1914—the aerial warriors of Britain.

The second son of a naval officer, Derek had expressed a wish to enter the Royal Air Force, or, rather, the Royal Naval Air Force as it then was, from the moment when it became apparent that the schoolboy of to-day must be a member of one of the branches of His Majesty's Service to-morrow. Captain Daventry, R.N., D.S.O., and a dozen other letters after his name, was equally keen upon getting Derek into the navy by the post-entry of midshipmen process, thus making good an opportunity that had been denied the lad at an age when he was eligible for Osborne.

"It's not only now," declared Captain Daventry. "One has to consider what is to be done after the war."

"Time enough for that, Pater," rejoined Derek. "The end of the 'duration' seems a long way off yet."

"Possibly," said his father. "On the other hand it may be much sooner than most people imagine. Of course I know that there are thousands of youngsters similarly situated to yourself, but the hard fact remains that the war must end sooner or later."

"But the R.F.C. and the R.N.A.S. must carry on," persisted Derek. "Flying's come to stay, you know."

"Quite so," admitted the naval man; "but unfortunately that doesn't apply to flying-men. The life of an airman, I am given to understand, is but a matter of three or four years, apart from casualties directly attributable to the war. The nervous temperament of the individual cannot withstand the strain that flying entails."

"You're going by the experience of pioneers in aviation, Pater," replied his son. "After the war, flying will be as safe as motoring. When I'm your age I may be driving an aerial 'bus between London and New York. In any case I don't suppose the Air Board will turn a fellow down when his flying days are over. They'll be able to make use of him."

"You are optimistic, Derek."

"Yes, Pater," admitted the flying aspirant, "I am. It's a new thing, and there are endless possibilities. I only wish I were six months older. It's a long time to wait."

Captain Daventry still hesitated. An experienced and thoroughly up-to-date naval officer, he understood his own profession from top to bottom. The navy, notwithstanding rapid and recent developments, was a long-established firm. There was, in his opinion, something substantial in a battleship, in spite of U-boats and mines. But the wear and tear of an airman, the fragile nature of his craft, and above all the uncertain moods of the aerial vault made flying, in his estimation, a short-lived and highly-dangerous profession, albeit men look to it with all the zest of amateurs following a new form of pastime.

"Hang it all, Pater!" continued Derek, warming to his subject; "the Boche has to be knocked out in the air as well as on the sea. Someone's got to do it; so why can't I have a hand in the game?"

"I'm not thinking of the war, but after," replied his father. "Since you're keen on it, carry on, and good luck. The after-the-war problem must wait, I suppose."

And so it happened that in due course Derek Daventry presented himself for an interview at the Reception Depot of the newly-constituted Air Ministry. That ordeal successfully passed, and having satisfied the Medical Board, after a strenuous examination, that he was thoroughly sound in mind and body, the lad found himself an R.A.F. cadet at a large training-centre on the south coast.

Here his experience was varied and extensive. In a brief and transitory stage, the mere soldiering part of which he tackled easily, thanks to his school cadet training, he was initiated into the mysteries of the theory of flight, the air-cooled rotary engines, wireless telegraphy, aerial photography, and a score of subjects indispensable to the science of war in the air. Then, punctuated by regular medical examinations—for in no branch of the service is the precept mens sana in corpore sano held in higher esteem—came additional courses in the arts of destructive self-defence: machine-guns, their construction, use, and defects; bombs of all sizes and varieties; aerial nets, their use and how to avoid them; the composition of poison-gas and "flaming onions"; how to avoid anti-aircraft fire; and a dozen other problems that have arisen out of the ashes of the broken pledges of the modern Hun.

The days are past when the ranks of the old flying-corps were filled by and rapidly depleted of hundreds of hastily-trained pilots—specimens of the youth and manhood of the empire who were passed through the schools in desperate haste and pitted against the scientific but undoubtedly physically-inferior German flyers. Now the R.A.F. trains its "quirks" deliberately and methodically. While on the one hand there is no dallying, there is on the other no injudicious haste, and before a cadet takes his wings he must thoroughly master the intricacies of a 'plane while the huge monster lies pinned to the earth. In due course, provided the most critical of instructors are satisfied, the budding flying-man develops into a flight-cadet and finally emerges, trained and provided with the best machines that money and brains are capable of producing, to help to gain the mastery of the air.

Derek Daventry had now entered into the flight-cadet stage, and on the morning following his arrival at Averleigh T.D.S. he found himself entering upon a new and highly-interesting phase of his career—the actual experience of flight.

"I'll give you a hand," he said, addressing the youth with the refractory puttee. "We'll lash the job up somehow. After all there's a medical inspection after parade, so the jolly old thing'll have to come off again. The main business is to fall in before the parade starts."

With Derek's assistance Flight-Cadet John Kaye contrived to encase his leg in the long strip of khaki cloth. True, there were projecting folds and creases that might cause sarcastic comment from his flight-inspecting officer, but the fact remained that his attendance on parade was an accomplished fact.

The cadets and airmen had fallen in in their respective "Flights"—R.A.F. equivalent to platoon—when the bell gave out its four double clangs, for at Averleigh they kept ship's time, possibly as a sop to the naval element absorbed from the old R.N.A.S. The Sergeant-Major, having satisfied himself as to the dressing and alignment, advanced to within a few paces of the Adjutant, the latter a youth who was within a few months of attaining his twenty-first birthday, and on whom weighed the responsibility of a thousand odd men. Round-faced and boyish in appearance, he already sported three metal bars upon his sleeve—the only outward and visible signs of three wounds received in action with the Huns in Flanders and on the Somme.

The Sergeant-Major saluted. The soft south-westerly breeze carried away the sound of his voice from the stiffly-motionless ranks. The salute was returned, then—

"Parade—stand at—ease! Fall in the officers!"

Derek, standing by the side of his chum Kaye in the front rank of No. 4 Flight, was conscious of the approach of his Flight-Commander. Along the face of the Flight the Captain passed, swiftly "overhauling" the appearance of every cadet. Yet, somehow, Kaye's delinquency in the matter of the absent tunic button was passed unrebuked.

"Rear rank, one pace step back—march!"

Cadet Kaye breathed freely once more. The ordeal, as far as the front rank men were concerned, was over.

But before the inspection was completed came an unexpected diversion. It was all the fault of Gripper, the Major's bull-terrier and mascot-in-chief to the Averleigh T.D.S. If Gripper hadn't forgotten time and place, and hadn't taken it into his head to chase the mess-room cat across the parade-ground, the inspection would doubtless have gone on without a hitch. But the bull-terrier was off, nearly capsizing the Colonel, while in his wake a heavy cloud of dust rose sullenly in the air. Gripper had no intention of hurting Satan—the huge black cat. It was merely an effort on his part to pass the time of day with his feline chum; but unfortunately Peter, the large sheep-dog, and Shampoo, the Skye terrier, had misgivings on the score, or perhaps they felt that they were being left out in the cold by Gripper's sudden disappearance from the parade. They, too, joined in the chase.

Evidently Satan regarded three tormentors as being beyond the limit. Climbing upon the balustrade of the verandah in front of the officers' mess the cat eyed the three excitedly-leaping dogs for nearly a quarter of a minute. Then, before the animals realized what it was about, Satan gave the bull-terrier a smart scratch on the tip of his nose just as Gripper reached the zenith of a prodigious leap. Then, following upon the initial success, the feline sprang fairly and squarely upon Peter's woolly back, administered a cuff with a taloned claw, and immediately directed his attention to the luckless Shampoo.

The Skye, finding himself pursued by the namesake of the Prince of Darkness, bolted precipitately towards the ranks of No. 4 Flight; while Gripper and Peter, having first shown an inclination to chastise each other for being the cause of their discomfiture, started in pursuit of Satan.

So far, officers, cadets, and men had thoroughly enjoyed the diversion, but when the terror-stricken Skye ran yelping between the lines, and Satan, finding himself exposed to a rear attack, promptly leapt upon the shoulders of a cadet-sergeant, No. 4 Flight began to grow unsteady on parade. To make matters worse Gripper and Peter, dividing their attention between the cat and themselves, were scrapping and yelping around the men's feet. Later on many of the cadets faced Hun "anti" and machine-gun fire with equanimity, but the knowledge that only a few folds of puttees intervened between their calves and two jaws armed with particularly aggressive teeth was too much for their newly-instilled habits of discipline.

For quite a minute pandemonium reigned in the shattered ranks of No. 4 Flight, until the Colonel, in stentorian tones, suggested that it was time that the performance drew to a close.

It was not until Gripper had been enmeshed in the folds of a leather flying-coat, and Peter deftly capsized by a sergeant who seized him by his legs, that things began to assume a normal aspect. Satan's claws were disengaged from the cap of the cadet who had formed his pillar of refuge, while Shampoo was curtly bidden to clear out; and once more No. 4 Flight formed up and "right dressed".

"Parade—'shun!"

Accompanied by the characteristic clicking of hundreds of heels, the parade stood rigid while the C.O. received and acknowledged the Adjutant's salute. Then—

"Parade—stand at ease; caps off!"

Every head was bared as the Colonel began to read the short form of Divine Service. Simultaneously the "church pennant"—another concession to the naval side of the R.A.F.—was hoisted to the yard-arm of the flagstaff.

"... we pray Thee to give thy Fatherly protection to us and to our Allies on land, on the sea, and in the air."

The drone of a biplane two thousand feet overhead served as a fitting accompaniment to the invocation. It reminded the budding airmen that ere long they, too, would fall within this category of suppliants for Divine protection. Soon they would be tasting of the joys and perils of flying; of life, perhaps of death, in that domain that was every day becoming more and more under the sway of man.

"Parade—caps on! March off!"

The morning ceremonial was over.

"No. 4 Flight: move to the right in fours. Form fours—right! Left wheel—quick march!"

It was not until the cadets were marched to a remote corner of the vast parade-ground and ordered to stand easy that Daventry turned to his chum.

"You got through that all right, old man," he observed. "The Captain didn't spot your missing button."

"Didn't he, by Jove?" replied Kaye, a broad smile overspreading his features. "He did—but he couldn't say a word. He'd a button missing himself. What's the move now?"

"Medical inspection, and then our first flight," replied Derek.

CHAPTER II

Derek's First Flight

Derek Daventry had passed through several medical examinations since his entry as a cadet of the R.A.F. but this one in particular was a thoroughly strenuous test. Having been put through the usual ordeal as regards his keenness of vision and hearing, lung capacity, and heart action only a few weeks previously, it came as a surprise that he should again be "put through the mill". It was but one example of the solicitude of the R.A.F. for its budding airmen, and of the determination to receive the very best material for flying. The authorities realize that it is easy for a reckless youth to ruin his constitution in a very short time, and consequently no steps are spared to keep the quirks in the very pink of condition.

The preliminary examination over, Derek had to undergo special tests through which every cadet must emerge with credit before being allowed to "take the air". Blindfolded, he was handed a small cube of wood on which was a tuning-fork supported by a small disc. The cube he had to lift vertically up and down three times without upsetting the equilibrium of the fork. Then came the "walking the plank" test, which consisted of traversing the length of a narrow plank while in blindfolded condition. Followed, a variety of seemingly simple but really intricate tests to prove the lad's capability of undergoing various experiences that the art of successful flying entails. The final one consisted of handing Daventry a wineglass brimful of water. This he was told to hold, without allowing a drop to escape, while quite unexpectedly a pistol-shot was fired within a few feet of his left ear.

"Passed," was the M.O.'s crisp verdict; and Derek was curtly bidden to dress and proceed to the flying instruction-ground.

Outside the cubicle he cannoned into Kaye, who had likewise passed the ordeal.

"Didn't half give me a twisting, old man," he confided. "How many more of these stunts are there before we get our wings?"

Together the chums made their way between the busy "shops" until they reached the flying-ground—a vast expanse of closely-cropped turf, bounded on three sides by shelters for the various types of 'planes. Some of these shelters, hurriedly erected in the breathless days of '14 and '15, were mere canvas "hangars" supported by a maze of rope shrouds like gigantic tents. Others, prophetic of the permanency of the infant science of aviation, were massive structures of ferro-concrete, provided with huge sliding doors, and capable of withstanding the heaviest gale. At various points long cone-shaped bags of silk served to indicate the direction of the wind, the knowledge of which is of paramount importance to the tyro in his attempts to "take off" and "land" correctly.

Ungainly 'planes—for, like swans, they waddle awkwardly when out of their natural element—were being hauled out of their hangars. Others, taxi-ing under their own power, were lurching and rolling over the grassy sward, each with a pair of panting, perspiring mechanics hanging on to its long, tapering tail. Others were already up, practising straightforward flying under the guidance of experienced instructors, for fancy stunts, permitted only to the cadets in the advanced courses, were forbidden in the immediate vicinity of the aerodrome.

Donning leather coats and flying-helmets, and drawing on enormous sheepskin garments that resembled exaggerated thigh-boots, the two chums presented themselves at the chief instructor's office. That worthy's reception of them was brief and to the point.

"Cadet Daventry, you're for K5; Cadet Kaye, G4. Mornin'."

"So we separate for the time being, George," remarked Derek, as the twain left the building. "Good luck, old man. See you at lunch, I hope."

The finding of K5, signifying the fifth hangar in K lines, afforded no difficulty. Already the machine was out, four or five mechanics being busily engaged in tuning-up the engine and testing the controls under the observant eye of a young officer, who, apparently bored stiff with the whole performance, was smoking a cigarette and fondling a terrier pup—but one of the small army of mascots maintained by the Averleigh T.D.S.

Lieutenant Rippondene, Derek's instructor, was in appearance an overgrown schoolboy. As a matter of fact he was just twenty, and had been flying at the front for more than two years, until a piece of shrapnel had put a temporary stop to his activities in strafing the Boche. Until he could prevail upon a normally adamant Medical Board to allow him to cross the Channel again, he was being employed as flight-instructor to the quirks of Averleigh Flying School.

He was full-faced, and showed a decided tendency towards corpulence. In his flying-helmet and leather coat he strongly resembled a jovial friar, and it would have been difficult to realize that those podgy hands were capable of keeping a shrapnel-torn "'bus" under absolute control. On one occasion he had been beset by five Huns, yet, according to the testimony of his observer, "the old merchant was grinning from ear to ear during the whole strafe".

"Hop in!" was the Lieutenant's greeting, much in the manner of a motorist offering a youngster a lift on the road.

Derek obeyed, clambering into the fuselage of the double-seater "Dromedary" by means of metal-shod niches in the side of the khaki-painted body.

The instructor, throwing aside quite two-thirds of the original length of the cigarette, followed, and, dropping into his seat like a crab retiring to its lair, drew on a pair of gauntlets.

"Right-o!" he continued. "Tell 'em to swing her."

"Contact, sir—contact off," was the continued slogan of the air mechanic, as he strove to swing the large two-bladed propeller, or "prop." as it is invariably termed in the R.A.F.

Nothing of the desired nature resulting, Derek turned and looked enquiringly at his instructor. Rippondene's face was wreathed in smiles, for his pupil had forgotten an elementary task.

"You're doing the job, George—not I," he remarked. "Carry on, and make a move."

At the next swing of the propeller the engine fired. Only the skids under the landing prevented the Dromedary from rolling forward over the ground. Now was the time for Derek to put weeks of theoretical instruction to the test. A touch of the throttle and the powerful engine roared "all out", the vast and seemingly slender fabric of the 'bus quivering under the strain, while the tyro pilot was almost beaten backwards against the coaming of the seat by the terrific blast from the rapidly-revolving prop.

The cadet waved his hand over the side of the fuselage—the recognized signal for the mechanics to remove the skids. Slowly at first, then gradually gaining speed, the Dromedary ambled across the ground, the propeller raising enormous clouds of dust, while small spurts of warm castor oil were ejected from the engine and blown back by the wind into the goggled face of the young pilot. Unable to gauge the biplane's speed, Derek held on until the instructor bellowed plaintively into his ear:

"Get a move on, my lad; you're in a 'bus, not trundling a hoop along a road."

Thus stimulated Daventry actuated the elevating-lever. Submissively the huge machine parted company with mother earth, so gently and evenly that it was only the change of vibration that told Derek of the fact.

"By Jove!" muttered the lad. "I'm up now. Wonder how I'll get down again." Ahead, owing to the tilt of the blunt nose of the machine, he could see nothing but sky and fleecy clouds. It was only when he glanced over the side that he saw the hangars already dwarfed to the size of dolls' houses.

The ecstacy of it all! To find himself controlling a swift aerial steed, to handle the responsive joystick, and to make the machine turn obediently to a slight pressure on the rudder-bar. Anxiety was cast to the winds. The sheer lust of flight in the exhilarating atmosphere gripped the cadet in its entirety.

Again Derek leant over and surveyed the now distant earth from a height of three thousand feet, as shown by the altimeter. But for the furious rush of wind there was little sensation of speed, nor was he in any degree affected by the height above the ground. Without the faintest inconvenience he could watch the vast panorama beneath him, and distinguish white ribands as dusty roads, and the variegated patches of green denoting cultivated fields, meadows, and clumps of trees. Although previously warned of the fact, he was nevertheless surprised at the aspect of the ground, which presented the appearance of a flat plain. Hills—and there were plenty in the vicinity of Averleigh—had visually ceased to exist.

Suddenly the pleasing prospect was interrupted by a disconcerting movement of the hitherto docile biplane. Akin to the sensation of being in a lift that is unexpectedly put in motion, Derek found himself dropping, while at the same time the clinometer, an instrument for indicating the heel of the aerial craft, showed a dip of thirty-five degrees. Instinctively Derek sought to regain a state of stability, but the joy-stick seemed powerless to essay the task.

For a brief instant Daventry wondered what was happening. It seemed to him that, notwithstanding his efforts, the 'bus was dropping earthwards, and that the tractive powers of the prop. were futile. Then, with a series of sharp jerks, the 'plane regained its normal state of progression.

"Pocket," explained Rippondene, speaking into the voice-tube that formed a means of communication between instructor and pupil. "You'll soon get used to them; carry on—up to four thousand."

It was Derek's first "bump"—a vertical fall through fifty or a hundred feet, owing to the machine encountering a patch of thin air, or what is known to airmen as a pocket.

"Look ahead!" came the warning. "There's another 'bus."

Approaching each other at an aggregate speed of a hundred and fifty miles an hour the two biplanes swerved discreetly, for both were steered by quirks who took no risks. There are certain hard-and-fast rules of the air which have to be obeyed with as much precision as the mariner has to conform to the rule of the road at sea.

They passed a good two hundred yards apart, but almost immediately Derek's 'bus started rocking and rolling in a disconcerting fashion as it encountered the backwash of air from the now rapidly receding biplane.

Revelling in the novel situation, Derek held on, occasionally turning his machine in a wide circle and resisting any great inclination to bank. He felt as if he could carry on indefinitely, so exhilarating was the rush through the air, until the voice of his mentor sounded in his ear.

"How about it?" it enquired brusquely. "I want my lunch even if you don't. Back you go, my festive."

Derek swung the machine round until the needle of the compass showed that the Dromedary was flying in the reverse direction, but very soon the disconcerting truth became apparent. In his wild joy-ride he had neglected to take bearings and allow for the side-drift of the wind. He was lost.

"Won't do to admit that," he soliloquized. "I'll bluff the old buffer, and trust to luck."

For nearly ten minutes he flew by compass course, the while studying the expanse of ground three thousand feet below. Away to the south'ard he could discern the coast-line, quite forty miles distant. Evidently under the action of the south-westerly breeze the biplane had side-drifted more than thirty miles.

Flecks of whitish vapour glided rapidly beneath the aeroplane. The sky was beginning to become overcast. Viewed from the ground those clouds would probably appear dark and semi-opaque. Viewed from above, and bathed in the brilliant sunshine, they were white as driven snow.

Setting a compass course to counteract the current, Daventry flew steadily for twenty minutes. By the end of this time the ground was invisible. Reluctantly he resolved to dive through the clouds in order to verify his position. It seemed a thousand pities to plunge out of the sunshine, but his instructor was becoming impatient. The novelty of joy-riding in the air had long since worn off as far as Rippondene was concerned, whereas the pangs of hunger are not easily to be denied.

A slight touch of the aileron actuating-gear and the descent began. Cutting out the engine, Derek let the machine vol-plane. It was a delicious, exciting, nerve-tingling sensation. In silence, save for the rush of the air past the struts and tension-wires, the huge fabric glided with great rapidity, momentarily nearing the extensive bank of snow-white clouds.

Instinctively Derek shut his eyes as the dazzling mantle of vapour appeared to rise and envelop him. The next moment the biplane was plunging through the mist, in which the light gradually diminished until it was like being in a room in the twilight.

No longer was the needle of the compass visible. Even the luminous point failed to show so much as a faint glow. Sense of stability, too, was lost. Whether the machine was banking steeply or volplaning naturally was a matter for conjecture. All Derek knew was that the 'bus was moving rapidly, not under its own volition, but solely under the unseen and unfelt force of gravity. Then, like an express train emerging from a tunnel, the old 'bus, rocking and plunging, shot out of the cloud-bank. Shaking the moisture from his goggles, Derek restarted his engine, and then looked somewhat anxiously over the side. Almost the first object that met his gaze was the Averleigh aerodrome at a distance of about two miles.

"In sight of home," soliloquized the lad grimly; "but now comes the hardest part—landing. Hope I don't pancake or try to land below the ground."

"Pancaking", it must be explained, consists in getting as much way off the machine as possible, and dropping practically vertically. Unless the correct height and drop be gauged normally about three feet—the machine is almost sure to "crash". Pancaking is only deliberately resorted to when one is forced to land in standing corn, stubble, or flooded ground.

"Landing below the ground" is a term applied to an underestimation of the vertical distance when pancaking. Although of comparatively rare occurrence, its results are even more disastrous than overestimating the fall, and the crash almost invariably wrecks the machine completely and costs the pilot his life.

Turning, so as to fly into the wind, Daventry made the plunge. Intent upon his task, he completely forgot the presence of his mentor, who, ready at an instant's notice to operate the "dual-control" mechanism, was silently yet critically watching his pupil.

The ground appeared to be rising to greet the descending aeroplane—slowly at first, then with disconcerting acceleration. There was no time to stop and think; what had to be done must be done promptly, almost automatically. An error of judgment would certainly result in a crash of more or less seriousness.

"Now!" exclaimed Derek aloud, although he knew not why. The nose of the machine rose slightly; there was a perceptible jar, another, and then a series of bumps that decreased in force although they increased in duration. Mechanically the young pilot cut off his engine, and after travelling a few yards the 'plane came to a standstill.

"By Jove! I've landed," he soliloquized. "Wonder how I did it?"

Rippondene clambered out, sliding to the ground, and began to swing his arms to restore the circulation.

"Hurry up, old bird!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "We're the last down, and lunch will be over if we don't look sharp. Yes, we'll make a good airman of you yet. You've got it in you. Matter of fact I only had to touch the joy-stick once, and that was when you tried to loop the loop in that cloud. Didn't know you did, eh? I'm not surprised. We've all been in the same boat."

CHAPTER III

The Derelict

Lunch was almost over when Derek entered the crowded mess in which the quirks of Averleigh did justice to the plain but substantial food provided by a paternal administration for the benefit of the airmen of to-morrow. The air was buzzing with animated conversation, mostly upon subjects entirely unconnected with the serious art of aviation.

Concealing his anxiety to hear how his chum fared, Derek took a recently-vacated chair at Kaye's side. The latter nodded appreciatively as he passed Daventry a bowl containing a concoction which must never be referred to as margarine, but always as "nut butter".

"Lorry's going into Rockport," announced Kaye. "It leaves here at six. Coming?"

"What's the scheme?" asked Derek. "Nothing much to do in Rockport, is there?"

"It will be a change," replied his chum. "And we can walk back."

"Eight miles," objected Daventry, shrugging his shoulders. "Bit steep, eh? Very well then, I'm on it."

The meal finished, the cadets adjourned for ten minutes' "stand easy" before the afternoon parade, a purely perfunctory ceremonial which takes place at 1.30.

"Well, how went it with you?" asked Kaye, as the two made their way to the fives court.

"Not so dusty," replied Derek modestly. "And you?"

Kaye grinned.

"Smashed a couple of landing-wheels," he replied. "It was hard luck, but no one seemed to mind very much. It was topping up there, though. I'm all out for another joy-ride to-morrow. Rough luck on Dixon."

"What was that?" asked Daventry.

"Didn't you hear? You know him, don't you?"

"The little merchant with a mole on the point of his chin? I was yarning with him last night."

"That's the fellow," agreed Kaye. "'Fraid he's crashed for good. Didn't clear the pine-trees, and ripped off the left-hand plane. Came down like a stone, of course, and they've taken him to hospital with a compound fracture of the thigh. Old Biggs is rather cut up about it, because Dixon had a good reputation as a centre-forward. Just the fellow we wanted for the First Eleven."

Biggs—Old Biggs as he was generally called—was the captain of the first footer-team, hence that worthy's regret at losing what promised to be a pillar of strength to the sports club. Biggs was an ex-ranker, who, as a flight-sergeant in the old R.F.C., had performed wondrous and daring feats over the Boche lines. It was reported that he climbed out to the tip of one of the planes of a machine when, owing to extensive damage by gun-fire, it was in danger of losing its stability. And this at 9000 feet, with three Taubes devoting their attention to the disabled British 'bus. And yet, before being granted a commission, Old Briggs had to pass through the cadet training-school like any ordinary quirk.

The afternoon passed only too quickly, the lecture being both instructive and entertaining, and when tea was over the cadets were at liberty to spend the rest of the evening in whatever manner they wished.

It was one of the standing orders at Averleigh that three times a week a large motor-lorry was detailed to take cadets into Rockport, a privilege eagerly seized upon by the quirks.

Punctually at six the huge, khaki-painted vehicle emerged from the garage, and the cadets, after passing inspection, boarded the lorry in a seething mob, swarming over the fastened-up tail-board with the utmost agility, until the lorry was packed with forty odd youngsters.

Away rattled the heavily-laden wagon, followed by a couple of motor-bikes with side-cars, each of which bore three cadets in the side-car and one on the carrier, while a straggling mob of quirks on push-bikes brought up the rear.

Directly the precincts of the aerodrome were left behind, the driver of the lorry was bombarded with frantic appeals to "whack her up". This request was complied with, with alacrity, and, the road being narrow, progress resolved itself into a series of vain attempts on the part of the motor-cycles to pass their lumbering, swaying, big comrade.

It was a distance of eleven miles to Rockport by road, and three miles less by a footpath along the cliffs that eventually cut across some marshes on the south side of Averleigh aerodrome.

Rockport, a small seaport of about nine thousand inhabitants, offered very little attraction to ordinary visitors, but it was one of the chief places of interest to the cadets of the T.D.S. They certainly livened the old town up, and their presence was more appreciated than otherwise by the bulk of the residents.

Upon arriving at Rockport the lorry quickly disgorged its load of khaki-clad, white-banded cadets, most of whom had some definite object in view. Derek and Kaye, however, being strangers to the place, were somewhat at a loose end.

"Where are you fellows going?" exclaimed a voice. Turning, the chums found Biggs overtaking them.

"Nowhere much," replied Derek. "We're going to walk back."

"That's good," ejaculated the captain of the team. "I'll come with you, if I may. Nothing like padding the hoof to keep a fellow fit. You play footer, of course."

"Not since I left school," replied Daventry.

"Where was that?" asked Biggs. "What's that? Full-back an' got your colours? Why, you're just the man I want! You'll jolly well have to train, and look mighty smart about it, young fellow."

"I'll think it over," said Derek guardedly.

"What's the objection?" asked the skipper pointedly.

"Since you ask me, it's like this," replied Daventry. "If a fellow's a good player he's often kept back solely on that account. I know a man in the army who's been knocking about in England ever since 1914, simply because he's a professional full-back. Footer's all very well, but I'm not here for that."

"Don't worry on that score, old bird," replied Biggs. "I'm keen on getting back to France myself, and I'll take jolly good care that I do as soon as I possibly can. So you can play with a good grace while you're here."

"In that case, count on me," decided Derek.

Still discussing footer, the three cadets made their way along the promenade until they reached the commencement of the cliff path. It was now about an hour before sunset. The air was calm, and, for the time of year, remarkably mild. Hardly a ripple disturbed the surface of the sea, although against the base of the cliffs the surf roared sullenly. Out of the little harbour the fishing-fleet was putting to sea, their dark-brown sails hanging limply from the yards. Almost sky-down were three or four tramp steamers leisurely plugging their way towards London river. Outwardly there were no indications that the nation was at war. Ships came and went, in spite of the vaunted submarine blockade. Many went and returned no more, but still the mercantile marine "carried on", hardly perturbed by losses through mines and German pirates.

"Do you know the road?" asked Biggs. "I don't."

"We looked up a map this afternoon," replied Kaye. "It seems simple enough. We strike inland at about a couple of miles from the outskirts of the town. Not much of a path, is it?"

"Shouldn't like to tackle it after dark," rejoined Derek. "I guess those coast-patrol fellows have a rotten time, especially in winter."

"A regular causeway," remarked Biggs, regarding the cliffs on either hand, for the path itself ran along the top of a "hog's back" formation. On the seaward side the cliffs were bold and precipitous. On the landward side they were lower, and showed signs of crumbling. Obviously, years ago, the existing marshes formed part of a large harbour, from which the sea had long since retired.

"By Jove! I don't like the look of this," exclaimed Biggs, coming to an abrupt halt. He indicated a chasm that completely cut through the ridge. Evidently it was of fairly-recent origin, for the rock showed bare and clean. Across the rift was a plank, about nine inches in width, forming the only means of communication with the opposite side.

"Hanged if I like the look of this stunt," observed Biggs, regarding the ten-feet gap with obvious misgivings.

"Plank's safe enough," rejoined Derek, and, putting his statement to the test, he crossed the narrow bridge without mishap. Kaye followed, and the two chums turned and waited for their companion to rejoin them.

"Come on, old son," exclaimed Kaye. "Don't keep us waiting all the evening."

"Sorry," admitted Biggs frankly, "I can't face it. I'll be sure to topple overboard—honest fact."

"Rot!" ejaculated Daventry incredulously.

"'Course it is," agreed the cadet. "Never could stick heights. Looking out of a window of a two-storied house makes me giddy."

Derek could see that Biggs was not trying to hoax him. The airman whose deeds in the air had already gained him no mean reputation, who could soar at a terrific height amidst a heavy fire from German antis, was unable to trust himself to cross that ten-feet gap.

"Jump it, then," suggested Kaye, and, setting the example, he leapt easily across the chasm. Even then Biggs, the airman-athlete, hung back.

"Can't make up my mind to try," he declared. "I feel an awful rotter, but I can't help it."

"Look here," suggested Derek. "I can see a path leading down the face of the cliff. Are you game to take it on? If so, we can climb up on both sides. It doesn't look very difficult."

Biggs still hesitated. Daventry, leaping across the gap, made his way to the place where the head of the natural steps began. There were signs that the path had been frequently used, possibly as a means of access to the sandy beach and caves at the foot of the cliffs.

Standing close to the edge of the cliffs (that headland attained a height of fifty or sixty feet), Derek surveyed the expanse of water beneath him. As he did so, he saw something that caused his heart to throb violently.

Drifting aimlessly with the tide, and at about a hundred yards from shore, was a waterlogged boat, with a crew of motionless and apparently inanimate seamen.

Attracted by Daventry's shout of horrified surprise, Kaye and Biggs came running up. They, too, stood stock still, filled with horror at the pitiable sight.

The boat was about eighteen feet in length, and of the whaler type usually carried on board tramp steamers. Only three or four inches of the stern and stern-posts showed above water, the gunwales amidships being flush with the surface, save when the waterlogged craft rolled sluggishly with the motion of the ground-swell. The topstrake was jagged and splintered, showing signs of having been riddled by gun-fire.

Lying inertly across the submerged thwart were four men, their heads rolling grotesquely from side to side with every motion of the boat. On the stern-sheets, and partly supported by their cork lifebelts, were two others, who appeared to be leaning against each other for mutual support. Whether they were alive or dead it was impossible for the three onlookers to determine.

"Come on!" shouted Biggs. "We'll have to get those fellows ashore or it will be too late."

Quite unmindful of his former lack of nerve, Biggs began to descend the cliff path—a performance highly hazardous compared with the crossing of the chasm. Quick to second him, Derek and Kaye followed his example, descending the slippery steps at a tremendous pace.

"You fellows hang on here," exclaimed Biggs. "If I want help I'll shout. You can do better on shore, I think. I'm going to swim off to her."

Feverishly the cadet threw off his tunic, unlaced his breeches and unrolled his puttees in record time, and kicked off his boots. In less than a minute he was ready for the plunge, during which interval the waterlogged craft had drifted a dozen yards farther along the beach.

The water felt horribly cold as Biggs waded in; it caused him to gasp violently. Then, settling down to a powerful breast-stroke, the cadet struck out in the direction of the derelict.

At length he came within arm's length of the boat. Grasping the gunwale, he sought to clamber in, but the craft, having very slight buoyancy, dipped as his weight bore on the side. Obviously there was no chance of rowing the boat to the shore, even if there were oars on board.

"I'll have to tow her," decided the swimmer. "It's a tough proposition; and isn't the water beastly nippy?"

Groping for the painter, Biggs started to swim shorewards. The waterlogged boat responded ungraciously—in fact, so slowly that the swimmer was beginning to doubt his powers of endurance.

"Stick it!" shouted Kaye encouragingly. "You're moving her. Shall we come out and give a hand?"

Biggs shook his head. He could not trust himself to shout a reply. He wanted every ounce of breath to carry him through the ordeal.

Yet he was obviously tiring. The numbing cold and the prolonged immersion were beginning to tell.

"By Jove! he'll never do it," exclaimed Derek, who had already removed his boots and tunic. "We'll have to go in after him."

Hurriedly the two chums threw off their clothes, and plunged in to the assistance of their comrade. They were only just in time, for although Biggs had succeeded in towing the boat to within twenty-five yards of the shore, he was on the point of being vanquished by the cold water.

Comparatively fresh, Derek assisted Biggs to the shore, then, returning, swam to the stern of the whaler, while Kaye struck out with the painter. Under the combined action the boat was moved slightly faster, and presently, to the cadets' intense satisfaction, her fore-foot grounded on the soft sand.

"Can't get her any higher," declared Derek breathlessly.

"Let's lift these fellows out."

This they did, only to find that four of the crew were dead. The remaining two were insensible, but showed signs that life was not yet extinct, although both were far gone through exposure.

Partly dressed, Biggs ascended the cliff path, and hastened back to Rockport for assistance, while Derek and Kaye, having tumbled into their clothes, proceeded to do their best to restore the two unconscious men to life.

"Look!" exclaimed Kaye, as they cut away a saturated jersey from the elder of the two men. "Dirty work here, by Jove!"

For in the bluish flesh of the sailor's shoulder were three small punctures—unmistakable indication of machine-gun fire. The other man had likewise been hit, a bullet having completely passed through his neck, and two more just above the knee.

Deftly the two cadets set about their task of restoring animation. Regardless of time, they worked in the rapidly-fading light, without any indication that their work was showing any signs of success.

In about an hour Biggs returned, accompanied by a doctor, a couple of policemen, a dozen sturdy fishermen, and a section of the Rockport ambulance workers. By the aid of ropes, the still unconscious men were hauled to the top of the cliffs and carried off on stretchers. With the help of plenty of strong and willing hands, the waterlogged whaler, with its ghastly contents, was dragged above high-water mark—a tell-tale record of the infamous activities of the modern Hun.

"There's nothing more for us to do," remarked Kaye, as the sad procession wended its way to the town.

"Isn't there?" rejoined Derek. "I think we'll sprint back to Rockport and catch the lorry."

"Sure," agreed the still benumbed Biggs. "That's the stunt."

CHAPTER IV

The Night Raider

Biggs was slightly at fault when he expressed his opinion that the cadets' share in the business was finished. There was a summons to attend the inquest on the four murdered seamen, a function that Derek and his companions voted a "dud stunt". However, it proved interesting, since the two survivors had recovered from their prolonged exposure, and, in spite of his wounds, one of them was able to attend the inquest.

It was a plain, unvarnished tale that he told. He described himself as mate of the s.s. Falling Star, a tramp of 250 tons, engaged in carrying general cargo to the French ports. Within twenty miles of the English coast the Falling Star was attacked by a German aeroplane—a huge machine, painted a vivid yellow, and having, in addition to the usual black crosses, a representation of an eagle holding a skull in the claws.

The mate was quite emphatic, when cross-examined by a representative of the Admiralty, that the machine was not a seaplane. It made no attempt to alight on the water, but circled round the tramp for the best part of twenty minutes before administering the coup de grÂce. Unarmed, the Falling Star could offer no resistance, and, as if gloating over its advantage, the Hun machine performed weird stunts above the tramp. Then, vol-planing down to within two hundred feet, the Boche dropped a heavy bomb that struck the ship fairly amidships, killing three and wounding seven members of the crew, including the whole of the engine-room staff.

The Falling Star sank rapidly, so that there was barely time to lower away the only boat that had escaped serious damage from the explosion.

Into her crowded eleven men, who, thinking that they were fortunate in getting clear of the foundering vessel, began to pull for the distant shore. Alas for a vain hope! The Hun, flying in a comparatively small circle, deliberately machine-gunned the hapless boat until, satisfying himself that the fell work was accomplished, the German airman flew off, gloating over his gallant victory over another of the strafed Englander's merchantmen.

"Unless I'm very much mistaken," said Biggs, when the three cadets were on their way back to the aerodrome, "that low-down Boche is an old acquaintance. I remember back in '17 that a 'plane marked as described was causing us a great deal of trouble. The Boche's name was Count Hertz von Peilfell. Our fellows were particularly anxious to bring him down. He was a bold flyer, and not at all particular as to his manners and customs. He was up to all the dirtiest tricks imaginable, and, when he wasn't night-bombing over our lines, was wandering across this side of the Channel. He boasted that he had taken part in three raids on London, and had sunk at least half a dozen Allied merchantmen by means of bombs. We gave him a warm reception over Dunkirk, and that was the last time he put in an appearance as far as we knew. Perhaps he was resting and recuperating his jangled nerves. However, if this blighter is Von Peilfell, I hope I'll meet him again, and then let the better man win."

For the next few weeks the work at Averleigh aerodrome proceeded briskly and strenuously. Somewhat to his surprise and delight, Derek Daventry was passed out after a comparatively short course, and given his commission and appointed to a home counties flying-station.

Biggs, too, was able to discard the white band round his cap, and was promptly sent across to the Somme front; but Kaye was not so fortunate. Greatly to that worthy's disappointment, he was put back for another course, for reasons best known to the instructors at Averleigh T.D.S.

Torringham aerodrome, to which Derek was posted, was a comparatively new station situated somewhere in Essex. It formed part of the outer aerial defences of London, and had not yet received its full establishment. Probably a marked disinclination on the part of the Boche to tempt fate amid the aerial net defences and improved anti-aircraft batteries over and around the city was responsible for the fact that there were few opportunities for the Torringham pilots to distinguish themselves. Also, the growing superiority of British and Allied airmen on the Western Front, and the reprisal raids upon the Rhine towns, kept the Hun airmen pretty much occupied, and London, in consequence, enjoyed a period of security. Nevertheless there was always the possibility of a daring Boche attempting to sneak over the metropolis under cover of darkness, and the British airmen stationed around London had to be constantly on the alert.

It was on the eighth evening following Derek's arrival at Torringham that the period of comparative inaction was broken. There happened to be a dance in progress, to which the officers of the depot had been invited.

"I don't think I'll take it on, old man," replied Daventry in answer to a brother officer's suggestion. "I've quite a dozen letters to write, and I want to turn in early. Hope you'll have a good time."

So Derek sat in solitary state in the practically deserted ante-room while the revellers proceeded by motor to the scene of the festivities—a distance of nearly thirty miles.

"That's a good job done!" exclaimed Derek drowsily when the last of his correspondence was finished. "By Jove, it's nearly midnight! I'll sleep like a top to-night, unless the returning roysterers rout me out of my bed."

It seemed to the young officer as if he had not been asleep more than a couple of minutes when the electric light in his rooms was switched on and a hand grasped his shoulder.

"Turn out, you blighter!" exclaimed a voice, which Derek failed to recognize as that of the Officer of the Watch. "They're coming over!"

"Chuck it, old bird!" protested the still sleepy man. "If you want to rag anyone, try someone else."

"No kid," continued the O.W. "We've just had a telephone message through to say that a group of Gothas passed over Harwich five minutes ago making towards London. You're the only pilot left on the station, so you'll have to go up."

Derek leapt out of bed and hurriedly threw on his clothes. He was not at all charmed with the prospect, for Torringham lay considerably off the course usually followed by the Hun raiders. To be literally hauled out of bed in the small hours of the morning, and to ascend on a pitch-dark night without any degree of certainty of being within thirty miles of a Boche airman, seemed "hardly good enough".

By the time Derek arrived at the shed in which his Dromedary biplane was kept, he felt that much of his drowsiness had passed. It was a fair night, although slightly overcast. Occasionally the stars shone through the wide rifts in the vapour. There was little or no wind.

"All ready?" he asked of the Sergeant-Mechanic.

"All ready, sir," was the reply.

By sheer force of habit Daventry tested the controls, and assured himself that the petrol-tank was filled. Then, donning his flying-kit, he clambered into his seat.

Along the electrically-lighted ground the biplane ambled, and then rose magnificently into the night air. A moment later and the powerful arc-lamps were switched off, and the countryside beneath the rapidly-climbing 'bus was shrouded in utter darkness.

At six thousand feet Derek found that his sense of lassitude had completely vanished. The bracing coldness of the rarefied atmosphere acted more effectually than the best tonic prepared by human agency. More than once he realized that he was singing at the top of his voice, as if trying to outrival the terrific roar of the powerful motors.

He was now well above the stratum of clouds. Overhead the stars shone brilliantly. He was alone, rushing through space at a speed of ninety miles an hour.

"Goodness only knows why I'm up here," he reiterated. "Anyway, it's a jolly picnic. I'll cut out and see if anything's doing."

Accordingly, Daventry shut off the engine and began vol-planing as gently as possible. He listened intently for the roar of a hostile propeller above the swish of the air past struts and tension-wires.

"Thought so," he muttered, as he restarted the motor. "Nothin' doin'. I'm on a dud stunt. However, I'll carry on."

For the best part of an hour Derek continued his flight, describing huge figures-of-eight in order to keep in touch with the aerodrome. In vain he maintained a sharp look-out for any lurid bursts of flame on the distant horizon that would indicate that the Boche was setting to work, and that the anti-aircraft guns were giving the raiders a hot tonic.

He was on the point of discharging his signal-pistol in order to inform the aerodrome that he was about to make a landing when a dark, indistinct mass shot by a hundred feet below him, and then vanished in the darkness.

"By Jove! I wonder if that's a Fritz?" ejaculated the young pilot. "I'll try and find out."

Almost before the Dromedary began to rock in the eddies in the wake of the mysterious aeroplane Derek swung his 'bus round, banking steeply ere he steadied her on her course. A glance at the altimeter showed him that the height was eight thousand five hundred feet, quite enough manoeuvring space for the work in hand, provided he could find his quarry.

It was almost like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. Even taking into consideration the superior speed of the Dromedary, the initial start obtained by the Hun (supposing that Derek's surmise proved to be correct) and a slight divergence of courses would result in the two aeroplanes being separated by miles of darkness.

Still keenly on the alert, Derek held on, at the same time putting a tray of ammunition to each of the two Lewis guns, the heels of which were within a few inches of the pilot's face.

"I've missed the beggar," declared Daventry, after continuing the phantom pursuit for nearly a quarter of an hour. "Hard lines if the fellow were a Boche. I'll give myself another five minutes——By smoke! now what's that?"

Right ahead, but on a slightly-lower level, was something gaunt, indistinct, and moving. For a few seconds Derek could hardly credit his good fortune, thinking that in the stress and strain of the night-flight he was the victim of a hallucination. Another minute, however, removed all cause for doubt. It was a 'plane; more, it was a Boche, for the black crosses of infamy were discernible in the cold starlight.

The Dromedary was rocking in the tail-stream of the Hun machine. Gently Derek brought his 'bus up, until it was flying in comparatively still air. Eighty yards away was the Boche, flying serenely in blissful ignorance of the fact that a British machine was literally sitting on its tail.

Deliberately, and without the faintest compunction—for the night-raider had none when dropping his powerful bombs upon the civilian population of London and other cities and towns—Derek brought the sights of the right-hand gun to bear upon the back of the Hun pilot. A burst of vivid flashes, and the deed was done.

The German machine dipped abruptly, and dropped into a spinning nose-dive, while a long trail of reddish flames, terminating in a cloud of fire-tinged smoke, told its own tale. The petrol-tank had taken fire, and the doom of the raider was sealed. No amount of trickery would avail. It was impossible for Fritz to attempt his now well-known spin in the hope of deluding his antagonist, and then, by flattening out, get clear away. The fire had "put the hat" on that, even if the pilot had not been killed outright by the hail of Lewis-gun bullets.

"May as well see what happens," soliloquised Daventry. "So here goes!"

Diving almost vertically, he followed the visible track of the crashing Hun. With his feet braced firmly against the rudder-bar, and his head and shoulders well back, Derek maintained the plunge, ready at the first inkling of danger to either loop or flatten out. In spite of the terrific pace, the flaring debris of the vanquished Gotha was falling even faster, followed by a galaxy of falling embers.

Suddenly a blinding flash seemed to leap out of the darkness within a few yards of the diving Dromedary. Another and another followed in quick succession, and although the noise was drowned by the roar of the engine, Derek guessed instantly and rightly.

"Shrapnel, by smoke!" he exclaimed. "I'm being strafed by our own antis."

With a sudden jerk that would have spelt disaster had any of the struts and tension-wires been of faulty workmanship, the Dromedary checked her downward plunge in order to avoid the unpleasant attentions of "Archibald", while for the first time Derek became aware that he was in the concentrated and direct glare of half a dozen powerful searchlights.

"Why on earth can't the idiots see my distinguishing marks!" exclaimed Derek petulantly, forgetting that when a machine is diving steeply the planes present to an observer on the ground the appearance of two parallel lines. He groped for his Very's pistol in order to give the customary signal to show that it was a British aeroplane that was the object of the anti-aircraft gunners' attention, but in the steep nose-dive that important article had slid from its appointed place.

Rocking and pitching in the rudely-disturbed air, the Dromedary dodged and twisted, vainly attempting to elude the beams of the searchlights. Then, with a most disconcerting crash, a couple of struts were shattered like matchwood, and the next instant the 'bus, badly out of control, began to drop through the intervening thousand feet that separated her from the ground.

Derek prepared for a crash; sliding as far as possible under the cambered deck of the fuselage, he waited for the inevitable. The biplane on crashing would almost certainly land on her nose and turn completely over. It was possible to survive the impact, but the greatest danger lay in the possibility of the luckless pilot being hurled against the knife-like tension-wires, or having his head battered against the heels of the two machine-guns.

To Derek the biplane appeared to be dropping slowly, although actually very few seconds elapsed before the crash came. The anti-aircraft guns had ceased firing, either because the gunners knew that they had scored a hit, or else the altitude was too small to admit of the guns being fired without risk of doing great damage to the adjacent village. The concerted rays of the searchlights, however, continued to play upon the falling machine, until an intervening ridge masked them. There was a sudden transition from dazzling light to utter darkness—Derek realized that he was now but a few feet from the ground.

Crash!

As he expected, the machine struck nose first. The quivering fabric of the fuselage was suddenly checked, the change of direction causing Derek's knees to bend and hit hard against the deck. A blow like that of a gigantic sledge-hammer seemed to smite him betwixt the shoulder-blades.

Then, rearing, the fuselage toppled completely over, and the next instant Derek found himself being dragged down through icy-cold water.

CHAPTER V

The Next Day

Rendered well-nigh breathless by the shock of the water following the crash, Derek struggled feverishly to unbuckle the stiff leather belt that held him to the seat. Swallowing mouthfuls of water, until his lungs felt on the point of bursting under the asphyxiating strain, he at length succeeded in unfastening the buckle. Then, scrambling blindly, he endeavoured to extricate himself from the tangle of wreckage that, in his heated imagination, was encompassing him on every side. A severed tension-wire coiled itself round his left ankle. At the expense of his fleece-lined boot he succeeded in disengaging the sinuous embrace of the spring-like metal. Then, almost at his last gasp, the young officer resisted the temptation to struggle to the surface, but, diving under the upturned fuselage, he swam half a dozen strokes before attempting to rise.

Then, hardly able to withstand the numbing coldness of the water, he allowed himself to float to the surface.

Taking in copious draughts of the pure night-air, Derek floated impassively until the instinct of self-preservation urged him to make for the bank.

Silhouetted against the glare of the concealed searchlights were the figures of a score or more of men. Towards them the crashed pilot struck out feebly, until, to his unbounded relief, he saw two men plunging into the water to his assistance.

"Sorry, chum!" shouted a voice, as a pair of hands grasped him under the shoulders. "We thought you were a bloomin' Boche. You'll be all right in 'arf a mo'."

Derek could not reply. He was temporarily speechless, but he was heartily glad of the assistance of the men who had swum out to his aid. Then he was dimly conscious of his feet coming in contact with the muddy bottom and willing hands helping him up the steeply-rising bank.

His senses returning, Daventry was able to take a fairly-comprehensive view of the situation. He was standing on the edge of a large reservoir. In the centre, looming up in the reflected glare of the still fiercely-burning Gotha, was the tail of his trusty Dromedary, resembling an obelisk to commemorate the aerial encounter. A short distance away was a searchlight, its beams slowly sweeping the sky, while, standing out against the rays, was the gaunt muzzle of a heaven-directed anti-aircraft gun, ready for instant action. Round the weapon were the gunners, seemingly oblivious to the British pilot's presence, their whole attention centred upon the patch of luminosity that swung slowly to and fro across the murky sky. Other searchlights were also trained upwards in the hope of spotting yet other undesirable aerial visitors from Hunland.

A quarter of a mile away a red glow marked the spot where the Gotha had crashed, although the actual wreckage was hidden by a considerable concourse of people, both military and civilian, who signified their delight at the raider's downfall by prolonged and lusty cheers.

An anti-aircraft officer, his features partly hidden by the upturned collar of his "British warm", hurried up to the spot where Derek was standing.

"Sorry, old man!" he exclaimed apologetically. "I was responsible for bringing you down, I'm afraid. Didn't know that any of our machines were up. No telephone message came through to us. I hadn't a chance to distinguish the markings on your plane. Deuced sorry—very!"

"There's little harm done," replied Derek as well as his chattering teeth would allow. "My fault entirely. I ought to have——"

"No fear!" replied the anti-aircraft man. "My mistake absolutely. Here; it's no use arguing the point about responsibility. You're coming back to our mess and to get a fresh rig-out."

Up dashed a closed-in motor-car. Into this Derek was assisted, the battery captain accompanying him, and amid the cheers of the now dense crowd of sightseers the destroyer of the Gotha was borne away.

A hot bath and a change of clothing provided by willing hands quickly restored Derek to an almost normal condition—but not quite. Pardonably he was excited at the thought of having accomplished a good deed, but in reply to numerous congratulations he frankly stated that it was a piece of sheer good luck.

News of the destruction of the raider and the victor's crash into the reservoir had been promptly telephoned to Torringham aerodrome, and in reply came the curtly-official message:—

"From O.W. to Second-Lieutenant D. Daventry, R.A.F.—Await arrival of salvage-party. Forward report forthwith—Ack, ack, ack."

The last three words, be it understood, do not bear any relationship to the Teutonic "Hoch, hoch, hoch", but are the usual official way of indicating that a telegraphic or telephonic message is ended.

Generally speaking, the smaller the mess the more hospitably strangers are treated, and at Sisternbury there was no exception to the rule. Although the mess was composed of a captain, a lieutenant, and two subalterns only, the officers did everything they could for the comfort of the crashed pilot.

In spite of the fact that it was early morning and Derek had had very little sleep during the last twenty hours, the young officer tossed restlessly on his bed. The events of the midnight pursuit and its startling finish were photographed so vividly on his brain that he could not banish the mental vision of the Gotha streaming earthwards in flames. Then, just as Daventry was falling into a fitful slumber, he was awakened by a batman bringing him a large cup of hot, sugarless tea, with the announcement that it was eight o'clock and that the salvage-party had arrived.

The salvage-party consisted of a dozen air-mechanics and a couple of corporals and a sergeant, who had come from Torringham on a large R.A.F. lorry, but with them came an unofficial party made up of almost every officer not on duty and as many on duty who could furnish even the flimsiest pretext for joining the "joy-riders".

Having submitted to the many and varied congratulations and caustic remarks of his brother officers, Derek was taken to the spot where the Gotha crashed. Already sentries had been posted and a wire fence erected around the calcined debris of the huge aeroplane, for it was imperative that nothing should be disturbed until scientific and technical examinations had been made by qualified experts.

The motors had fallen with such force that they had made a hole five feet in depth. Thirty yards away were the battered remains of a machine-gun, while other debris had been discovered half a mile from the main wreckage. The Gotha had had a crew of five men, their corpses, horribly burnt and battered, being found at widely different distances. These had already been removed to be given a military funeral, for, notwithstanding the undoubtedly cowardly methods adopted by Hun raiders, the German airmen were acting under orders, and had met their fate in much the same way as soldiers on the field of battle.

As for the poor old Dromedary, it looked a pitiable object when removed from the reservoir. Never again would the battered object soar proudly through the air. As a fighting-machine its days were ended. Its fate, after the more important parts had been removed, was to be burnt.

"I think I can claim the old prop.," remarked Derek to a brother officer. "I'll get a clock fitted to it and send it home to my people. It will look all right in a hall, won't it?"

So the badly-chipped propeller was removed and placed in the lorry until it could be converted into a novel timepiece. Then, having seen the valuable portions of the crashed Dromedary safely in the huge petrol-drawn vehicle, Derek bade farewell to his newly-found friends of the Sisternbury Anti-aircraft Force and was motored back to Torringham.

It was a sort of triumphal progress, for the now thoroughly-excited officers, jubilant at the idea that the raider had fallen a victim to one of their depot, were "letting themselves go" with no uncertain voice.

With motor-horns adding to the din, and a tattoo of sticks beating the covers of the cars, the motor cavalcade swept into the aerodrome, where Derek, taking to his heels, fled precipitately to his quarters.

It was not long before the C.O. sent for the victorious pilot.

"In case you may be suffering from swelled head, Mr. Daventry," he remarked, at the conclusion of a congratulatory interview, "I think we'll have you posted for active service in France. That, I think, is a fitting reward, and I hope that you'll recognize that it is so. Meanwhile I must warn you that on no account must your name figure in the press. It is an unwritten law in the R.A.F. that individuality should be eliminated as far as possible, and the undoubted honour shared by the unit to which you belong."

Within a week Derek's orders to proceed across Channel came through. His field-kit was soon packed, and after a couple of days' leave Daventry found himself at Richborough, en route for Dunkirk.

CHAPTER VI

Across the Channel

Contemplating a journey by the now famous Channel ferry, Derek was soon to learn how, at the very last moment, official plans are apt to be altered.

For some reason, possibly on account of information received of possible enemy action at sea, the train-boat was ordered to stand fast, while a telegraph message was received, ordering Second-Lieutenant Daventry to proceed to an aerodrome in Sussex, and to fly a large battleplane across to an aviation camp near Etaples.

"This is some luck," thought Derek; for the opportunity of flying across to France was one that he had yearned for; and, accordingly, he left his kit to be sent across by boat, and took train to the point of his aerial departure.

The battleplane was a brand new machine that had just been delivered from the manufacturers. It had gone through its trials, and, owing to the serious nature of the military situation on the Amiens front, was urgently required for the purpose of checking the Hun offensive.

Besides Derek as pilot, the machine carried a crew of four—observer, mechanic, and two gunners. With a wing-spread that far out-classed the celebrated Dromedary, and possessing motors of nearly twice the horse-power, the GV 7—such being the official designation of the biplane—was capable of a one-thousand-two-hundred-mile flight without having to alight for petrol.

It was, indeed, a formidable type of battleplane. Portions of the fuselage—especially the underside—were armoured with nickel steel sufficient to resist fragments of anti-air-craft shells, while ample protection was afforded to the crew. Short of a direct hit, or the smashing of a wing or tail, the machine was able to bear a severe gruelling without becoming hors de combat. Being of an entirely novel and formidable type, it was considered to be far and away a match for any air-craft that, up to the present, the Hun possessed.

It was within two hours of sunset when Derek started on his maiden cross-Channel trip. A steady north, or following wind gave every indication of holding, while an almost cloudless sky betokened a continuance of fine weather.

With her full crew and equipment, the GV 7 "took-off" magnificently, the enormous fabric answering quickly to the controls. Compared with the old Dromedary, with its short wing-spread and stumpy fuselage, the battleplane was as a battleship is to a cruiser. There was an almost complete freedom from lack of space, which contributed in no small degree to comfort, although all controls were within easy distance of the pilot.

Before the machine was over the English coast, an altitude of seven thousand feet was attained. In the clear atmosphere, the low cliffs of France were clearly discernible. It seemed as if a small silvery streak of water—which to the ordinary traveller to the Continent is an object of dread—was a very negligible quantity. By air, Great Britain and France, one-time sworn foes, were to be united in a bond of mutually self-sacrificing friendship.

GV 7 proved herself to be an exceptionally rapid climber, rising at a steep angle without evincing any tendency towards side-splitting. As steady as a rock, she settled down to her flight across the silvery streak of the English Channel, and, although throttled down, her speed was not far short of ninety miles an hour.

Within five minutes of passing over the coastline, the observer called Derek's attention to a mere speck on the waters. By the N.C.O.'s manner, it was evident that something was amiss.

"Boche 'plane up to mischief, sir," reported the man by means of the voice-tube. "Steamer getting it hot, I fancy."

Without hesitation Daventry dived steeply, the men standing to their machine-guns and bomb-dropping gear. By the aid of glasses the speck, which was momentarily increasing in size, resolved itself into a large tramp steamer. She had just starboarded her helm in order to maintain a zigzag course, while clouds of smoke pouring from her funnels indicated that the engineers and stokehold staffs were hard at work in their efforts to shake off pursuit.

"'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."

CHAPTER VII

When the Hun Pushed

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.

CHAPTER VIII

The Hun Bomber

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 of pavÉ, interrupted at frequent intervals by shell-holes—some of recent origin, others filled in with material that was subsiding badly. On either side of the pavÉ was 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-covered pavÉ was 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 the pavÉ where 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."

CHAPTER IX

A Slight Disturbance.

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's the 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.

CHAPTER X

Kaye's Crash

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.

CHAPTER XI

The Jammed Machine-guns

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."

CHAPTER XII

Bowled Out

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 the pavÉ roads. 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 was na 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.

CHAPTER XIII

The Count's Ruse

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.

CHAPTER XIV

With the Tanks

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, their raison d'Être to 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 mounted en 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!"

CHAPTER XV

Outed

Whistles blew shrilly amid the roar of battle. Several of the Tank-Commanders, hearing and understanding the import of the order, brought their ponderous craft to a standstill. Others began to wheel in order to give a wide berth to the highly-dangerous locality. Fifty yards ahead, and separated from them only by three almost flattened trenches, was an objective which, if gained, would be the master-key to this phase of the important operations, and yet with success in sight the nerve-racking attempt bid fair to end in failure.

At this critical juncture Derek, to the surprise of the crew of the abandoned tank, suddenly sprang upon the parados. In a couple of strides he overtook the Major, and, throwing his arms round the latter's neck and planting one knee in the small of his back, bore him backwards to the earth. Then, not content with this comparatively mild form of attack, Derek pinioned the officer's wrists by means of the lanyard of his whistle. He was dragging his captive into the trench when a Tank-Commander intervened.

"What on earth are you doing?" he demanded.

"It's all right," replied Derek reassuringly. "The fellow's a Boche. I know him. Get the tanks to carry on."

Fortunately the officer grasped the situation and had the retirement order annulled. The mammoth machines resumed their forward progress, blazing away with their quick-firers and machine-guns, until Derek found himself well in the rear in the company of a handful of men and Count Hertz von Peilfell.

It was a freak of fortune on the battle-field that had played into Lieutenant Daventry's hand. The Count, having succeeded in escaping from the Le Tenetoir aerodrome, had passed through many adventures before he regained the German lines. Then, in a desperate bid to regain prestige, he had volunteered again to act as a spy. Knowing that there were many changes in the personnel of the Tank Corps, he determined to assume the rÔle and uniform of a major, and await an opportunity to thwart the victorious advance of the ponderous Behemoths.

Succeeding the tanks came swarms of infantry, of whom, but for the assistance of the mobile armoured forts, the Boche machine-gunners would have taken heavy toll. As it was they were able to consolidate the position already taken with but slight losses in proportion to the numbers engaged. There were engineers, busily engaged in laying telephone wires, while numerous stretcher-bearers and ambulance-men were strenuously working to remove the wounded from the stubbornly-contested field. Meantime Fritz was shelling the lost ground to the best of his ability, the guns taking impartial toll of khaki and field-grey. Having no further use for cannon-fodder that had fallen into the hands of the victorious Allies, the Boche artillerymen seemed to show not the slightest compunction at slaughtering their comrades.

A stretcher-party halted within a few yards of Derek's prisoner. The Corporal in charge pushed back his steel helmet and mopped his face.

"Set to, chums!" he exclaimed. "Here's another of 'em."

The bearers had been hard at work for five hours and under shell-fire the whole time. The straps of their equipment were cutting into their shoulders; their boots were galling their feet owing to the incessant pull of the tenacious mud. Men of low category, and deemed unfit to handle a rifle, they were sharing the hardships and dangers of their comrades in the firing-line, without being able to experience the thrill of "going over the top" shoulder to shoulder behind a line of glittering bayonets. Yet their work was of a noble and enduring nature, often performed under highly-dangerous conditions, without an opportunity of striking a blow in self-defence.

"Stretcher here!" exclaimed Derek. "Get this man back. I'll come with you."

The Corporal betrayed no outward sign of surprise at finding a supposed British major insensible and with his hands lashed behind his back. At Derek's suggestion the lanyard was unlashed and Von Peilfell's hands bound to his sides. Then, lifted on a stretcher, the spy was carried off.

It was a hazardous, uninspiring journey. The heat of the advance over, the grim aftermath of battle lay revealed in all its stark, hideous brutality. It was yet early morning. Mist still hung over the marshy ground. As far as the eye could reach the soil was cut up with the distinctive tractor-marks of the tanks. Barbed wire, crushed deeply into the earth wherever a tank had passed, was still in evidence, snake-like coils clinging tenaciously to posts still rising slantwise from the stiff clay. And sometimes half buried, sometimes still held up by the horrible barbs were khaki and field-grey uniforms still covering what were but a few short hours ago human beings capable of reasoning. Derelict tanks, some still glowing red and emitting clouds of smoke, dotted the landscape, cheek by jowl with crashed aeroplanes. Shell-craters, old and new, abounded, while already light railways were being laid with a rapidity that is hardly conceivable. The while there were constant streams of motor traffic to and fro; heavy guns being brought up to prepare for a fresh advance. Everywhere there were abundant indications that this was "some" advance and that the ground gained was to be held.

Mile after mile Derek trudged with his captive. He was determined that on this occasion the airman-spy should not escape. Von Peilfell was too dangerous a man to be allowed to get away a second time.

Several times Derek glanced at the man on the stretcher. Von Peilfell was lying on his right side, his face almost hidden against the canvas. His manacled hands were resting on the edge of the stretcher. His features, or rather that portion of them visible, were sallow and wore a bored, apathetic expression. He seemed quite unconcerned at his position, not even showing the faintest trepidation when shells burst within a hundred yards of him or bullets kicked up little cascades of mud almost at the feet of the stretcher-bearers.

"Guess he knows the game's up this time," thought Derek. "Poor devil! Pity he hadn't been brought down in fair fight."

Then, recollecting that he had previously given expression to similar sentiments, Daventry found himself wondering whether Von Peilfell was under the special protection of fate, and whether he would again cheat the firing-squad.

Just then another stretcher, moving on a converging route, came level with Derek's party. On it was a man still wearing an airman's flying-coat. One hand encased in a leather fur-lined gauntlet trailed limply. Blood was welling from an unseen wound and staining the white fur. A blanket had been thrown over the wounded man's lower limbs. His flying-helmet had been removed and was serving as a pillow. He was smoking a cigarette and apparently taking a lively interest in the journey to the dressing-station.

"Hallo, Daventry!" shouted the wounded airman. "Don't you know me?"

Derek, astonished at hearing his name, looked intently at the man on the stretcher.

"Hanged if I do," he replied.

"Ungrateful old bean!" chortled the other. "What on earth are you doing with a tin hat? Doubly ungrateful, considering I taught you all you know about a 'bus."

"You're not Rippondene?" enquired Derek incredulously.

"What's left of me," was the nonchalant reply. "I think I'm right in supposing that I'm half a leg short, although I can swear that I can feel the missing toes tingling like billy-ho. There's one thing to be thankful for: that leg was a source of trouble since I crashed at ArmentiÈres in March, '15. It won't worry me again, and with a cork leg I'll be able to wangle a rudder-bar. Hope the war isn't over by the time I'm pushed out of hospital."

Rippondene, now a Flight-Commander, had had many adventures since relinquishing the post of instructor at Torringham. In spite of certain physical disabilities he had gained well-earned promotion, and was "down" for participation in the elaborately-perfected scheme for bombing Berlin. Then, owing to exigencies on the Western Front, he had been ordered to France, and had performed excellent work in the operations during the great German offensive and the greater German retreat.

"Bit of sheer hard luck," he replied, in answer to Derek's question as to how he came to be hit. "Had a chance of a lifetime. Caught a whole Boche battalion out in the open and started machine-gunning the bounders. Put the wind up them properly; they scooted like hares. Used up all my ammunition and, like Oliver Twist, came back for more. I got more—of a different sort. A bullet through the arm—that didn't worry me very much—and then a regular crump. Thought the old 'bus was blown to bits. Felt like it anyhow. But she wasn't, so I managed to pancake just behind some tanks and here I am. Who's the old bird?"

"The old bird," repeated Derek, "is a pal of yours."

"Don't know him," replied Rippondene, raising his head and looking across to the other stretcher. "Haven't had much to do with fellows in the Tank Corps, and so I'll swear I haven't met him. Bet you a sovereign on it."

"Don't throw good money away," protested Daventry. "This is Count von Peilfell."

"Rot!" ejaculated the Flight-Commander.

"Fact," declared Derek; "and I'll explain why he's in this rig."

"Another time, old thing," said Rippondene feebly. "I'm feeling jolly rummy. I'm——"

"He's fainted, sir," announced the Corporal in charge of the party. "We'll soon fix him up all right when we get to the dressing-station. And, sir——"

"Yes; what is it?"

"It looks as if there's something wrong with this Hun, sir."

The stretcher-party halted. The Corporal turned Von Peilfell's head and placed a finger upon one of his wide-open eyes. Not a muscle on the Hun airman's face quivered.

"He's gone west, sir," said the Corporal. "'Tain't much good carrying a corpse. There's plenty of living who want bearing off."

The bearers set the stretcher on the ground. Deftly the R.A.M.C. man examined the corpse. The cause of the spy's death was soon evidenced. While he was being carried off a chance bullet had struck him, passing through his heart. Without a groan or a struggle, Hertz von Peilfell's career had ended—ignominiously.

"I'll take my men back, sir, if I may," suggested the N.C.O.

"Yes, carry on," replied Derek.

Without ceremony the dead German airman was placed by the trunk of a shattered tree, and the bearers returned to their work of succour; while Derek, who was beginning to feel the effect of his strenuous work, set out in the direction of the still distant air-sheds.

CHAPTER XVI

The Shell-crater

There were many vacant places that evening in the building that served as a mess. Youngsters who, a few hours previously, had left the aerodrome like modern knights of the air, were lying crushed beyond recognition amidst the wreckage of their trusted steeds. The price of victory was a heavy one; the toll of airmen's lives enormous; yet the sacrifice had not been made in vain. The soil of Flanders and Picardy, drenched with British blood, was hourly becoming a wider and stronger barrier between the modern Hun and the shores of Great Britain—shores that, held inviolate from the feet of a would-be invader, had nevertheless felt the effect of German shells and bombs.

The worst was over. Fritz was done. The stranglehold of the British fleet had paralysed the most highly-trained military nation in the world, and now the civilian armies of Britain, France, and the United States were reaping the benefit, and were steadily driving the Hun towards the Rhine. No longer was it possible—thanks to the ever-increasing efficiency of the R.A.F.—for German machines to bomb the capital of the British Empire, or even to make "cut-and-run" raids upon the south-eastern ports. Outclassed and outnumbered, Fritz was a back number on land, on the sea, and in the air.

There were constant rumours of the Huns clamouring for an armistice, and the fear of an armistice filled the Allies with alarm. They felt themselves in the position of a man who, having caught a burglar on his premises, is compelled to hand the criminal over to be tried by a notoriously lenient judge. They realized that Germany might come to terms that would undo the result of four years' fighting. The diplomat would upset the carefully-laid plans of the soldier; therefore it was imperative to continue to strike hard while there was yet time.

From the North Sea to the Swiss frontier the German line had cracked. British and Belgian troops were in possession of Bruges; Ypres was no longer a salient; Cambrai, the scene of a grave reverse that paved the way for a gigantic German offensive, was in British hands; the French had overrun the debatable Chemin des Dames and had put Rheims beyond the range of the German heavy artillery; Big Bertha and her sisters could no longer disturb the equanimity of the citizens of Paris; while the Americans had flattened out the Saint Mihiel salient, and were enveloping the fortress of Metz. After years of trench warfare, the news seemed too good to be true.

Secret orders taken on the captured ground gave abundant evidence of the effect of the predominating weight of the Allies. Frantic appeals for reserves and munitions—appeals that, read between the lines, showed a mistrust between German officers and men—orders for the strictest conservation of shells; these and a hundred other signs told of the crisis through which Imperial Germany was passing—a crisis which was bound to tell against her.

Derek Daventry's period off duty was of short duration. In the circumstances he reckoned himself lucky to have twelve hours, most of which he spent in sleeping soundly. In those strenuous times, when every available man and machine had to spend hours in the air with but brief intervals of rest, it was only through sheer exhaustion that pilots and observers were excused duty.

He was off again at five in the morning, flying in another EG machine, almost identical with his much-regretted No. 19. The biplanes composing the "flight" were ordered to harass the Germans holding a series of defensive works at a distance of about five miles farther back than the ground captured by the tanks on the previous day.

In the present phase of the operations the employment of tanks was out of the question. Tanks are capable of surmounting many obstacles; those they cannot surmount they can frequently demolish; but the mastodons have their limits. They don't like marshy, boggy ground; while a canal or river offers an impassable barrier unless a bridge is available.

Eight hundred yards in front of the Huns' position ran a broad canal, seventy-four feet in width and six feet in depth. Every swing-bridge had been blown up and the lock-gates destroyed.

Earlier in the day British and French infantry, under cover of a strong artillery-barrage, had succeeded in crossing the canal by means of pontoons, and had established themselves securely on the opposite bank; but so severe was the German machine-gun fire that the advance was held up and the troops compelled to dig themselves in.

Already thousands of sand-bags were being dropped into the canal to form a means of getting the tanks across, but a considerable time would necessarily elapse before the work, carried out under fire, could be perfected; while it was evident, from the determined resistance of the enemy, that the attackers were being held up by a crack Prussian division.

The attacking 'planes flew well to the east of their objective, and, turning, bore down, with the light of the rising sun well behind them. It meant flying against the wind, but when engaged in raking a trench, speed is not of paramount importance.

Five thousand feet above the machine-gunning biplanes hovered a squadron of battleplanes, ready at the first appearance of a Hun to swoop down and wipe him out of existence should he have the temerity to attack. But not a German machine showed itself, and the huge battleplanes had to be content with affording moral support to their smaller sisters of the air.

The German infantry had no stomach for the swift death that threatened from the sky. At the first appearance of the biplanes, the field-greys promptly abandoned their fire-steps and dived into their dug-outs. This was hardly what the British airmen expected, since it is to little purpose to fire thousands of rounds of small-arm ammunition into an empty trench.

Almost simultaneously three batteries of Archies opened fire, and soon the biplanes were rocking, lurching, and side-slipping in the air-eddies caused by the bursting shrapnel.

It was now the battleplanes' opportunity. Leaving two of their number to wireless the news that the enemy trench was no longer held, the remainder dived steeply at the troublesome anti-air-craft batteries. Although one British machine was shot down completely out of control, the remainder attained their objectives. With bombs of terrific explosive power they wiped the Archies out of existence, and then proceeded to drop more bombs upon the dug-outs in order to induce Fritz to bolt from his lair.

Meanwhile the British infantry were advancing in open order with fixed bayonets and preceded by bombers. Viewed from aloft, the movement lacked vigour. A battle photograph, taken from an aeroplane, is a very tame picture compared with the results obtained by daring cinematographers, who frequently film the process of "going over the top". The absence of sound—or rather the drowning of it by the roar of the engine—the grotesque foreshortening of the figures, and their relatively slow rate of progress all fail to convey any picturesque aspect of a modern battle when observed from a machine flying high overhead.

Derek was describing a series of circles, ready to traverse the line of trenches at an instant's notice, when he saw a sight that bore testimony to the stubborn nature of the Prussian infantryman. It was not without a set purpose that the German High Command had manned this sector with picked troops. Apparently the underground works were of a very extensive nature, and concealed not only the troops presumably in the trench, but very stiff reserves as well. At a signal, the Prussians issued in swarms from their subterranean retreats. Along the parapet flashed a crackling line of fire, as machine-guns by scores and hundreds of rifles loosed their leaden hail upon the advancing khaki troops.

No living creature could last for long in that fire-swept zone. The ground was dotted with dead and wounded, many of the latter still using their rifles against their foes. Individual courage was of no avail against the diabolical scientific devices of the Huns, who used petrol-bomb, flame-thrower, and poison-gas with horrible effect.

Stolidly the khaki-clad infantry retired to their former positions. Here, on the defensive, and with their backs to the broad canal, they must wait and sit tight until heavy artillery and tanks turned the scale of battle.

It was a chance for the airmen. Up and down, often at less than twenty feet above the densely-packed German lines, they flew, their machine-guns cutting broad swaths in the field-grey masses. Often hidden in clouds of smoke, risking collision with other British machines, the biplanes soared and swooped until red-hot guns and empty ammunition-trays called a halt.

Derek had just fired his last round, and was preparing to climb and fly back for more ammunition, when, like a blow from a titanic hammer, a fragment of shell shattered the swiftly-revolving blades of the propeller. Other pieces of flying metal severed the aileron-controls, cut jagged rents in the doped canvas fabric, and damaged the tail planes.

Switching off the now useless motor, which had begun to race furiously, Derek vainly endeavoured to glide back to the other side of the canal. The effort was beyond the power of the crippled 'bus. It was evident that, if not exactly out of control, there was very little tractability in its nature.

"She's bound to crash," thought Derek. "Hope to goodness I can get clear of Fritz's line."

In spite of imminent peril, and the possibility of a tremendous crash, the young pilot's nerve did not desert him. Bullets were flying past in showers of metal, for nothing pleases the Hun better than to riddle a tricolour-circled machine that is falling helplessly to earth.

The actual fall was of short duration, although to Derek it seemed of interminable length. He mentally marked the spot where the ill-fated machine would crash—a shell-pitted piece of ground about one hundred and twenty yards from the first-line German trench.

"Now for it!" muttered Derek, as the ground appeared to rise to greet the disabled mechanical bird. "What an unholy mess of things there'll be!"

Relaxing his hold of the now useless joy-stick, and unfastening his quick-release belt, Derek raised both hands above his head, grasped and bore down the muzzle of his after machine-gun. Then, sliding under the decking of the fuselage, he waited.

With a thud that shook every bone and muscle of his body, and well-nigh wrenched his arms from their sockets, the biplane struck the ground obliquely and nose first. The under-carriage splintered into matchwood, while both tyres burst with reports like that of a six-pounder gun. Then, rearing until the damaged tail stood completely on end, the distorted fuselage poised in the air like a grotesque obelisk, while the pilot, shaken and bruised, but otherwise unhurt, scrambled as quickly as he could from the wreckage and literally rolled into a shell-hole.

For some considerable time Derek lay motionless, listening to the rattle of musketry and machine-gun fire, and the crackling of his burning 'bus, until the increasing heat compelled him to make for another crater.

Somewhat to his surprise, he found that he could move; he could even have walked, but for the fact that it was highly desirable to keep close to Mother Earth. So close together were the craters that at one place their lips interlocked and formed a shallow gap. Through this passage Derek began to make his way, noiselessly and stealthily.

If he had hoped to escape detection by the alert and vengeful Huns, he was vastly mistaken. Already streams of bullets from half a dozen machine-guns were playing upon the calcined earth that formed the rims of the craters, while bombs were being lobbed into the burning debris of the crashed biplane on the off-chance of "doing in" the pilot should he have escaped being battered to death by the fall.

Even as he crawled a hot searing pain swept across his forehead. Involuntarily he clapped one hand to his eye. His fingers were wet with a warm fluid. It was his blood welling from a wound. A machine-gun bullet had inflicted a clean gash on the lower part of his forehead, completely cutting away the left eyebrow. It was a mere scratch, but very painful, the worst result being the flow of blood that, running into his eyes, temporarily blinded him.

It was some moments before Derek realized the comparatively slight nature of his wound. Many a man has been hit in action, and regarded his wound as slight when he has actually been hit in a vital spot. Numerous instances have been recorded of a mortally-wounded man "carrying on" in ignorance of the fact that in a very few moments his name will have to be added to the list of "killed in action". On the other hand, there have been cases of men but slightly hit, writhing and squealing and moaning in the genuine belief that their "number is up".

Finding himself hit, Derek lay motionless, his face buried in the soft earth. Presently the hot stabbing pain diminished. A sense of numbness that was almost soothing, compared with the searing throb of the bullet-wound, began to assert itself. Even the cold ground seemed like a downy pillow.

The while Fritz in the nearmost trench was indefatigable in his efforts to complete the strafing of the crashed pilot. Thousands of pounds of machine-gun ammunition were practically thrown away in sweeping the dun-brown ridge of earth that encircled Derek's place of concealment. Bombs, too, were continually being thrown, only to explode harmlessly in the crumbling, carbonized soil, for beyond sundry and various showers of dirt, the effect of these missiles was negligible.

A quarter of an hour elapsed. Then Derek bestirred himself. It was not the thought that he was lying in a somewhat exposed position, and that a safer retreat in the bottom of the second crater was within a few yards, that urged him to move. It was the sudden realization that every second he was lying with an open wound in contact with the earth he was running the greatest possible risk of septic poisoning from the highly impure soil. He had known several cases where men with chilblains had knocked the open sores against the side of a trench, and the momentary contact with the septic soil had been sufficient to cause acute blood-poisoning, resulting, in several instances, in loss of a limb. On the other hand, the extreme velocity of a bullet generates heat to such a degree that the missile is sterilized before it hits a man, and, provided that no vital spot is touched, the chances of complications arising from a bullet-wound are very slight. With shell-wounds there is a difference. Minute particles of German shells frequently cause slight wounds that, unless carefully treated, become septic.

Derek freely admitted to himself that he "had the wind up" over the possibilities of tetanus. Even as he resumed his tedious crawl he incautiously showed the top of his head above the frail cover afforded by the ridge. The Huns, quick to perceive something in motion, swept the spot with their machine-guns. As a result Daventry ducked, but not before there were three or four bullet-rents in his leather flying-cap, while his triplex goggles, which he had pushed back just before he had been hit, were cut away by a piece of metal.

Into the second crater he dropped, his legs buried above the knees of his fleece-lined flying-boots in the soft soil. Here he was relatively safe. He sat up and took stock of his surroundings: a circular sloping wall of debris descending to a pool of stagnant water eleven feet below the ordinary ground level. Here and there were coils of rusty barbed wire and the remains of calcined posts, while a Hun's "Dolly Varden" tin hat, sporting a bullet-hole front and back, and a battered dixie, alone served to break the monotony of the limited expanse of landscape.

Derek's wound was still bleeding freely. He made no attempt to staunch the flow, knowing that there was a chance of the cut cleansing itself. His old 'bus had practically burnt itself out. The fierce flames were succeeded by a thick, oily smoke that drifted in clouds across the crater and eddied down the slope, as if reluctant to soar and dissolve in the comparatively pure air above. It was with the greatest difficulty that the pilot managed to refrain from coughing. Temporarily the musketry-fire had ceased and comparative silence reigned. Any noise coming from the crater would inevitably betray the presence of a yet-living man to the vigilant Huns. Yet, on the other hand, the smoke was of service. It acted as a screen and prevented the Germans seeing their foes; and behind this pall of smoke fresh British troops were massing for another attack, while the methods adopted for bridging the canal for the passage of the tanks were being carried out at high pressure.

Then ensued a tedious period of inactivity. Both British and German guns were firing desultorily, the former putting over heavy stuff, while the Huns contented themselves by "watering" the back-areas with high-velocity shells of medium calibre. Overhead British aeroplanes passed and repassed—big bombing-machines, intent on their ceaseless task of harrying Fritz's lines of communication.

The crashed pilot was now almost unmolested. The tic-tac of the German machine-guns had ceased, but, with their customary cunning, the Huns would, after a period of inactivity, suddenly send over a number of bombs. As long as they had the faintest suspicion that somebody was alive in the crater they meant to continue the strafing. A remorseless resentment towards the British airman who had so effectually machine-gunned their trenches urged them to complete their task of wiping out the cause of their discomfiture. Just as likely as not, the moment darkness set in Fritz would dispatch a party to search thoroughly the scene of the biplane's crash. Fervently Derek hoped that the tanks would be in action before night fell.

The misty sun sank lower and lower in the western sky. Steadily and stealthily the shadow of the lip of the crater rose higher and higher upon the opposite slope. Evening mists were rising from the dank, unwholesome soil. Then, as the sun set, away to the north-east, and again to the south-west, a steady rumble, and the glare of numerous searchlights and star-shells, betokened considerable activity; while behind the German lines the sky glowered in the light of dozens of burning ammunition-dumps. Notwithstanding the determined resistance offered in this sector of the line, the Germans were preparing for a further retreat and abandonment of ground implacably held by them for more than four long years.

Listening intently, Derek heard slight, but unmistakable sounds of movement in the Hun trenches. Keenly alive to his chances of being carried off as a prisoner by a raiding-party, the pilot began to climb on hands and knees up the slippery, sliding soil of the crater in the direction of the British lines. It was a dangerous business, for, in the open, he would be exposed to the fire from friend and foe, but that was preferable to being hauled off to a German prison camp.

Literally worming his way, Derek slid over the top of the crater and gained the comparatively level ground beyond. Here he lay, inert and silent, his ears strained to catch the faintest sound. He was not mistaken. Even as he was crawling from his place of concealment a number of Huns were, with equal caution, descending into the crater to search for a possible prisoner.

"I'll have a say in the matter," thought Derek, as he loosened his automatic-pistol in its holster. "If they wander round this way I'll give them a few rounds and then run for it. There'll be a risk of being strafed by our own people, but that's preferable to being done in by a Boche."

Fortunately the necessity of having to use his pistol did not arise, for the Huns, having made a survey of the wreckage of the EG machine and the interior of the two craters, were evidently satisfied. No doubt they were "jumpy", groping about in the darkness, for after a few minutes they cleared off as silently as they came.

Waiting for another quarter of an hour Derek resumed his way on all fours towards the British trenches. It was a tedious journey, for wherever, as frequently happened, a star-shell lit up the ground he had to remain immobile, simulating one of the many corpses that littered the ground. The slightest movement would have brought down a hail of machine-gun bullets and possibly a few unpleasantly-accurate rifle-shots from the alert Tommies, and, having gone thus far, Derek was becoming more and more anxious not to receive these attentions.

At length he reached a shell-hole within ten yards of the hastily-improvised parapet of sand-bags. Here he lay listening to the men conversing in low tones. Much of their language was lurid, but nevertheless it was like music to hear English voices again after hours of mental and bodily tension.

He whistled softly. Then a voice hissed out a challenge.

"It's all right," replied Derek. "I'm one of the R.A.F. Can I make a dash for it?"

A consultation between several of the men followed, then a voice spoke:

"In you come. Take your chance; but Heaven help you if you try any monkey-tricks. We'll riddle you."

The pilot waited till the blinding glare of a star-shell gave place to opaque darkness. Then, judging his direction, he made his way to the line of sandbags and crawled over the top.

Into the trench he rolled, to find himself confronted by the dull gleam of a bayonet.

"Looks all right, Sergeant," reported one of the men.

"Maybe," replied a non-com. "At anyrate take him along to the Platoon-Commander."

The subaltern was frankly sympathetic.

"You've had a rotten time, old man," he observed. "We'll send you back as soon as poss. There'll be a tender waiting on the other side of the canal, and you'll be in the dressing-station in half a jiffy. Risky work, yours."

"I wouldn't change jobs," replied Derek, striving to raise a smile, but disastrously. It was a difficult matter to use his facial muscles when an eyebrow was missing. "Yours is a sticky business, and, by Jove! a fellow can't help admiring the infantry. They've all the hard work to do."

"Collar-work, perhaps," agreed the Platoon-Commander. "But the way you fellows do stunts over Jerry's lines gives me the creeps."

"Safe enough," protested Derek, "except, of course, when Fritz gets one in with his Archibalds. I'm going in for a soft job after the war."

"What's that?" enquired the infantry officer.

"Flying," replied the R.A.F. officer. "You mark my words, it'll be one of the safest things going. I think I'll sign on as pilot to a fat city alderman. Take him every day from Hyde Park to the Mansion House in a 240-h.p. Scout. Jolly sight healthier than skidding all over the shop in a car."

"Glad you think so," rejoined the subaltern. "Well, here you are. This Corporal will guide you past our reserve trenches. Good luck!"

Without mishap Derek followed the Corporal through the maze of hostile-constructed trenches and across the canal by means of a barrier of sandbags covered with "corduroyed" timber. In a sunken lane were several A.S.C. motor-vehicles which had just brought up the rations.

"Here you are, sir!" exclaimed the Corporal. "This tender's just off."

"Not so fast, mate," protested the driver, who was sweating profusely in his efforts to start the engine. "She's a fair mule. Come and bear a hand."

Even as the obliging Corporal grasped the cranking-handle a shell burst within twenty yards of the stationary motor-vehicle. Derek ducked involuntarily as he felt the blast of the explosion and the screech of the flying fragments. He was untouched, but the luckless Corporal was lying motionless on the ground, while the driver of the tender was swearing softly as he fumbled for his first-aid dressing.

"I've copped it, sir," he reported. "Got it somewhere in the thigh. It's a Blighty for me, I reckon."

He paused, then, producing a knife, began to cut away his clothing with the deftness acquired by experimenting on his comrades.

"Now if I could get hold of a mate to start her up," he continued ruminatingly, "I'd soon drive the pair o' us to the dressing-station."

"I'll have a shot at it," volunteered Derek, and grasping the handle he swung it vigorously.

The next instant he was nursing a broken arm.

CHAPTER XVII

Turned Down

"Always said she was a mule, sir," exclaimed the driver. "Either she won't fire or else she back-fires when you don't expect it. Did you cop it, sir?"

Derek, with the jagged ends of a compound fractured bone threatening to push through the skin, was compelled to admit that he had.

Apart from the acute pain, it was galling to realize that, after coming through a beautiful crash and spending the best part of the day and night under machine-gun fire in a shell-hole with nothing worse than a slight flesh-wound in the forehead, it was his very hard luck to be crocked up by a mere back-fire, especially as he had been careless enough to grasp the handle in the wrong way.

"Rotten night's work," grumbled the driver, as he liberally dosed his wound with iodine. "Where's that there Corporal, sir? Good Lord, he's copped it, too!"

He bent over the unfortunate N.C.O.

"Dead as mutton," he announced nonchalantly. There was no surprise in his tone. Three years of living cheek by jowl with sudden death in all sorts of terrible forms had blunted his feelings. "Poor bloke! And it might have been a Blighty for him, too—same as me. 'Ere, mate!"

A man bending under the weight of a coil of wire was slouching past. At the hail he threw his burden down, glad of the opportunity to ease his aching shoulders.

"What's up?" he asked.

The driver explained.

"Fat lot you knows about an engine," remarked the new-corner. "That's why they put you in the M.T. And I've been driving motor-lorries all over Yorkshire and Lancashire these ten years. There's not a blinking motor that I can't master, and yet they shove me in the bloomin', foot-slogging infantry. Chronic, I calls it."

"Don't want to hear about your qualifications," broke in the driver with acerbity. "What I want is a practical demonstration."

Then realizing that it was hardly the style to adopt when a favour was required he added:

"'Course it was rough luck on you, mate; but I can't help it, can I? Now be a sport and get the old mule a-going, and I think I can find a whole packet of fags in my greatcoat pocket. Crikey! That was a near 'un," he ejaculated, as a shell burst about a hundred yards away and slightly to the left of the road. "Jerry's putting a lot of stuff over tonight."

"Sure you've got the fags?" enquired the newcomer cautiously. The prospect of getting hold of a packet of cigarettes interested him far more than did the Boche shells. Like the poor, German shells were always present; cigarettes were not.

"Feel in my pockets," said the driver. "They're yours as soon as you get the blessed engine to fire."

The man was about to do so when in the reflected glare of a star-shell he caught sight of the driver's hastily-applied bandage.

"By gum, you've been hit, lad!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so, instead of offering me fags? Reckon as you'll want 'em more'n me, so here goes."

A deft manipulation of throttle and spark, a short rapid jerk of the hitherto refractory cranking-handle, and the engine began throbbing with renewed activity.

Before the driver could hand over the promised guerdon his benefactor settled matters by lifting him easily and gently into the seat. Derek, feeling sick and giddy with the pain of his broken arm, took his seat beside the driver, while the Tommy, slinging his bundle across his shoulders, ambled off into the darkness.

To Derek the journey was a nightmare. Racked with pain, hungry, thirsty, and dead tired, he was hardly conscious of the jolting, swaying vehicle, of the crump of heavy shells that were constantly searching the lines of communication, of the numerous halts owing to the congestion of traffic. Whether it was five miles, or fifty, he had not the remotest idea. All he did was to wedge the shoulder of his unwounded arm into the angle formed by the tilt and the front of the tender, and trust that he would not be flung from his seat by the terrific bumps as the battle-scarred vehicle literally bounded over the uneven road.

He was practically unconscious when deft arms assisted him from the car. He could hear voices sounding dim and far-away. Then he was faintly aware that he was in an underground retreat of vast size that smelt of iodine and ether; a lot of—to him—unnecessary man-handling, a struggle for breath, and then merciful oblivion.

Upon recovering consciousness Derek found himself at a base hospital. His arm had been set in splints, while his forehead was swathed in surgical bandages. It was the second stage of his journey to Blighty.

Three days later he was placed on board a hospital ship at Boulogne. His arm was making very satisfactory progress, and he was able to walk up the gangway unassisted; but, shortly after arriving on the other side, he made his first acquaintance with hospital red tape.

A short train journey brought him to Minterton Station, the nearest place by rail to Tollerby Military Hospital.

Greatly to Derek's surprise he found a nurse, several orderlies, and an ambulance waiting for him.

"But I can walk quite all right," protested the patient.

"No doubt," was the reply, "but you must go in the ambulance; it's routine."

Nor did "routine" end there, for on arriving at the hospital Daventry was peremptorily ordered to go to bed at five in the evening.

"It's routine," explained the nurse. "The doctor will have to take your temperature."

"Surely he can do that without sending me to bed," said Derek resentfully.

The nurse shrugged her shoulders.

"I didn't frame the regulations," she replied. "I'm afraid there's no help for it; to bed you must go."

Followed a not altogether congenial fortnight. The compound fracture healed rapidly; no complications ensued; yet Derek had to exist under restraint, and subjected to the too rigorous rules and regulations of the hospital.

There were eleven other wounded officers in the ward, all bored stiff with things in general, and the hospital in particular. The only diversion, and one that they thoroughly enjoyed, was listening to the lurid and incoherent remarks of their fellow patients whenever they were "coming to" after an operation. It was one of those few occasions when a patient could "speak his mind", even though he were in a semi-conscious state, and invariably the hospital staff came in for a considerable amount of "strafing", to the huge delight of the rest of the ward.

Then came Derek's "Medical Board". He rather welcomed the examination, fully convinced that he would be granted sick leave, and then be ordered to rejoin his squadron. The result was almost equivalent to a knock-out blow between the eyes.

The medicos had no fault to find with the young pilot's arm, but they persisted in harping upon subjects apparently irrelevant to the case, until Derek began to wonder what on earth they were trying to discover.

He found out soon afterwards. His medical history sheet was endorsed "Unfit for flying". Absolutely unaware of the fact, his strenuous flights on the Western Front had resulted in an insidious nervous attack. Although he felt perfectly fit for aerial work, the doctors knew better. Henceforth he was no longer free to soar aloft; the exhilaration of handling the joy-stick of a 'bus was no longer his.

"Won't I be able to fly again?" he asked one of the doctors.

"Possibly you may get another pair of wings some day," replied the R.A.M.C. officer grimly.

"Then I suppose I'm booked for the infantry," continued Derek. "Anyway, that's better than nothing. I want to have a look-in at the finish."

"Not in your present category, my young fire-eater!" replied the doctor. "Aren't there any ground jobs going in the R.A.F.: equipment officer, for example?"

Derek was not enthusiastic. Like Gallio, he cared for none of these things.

"What you want," continued the doctor, "is a job afloat. Nothing like it for fellows off colour after a crash. Do you know anything about the sea?"

"I've knocked about in small yachts," replied Derek. "Nothing in the deep-sea line, unfortunately."

"There are hundreds of amateur yachtsmen doing jolly good work in the R.N.V.R., as you know. 'Harry Tate's Navy' they used to call them; but, by Jove, the way those fellows played the game at Zeebrugge was an eye-opener! I suppose you know that the R.A.F. is starting a new stunt—a Marine branch?"

"Haven't heard yet," replied Derek. "It sounds promising."

"I've a young brother in it," said the doctor. "If you like, I'll write and get particulars. The show's only been running a month, I believe. Sableridge is the name of the place; it's somewhere on the south coast."

Directly Derek received particulars he wrote off to the Air Ministry, stating his qualifications and requesting to be transferred to the Marine section, R.A.F. Promptly came a reply acknowledging his communication, and requesting him to call at Room Number So-and-so at the palatial hotel in use as the head-quarters of the R.A.F.

Without any preliminaries, Derek was subjected to a brief yet searching examination. What did he know about navigation? Could he box a compass, set a course, read a chart, understand the rule of the road and the use of a lead-line? Could he semaphore and Morse? Could he handle a motorboat in a roughish sea?

"Very well," concluded his examiner. "Go home, and if you don't hear from me in a week's time, come up again."

The week passed slowly, for Derek was now keenly interested in what he hoped was to be his new rÔle. A great feature was that he would still be in the R.A.F. He really didn't want to hear within the week, for the chances were that his services might not be required. The uncertainty of the whole performance was exasperating; he couldn't understand why his fate couldn't be decided on the spot.

On the morning of the 7th, just as Derek was about to proceed to the railway station to journey to town, a letter came, with the words, "Air Ministry" printed on the envelope.

It was brief, and to the point. Lieutenant Derek Daventry was to report for duty at the Marine Training Depot, Sableridge, on the 19th instant. Whether he had to appear in khaki or in the new Air Force blue, whether he was to take his field kit, or whether he was to have furnished quarters were points on which he was left entirely in the dark.

"Good enough, though!" he exclaimed. "This sea-service business is some stunt."

CHAPTER XVIII

The First Day at Sableridge

Derek Daventry's arrival at Sableridge Marine Depot could hardly be described as imposing. It might have been picturesque, or at least bizarre.

Upon alighting at Fisherton Station he learnt on enquiry that Sableridge was a good six miles by road, lying, as it did, at the entrance to the extensive Fisherton Harbour. He waited for some time at the railway station in the hope that one of the R.A.F. motor-transport vehicles might put in an appearance. Thwarted in that direction, he tried in vain for a taxi or even a "growler". Finally he bargained with a sleepy youth in charge of a very ramshackle wagonette, who, in consideration of a pecuniary largess of ten shillings, condescended to drive the newly-joining officer to Sableridge.

At a leisurely six miles an hour the wagonette set out on its journey. Apart from the slow pace and the atrocious jolting, Derek enjoyed the ride. Compared with the devastated fields and villages of France the prospect looked entrancingly peaceful as the road wound round the eastern side of the harbour. The tide was in. There was little or no wind, so that the water had the appearance of a vast lake, studded with islands, and backed by numerous hills that culminated in a bold down of a height of six hundred feet or more.

Then a rise in the road brought him in sight of Sableridge, a long peninsula of what appeared to be hummocks of drifting sand clothed in places with coarse tufted grass. Almost every hillock bore an architecturally picturesque house, while the red-tiled roofs of others were visible in the hollows between the dunes. At the far end, where the waters of Fisherton Harbour rush in at the rate of five knots to meet the waters of the English Channel, was a large white building. At no very distant date it had been a popular hotel; now, as the White Ensign floating from the gaff of a tall flagstaff indicated, it was a Government building—the Marine Depot of the R.A.F.

Having reported, Derek was shown his quarters—a large, airy room on the first floor with a balcony from which views of the greater part of Fisherton Harbour could be obtained. This room, he found, he had to share with another lieutenant.

Save for the latter's personal belongings, it was as bare as Mother Hubbard's cupboard, the officers being in unfurnished quarters, for which they drew the sum of half a crown a day.

His batman, having deposited Derek's kit-bag on the floor, enquired whether he was to fetch the new arrival's equipment from the station; to which Daventry had to reply that there was no more forthcoming at present.

Left to himself, Derek took stock of his surroundings. The room required but little attention, but the view without was enthralling. It was during working hours. Motor-boats of all types and speeds were running to and fro. "Skimmers", credited with a speed of fifty knots, and "hydro-glisseurs", weird-looking contraptions consisting of six floats lashed in pairs and driven by an aerial propeller, formed part of the R.A.F. flotilla; while, in acute contrast to the mosquito-like craft, there were two "drifters" lying at moorings and a third slowly "chugging" her way against the tide. These craft, like their more select sisters, bore the distinctive red, white, and blue circles of the R. A. F.

Just beyond a little pier lay the "guard-ship", a subsidized coaster, painted grey, and provided with a towering superstructure. She, too, flew the White Ensign in her rÔle of guardian of the port.

Then, in contrast to the war-time conditions, were the square-sterned fishing-boats, mostly painted white and carrying tanned sails. Good, wholesome, weatherly boats they were, manned by greybeards and youths, who "carried on" while their respective sons and fathers were patrolling in armed merchant-cruisers and drifters to frustrate Fritz's knavish tricks.

"In peace-time I should be paying three or four guineas a week for this room," thought Derek. "Now I'm being paid to occupy it, and am about to have sea trips free, gratis, and for nothing. This is some stunt."

At tea Derek was introduced to his new comrades. There were eleven officers belonging to the permanent staff and fifteen others under instruction. The latter were for the most part youngsters in point of age, many of them joining up direct from school, but veterans in point of war service. Most of them had been flying in the old R.N.A.S. and R.F.C., and their joint record covered every battlefront from Heligoland Bight to German West Africa, and from Mesopotamia to beyond the Scillies—pilots who had faced death a hundred times and had cheated the grim messenger by crashing and surviving. And now they had exchanged the joy-stick for the wheel of a motor-launch and the zest of flying for the equally exhilarating lift of the ocean.

The meal over, the crowd of junior officers adjourned to the shore—the tide being low and the moon full—to play sand-cricket and rounders until it was time to change for mess. The meal over, there was a "liberty-boat" to the "beach"—the boat consisting of a motor-lorry, while the beach was the term used to denote the neighbouring seaside town of Coombeleigh.

"Ripping fine station!" commented Blair, Derek's room-mate. "I've been in a few stations in my time, but this is the one. By Jove, if things continue as they are going, we'll have a top-hole time! The Colonel? He's one of the best, but I pity the fellow who slacks. Yes, the C.O. expects a high standard, and he'll get it, or there'll be trouble. An' the Major's absolutely 'it': couldn't wish for a better. Of course we aren't in full working order yet. There are only half the number of men here at present, and the majority of 'em are a scratch lot. We've got to lick them into shape as seamen, and it's a tough proposition, I can tell you. Got your bedding yet?"

"No," replied Derek. "I'll have to sleep rough to-night, but it won't be the first time."

"I'll take you to the Stores Officer," continued Blair. "He'll fix you up with bed-boards and some blankets. Give the batman a shout, and tell him to bring the gear along."

In a very short space of time Derek's equipment was augmented by a couple of trestles and three boards. These formed the bed. On that were placed half a dozen blankets and a straw pillow—a Spartan couch, but far better than many he had slept upon in damp and stuffy dug-outs in France.

Hardly had Derek settled his scanty belongings when he was sent for by the C.O. His first official task was to accompany the Colonel and the Major to a large private house adjoining, which had recently been commandeered for officers' quarters. The former occupiers—a lady and her daughter—still remained in possession of a room in the basement.

The Colonel allotted the rooms, Derek's duty being to pin a cardboard strip, bearing the various officers' names, on the doors. He was on the point of completing the work when the late owner spoke to him.

"I quite understand," said she, "that my house is taken over by the Royal Air Force; but would you give my compliments to the Colonel and tell him that I must object to having one of my best rooms turned into a wood and coal store."

Somewhat mystified, Derek asked to be shown the room referred to. He hadn't the faintest recollection of any room being given over as a fuel store.

"Oh, yes, I can show you," rejoined the lady. "Here you are."

She pointed to the door of a large room on the ground floor. On it was written "Lieuts. Woods and Coles".

Admirably concealing his desire to smile Derek explained.

"I am so sorry," replied the evicted tenant apologetically. "I am rather short-sighted. I quite thought it was 'Wood and Coals'."

Punctually at four bells Derek turned in, and, notwithstanding the hardness of his plank-bed, he slept soundly, lulled by the murmur of the surf upon the sand. It was the end of his first day of home service in a new branch. To-morrow he was to start work in earnest as a motor-boat officer of the Royal Air Force.

CHAPTER XIX

U-boat versus Motor-boat

For the next few days the work of turning chaos into order and knocking raw material into fairly smart crews proceeded apace. Patience and energy overcame difficulties, and although there were many ludicrous displays afloat, "George Robey's Marines", as they were dubbed by the Fisherton seafolk, managed to make considerable headway without any serious accident.

The crew told off under Derek's orders were a mixed lot. One was a solicitor, another a master from a public school, numbers three and four were bank clerks, while the fifth was a Lancashire coal-miner. Once having overcome the tendency to refer to the boat as "it", and to the bows as the "pointed end", they began to get into shape. Mornings they spent in lecture-rooms ashore, listening to and trying to master the theory of compass-work, knots and splices, and the use of the lead-line. This instruction was varied by lessons in signalling, the intricacies of the Naval and International Codes, semaphore and Morse being patiently explained by the Signalling Instructor—a hard-working individual whose soul appeared to be wrapped up in bunting from the eight a.m. parade to five and after seven-thirty in the evening.

In the afternoon the classes went afloat, while those who had been in the boats during the morning were told off for instruction on shore. Altogether it was a case of long hours and diligent application, and to their credit the men rose nobly to the occasion.

It was a proud day for Derek when for the first time he took his boat across the bar and out to the open sea. His command, from the stern of which the White Ensign floated grandly in the breeze, was a half-decked motor-craft of thirty-five feet in length. The engine was completely under cover, being placed well for'ard. Abaft the half-deck was an open well, fitted with a canvas "dodger", that afforded slight protection from wind and spray. Here were stationed the coxswain and the engineer, while usually the officer in charge would take up his post by the coxswain. Abaft the well was a fairly spacious cock-pit, provided with a folding awning that in heavy weather afforded complete protection from rain and spray. "All out", the boat was capable of doing seventeen knots, although it was customary to run her at only half throttle.

"Let go, for'ard! Cast off!"

"All clear, sir!"

"Easy ahead!"

With a gentle motion the motor-boat glided away from the pier on her first run under Lieutenant Derek Daventry's command, then, gathering speed, headed down the buoyed channel towards the distant Bar Buoy, while Derek, with frequent references to a chart, stood by the none-too-competent coxswain.

It was no use denying that Derek fully realized his position. His sensations were somewhat akin to those on the occasion of his first solo flight, but with this difference. Then he was responsible for himself alone. If an accident had occurred through his inexperience or error it was he alone who would have suffered. Now he was directly responsible for the safety of five men with practically no experience of the ways of the sea, who looked to him implicitly, took their orders from him, and, in short, placed their lives in his hands. Added to this was the fact that he was answerable for the safety of the boat—a practically brand-new craft that had cost the nation a sum closely approaching £2000.

To port and starboard of the narrow channel were dangerous, unobtrusive sandbanks, studded with concealed ledges of rock, their presence indifferently marked by the milk-white rollers that lashed themselves in impotent fury upon the shoals. A slight error of judgment, a wrong turn of the helm, and the frail cockle-shell would almost certainly run aground, and be dashed to pieces in the breakers.

Derek quickly found that R.A.F. 1164 B—that being the official designation of his command—was decidedly wet. Her long, lean bows, and the weight of her engines being well for'ard, tended to make her shove her nose into it. Showers of icy spray flew inboard, enveloping the occupants of the steering-well, and making them duck their heads as they gasped for breath. Well it was that Derek and his crew were well equipped with oilskins and sea-boots; even thus protected moisture found its way down their necks, soaking chillily against their chests and backs.

Nevertheless it was wildly exhilarating. The rapid pulsations of the powerful motor, the rhythmic lift of the long, lean hull to the waves, the hiss and the sting of the flying spindrift, and the unwonted sensation of speed—a sensation not experienced when flying at a height—all combined to give a new zest to life.

And to what purpose? At first sight it was a mere joy-ride, a pleasure-trip in an expensive motor-boat at the cost of the British taxpayer. But it was part of a system of training. Since the amalgamation of the R.F.C. and the R.N.A.S. it was hardly the thing to continue to draw upon the hard-worked navy for sea-going craft to attend upon the rapidly-increasing fleet of coastal airships and sea-planes. And since the aerial-fleet is liable to accident, it is also advisable to have assistance promptly and efficiently. Hence the necessity for the formation of an auxiliary marine branch of the R.A.F., so that in the event of a "Blimp" or a flying-boat being compelled to "land" upon the sea, aid would be quickly forthcoming from the motor-boat about to be attached to the various sea-coast air-stations. And as soon as the officer under training at Sableridge had passed his period of probation in charge of a small craft he would be posted in command of one of those seaworthy vessels known as a "coastal M.L.", on board of which he would live an almost idyllic existence, sleeping and living in one of the most comfortable little ward-rooms imaginable.

At reduced speed M.B. No. 1164 B crossed the bar, wallowing and plunging in the confused cross-seas. But for the protection afforded by the after-canopy she might have fared badly, for green water was slapping viciously against the canvas covering on both quarters. Although wet, she was a good sea-boat, and, beyond a quantity of spray, she passed through her ordeal without shipping any dangerous quantity of water. Then, gathering way, she glided serenely over the long, oily rollers of the open bay.

Derek's orders were to cruise within the limits of Old Tom—a detached chalk pinnacle on the south-western side of Coombeleigh Bay—and Thorbury Head, a bold promontory on the eastern side. Here, with ordinary caution, a boat could come to little harm, the water being fairly deep, and unencumbered with rocks or dangerous currents.

Three or four miles away, and also within the limits of the bay, the Fisherton fleet was at work, the boats running under reduced canvas, with their heavy trawls trailing astern. In the bright sunshine their dark-tan canvas and white hulls made a pleasing picture, the warm colours contrasting vividly with the yellow cliffs and dark-green of the pine-woods fringing the bay. Far out to the southward could be discerned the squat form of a Blimp as it see-sawed five hundred feet above an up-channel tramp steamer—the solitary visible reminder that there was a war on, and that there were such things as U-boats lying in wait for British merchantmen.

For the best part of an hour Derek exercised his crew, practising "man overboard"—the "man" being represented by a life-buoy thrown overboard at an unexpected moment—and also slowing down for the purpose of enabling the individual members of the crew to fix their position on the chart by means of cross-bearings.

Suddenly the dull boom of a gun broke the stillness of the air. Derek, who was bending over the sight-vanes of the compass, raised his head at the familiar sound, although what seemed to be a long time had elapsed since he last heard the report of a quick-firer.

To his astonishment he was just in time to see the masts and sails of one of the fishing-boats disappear over the side, to the accompaniment of a shower of spray and a cloud of smoke from the bursting projectile while less than four hundred yards away from its victim was a large U-boat.

The pirate had evidently been resting on the sandy bottom of the bay, and finding that she was in the vicinity of a fleet of small and unprotected fishing-craft, had judged it a good opportunity for an object-lesson in kultur.

A careful survey of the horizon by means of the periscopes had failed to reveal anything of a suspicious nature to the kapitan-leutnant of the unterseeboot. M.B. No. 1164 B, lying motionless on the water, was an inconspicuous object, her aviation-grey painted sides hardly visible against the haze on the skyline.

The crew of the motor-boat looked enquiringly at their skipper. It never occurred to them that a hostile craft was in the vicinity. Not one of them had seen a U-boat except in the form of a picture in an illustrated paper, and this one did not resemble their idea of a German submarine.

Derek weighed up the case in a few brief seconds. Here he was in a fast motor-boat with a raw, practically untrained crew, and with not so much as a pea-shooter on board. The Hun probably carried a couple of six-inch quick-firers and a few machine-guns. By force Derek could do nothing.

Nor could he, with any degree of honour, seek safety in flight and leave the slowly-moving fishing-boats to the mercy, or rather the lack of mercy, of a ruthless pirate compared with whom the Buccaneers of the Spanish Main were gentlemen.

By stratagem Derek might do something. Unceremoniously pushing aside the still bewildered coxswain, and ordering the engineer to "let her rip for all she's worth", Derek swung the helm hard over until the motor-boat headed straight for the long, low-lying, sinister hull.

"Full throttle!" yelled Daventry. "Lie down, men, all of you."

M.B. No. 1164 B, gathering way, travelled faster than ever she had done since her acceptance trials. Her long, lean bows lifted clean out of the water, while her stern squatted deeply into the trough of her wake, and feathery shafts of spray shot out far and wide of her knife-like stem. Viewed "bows on" she presented a puzzling, nay alarming, proposition to Fritz, whose nerves were already unstrung through the effects of half a dozen narrow squeaks. All he saw was something approaching at terrific speed. He knew that there were mosquito craft that had their stings in their tails, and depth-charges were his great aversion and terror.

Nearer and nearer drew the motor-boat. Derek's resolution increased with every revolution of the propeller. He had started with the idea of "putting the wind up Fritz", but now he meant to hurl the boat bodily at the submarine, and take his chance of being picked up. A 35-foot boat travelling at seventeen knots would by its momentum shatter some of the hull plates of the submarine, but at the same time her bows would crumple up like brown paper.

Once and once only did the Lieutenant turn his head and glance at his crews. For novices they were behaving splendidly, lying stiffly, yet alertly, on the cockpit-gratings, although they could not resist the temptation of looking over the side to "see how things were going". Not a man showed a trace of fear. It was an expression of determination, of really "doing his bit" that showed itself in the knit brows of every member of the crew.

The U-boat made no attempt to do further damage to the fishing-boats. Two men at the quick-firer abaft the conning-tower swung the weapon round and let fly at the elusive target presented by the bows of R.A.F. 1164 B. Derek saw the flash, and distinctly heard the screech of the projectile ere it burst four hundred yards astern.

It was the last show. Already the U-boat's nose was dipping. The gunners, abandoning their weapon, bolted precipitately for the after-hatchway. With a resounding clang the water-tight metal cover fell in its appointed place, and the long, unsightly grey hull slithered beneath the waves in a swirl of froth and foam.

With mingled feelings of exultation and relief—exultation because he had scared the Hun into ignominious flight, and relief because he had not been compelled to sacrifice his boat and his men on the altar of duty—Derek put the helm hard-a-port, and, without slowing down, began to circle round the spot where the U-boat had disappeared. How he regretted that R.A.F. 1164 B was not fitted with depth-charges. No doubt, too, the kapitan-leutnant of the submerged craft now noticed the omission, but the chances were that he was too scared to attempt to rise to the surface and engage by gun-fire the interfering little spit-fire. He promptly crawled along a few feet above the bed of the sea—slowly, lest the following wake of the U-boat would betray its presence—until he imagined that he was safe from pursuit.

Meanwhile the fishing-boats were running for port, the dismasted craft in tow, and steered by a venerable greybeard whose silvery locks were bound with a blood-stained handkerchief, while his "mate", otherwise his fourteen-year-old grandson, was nursing a badly-lacerated leg, and thanking his lucky stars that he was not one of Germany's sons.

Having satisfied himself that the fishing-boats were out of danger Derek steered for the harbour. Just as he crossed the bar he saw two coastal airships making seawards.

"That's good!" he remarked to the coxswain. "Those fellows will do some very efficient strafing, unless I'm much mistaken. It hasn't been a bad run, has it?"

"No, sir," agreed the coxswain. "Quite an enjoyable little picnic."

CHAPTER XX

The Blimp and the Skate

During the initial stages of the life of the R.A.F. Marine Training Depot there was one thing missing. No doubt there were others, but this one, in the eyes of the C.O. and officers, was of great moment. The men would fall in on parade smartly and rapidly; the colours would be hoisted at nine in the morning with Éclat; there were sentries posted to pay proper compliments to officers; and a superb gun-metal bell tolled out the hours and half-hours in correct ship's time.

But there was no bugler; nor was there a bugle even if a bugler had been forthcoming. And a bugler capable of blowing a loud-sounding bugle was a desideratum. He would become the coping-stone of the building of efficiency.

The Major did his level best to obtain some Boy Scout buglers from Fisherton, but, false to their precepts, the youngsters were not prepared to use their breath for two shillings a day on behalf of the R.A.F. when they could earn thrice that amount elsewhere.

It looked as if Sableridge Depot would fail to attain that degree of pomp and circumstance when fate, in the guise of the Drafting Officer at Blandborough Depot, played into its hands. Amongst a batch of new arrivals was a gem, a priceless jewel—a man who could blow a bugle.

He was a short, tubby individual with watery-blue eyes and a flat, rubicund nose. Quiet and unassuming, his arrival was hailed with acclamation. Had he asked for a silver trumpet and a pair of wings of a slightly different type to those worn by airmen no doubt the delighted officers would have done their level best to accede to his request. As it was they subscribed and purchased a trumpet, the sounds of which floated across the parade-ground in a manner calculated to raise the martial spirit of all ranks well above boiling-point.

Morning, noon, and night the clarion-like notes made the welkin ring. From RÉveillÉ to Retreat and Last Post, and whenever circumstances demanded, there was the depot bugler with his highly-polished and tasselled trumpet.

For nearly a week this idyllic state of affairs continued, until the wellnigh exhausted bugler applied for leave in order to proceed to Belfast to bury a near relative.

He was granted seven days, and took his departure forthwith. A gloom descended over Sableridge. The polished bugle was silent, and reposed on a green baize-covered table in the orderly-room like a fairy princess awaiting the arrival of the enchanter to restore her to life.

The week passed, but no bugler returned. At the end of ten days he was posted as a deserter. Enquiries at Belfast showed that he had not been seen there, nor were any of his relations in need of his services as a mourner.

Then came the staggering blow. The meek and mild musical treasure was under lock and key, arrested by the civil police for at least half a dozen burglaries. The last heard of him was that he had received a sentence calculated to carry him well beyond the "duration", and the shattered idol was not replaced. Sableridge carried on without a bugler.

A day or so after the disappearance of the bugler Derek had to take his crew out into the bay for further instruction. It was mostly compass work and fixing positions by cross-bearings, and since speed was against successful work, the boat was slowed down and a trawl shot. This was killing two birds with one stone: there was plenty of time for compass-bearings, while there was a chance of supplying the mess with fish.

The first cast was a failure owing to the net getting foul of a submerged rock, but on the second attempt it became evident by the weight of the net that something was enmeshed.

"We've a good haul this time, I think," exclaimed Derek.

"Let's hope so, sir," announced the coxswain. "We can't be too sure, though. I remember my brother telling me about when he was off the Dardanelles—up Mudros way to be exact—he an' some pals did a lot of trawling. They thought they had a jolly good catch, but when they hauled in the net they found two dead mules and two old boots."

Slowly the weed-encumbered meshes were hauled inboard until the bulging pocket came in sight, packed with white and grey writhing fish—skate, flounder, and two large dog-fish.

"Those flat fish are all right," continued the coxswain. "I don't know about those skate. Rummy-lookin' creatures, ain't they, sir?"

The deep bass hum of an aerial propeller attracted the crew's attention from the catch. Five hundred feet overhead was a coastal airship which had drifted down silently with her engines shut off, and, having just restarted her motors, was manoeuvring into the wind's eye.

Perhaps it was as well that R.A.F. 1164 B carried on her fore-deck a square of canvas painted with the distinctive red, white, and blue circles. This device was a guarantee of her identity as a friend. Without it a small, grey-painted craft might easily be mistaken for a U-boat, with disastrous results.

Then the engines were stopped again. Over the side of the nacelle a leather-helmeted and begoggled head appeared. The pilot, raising a megaphone to his lips, hailed:

"R.A.F. launch ahoy! Any fish to spare us?"

"Right-o!" shouted Derek in reply, but his voice was apparently inaudible to the airship's crew, for the hail was repeated.

"Hold up some fish and let them see," ordered Derek.

One of the men displayed the largest skate, a lozenge-shaped fish measuring more than a yard from fin to fin.

"That's done them!" exclaimed Derek.

But he was mistaken. Like a cormorant swooping down from a beacon, the huge and seemingly ungainly airship tilted her nose and dropped almost vertically until her nacelle was within fifty or sixty feet of the water. Then, with her propeller revolving at a reduced rate, she forged ahead on a similar course to that of the motor-boat.

"By Jove! She's paying out her aerial. That's a smart move," announced Derek. "Easy ahead! Follow her up, coxswain."

Rapidly the thin but strong wire was unwound until the end dangled within reach of the crew of the boat. In a trice one of the men grasped the wire and bent it round the tail of the skate.

"Haul in!" shouted Derek.

"Thanks, old man!" yelled the Blimp's pilot in reply. "When you've a chance, look us up at Netherton. We'll give you a joy-ride."

"Sure thing!" replied Derek. "I'm on it!"

The airship rose slowly, her crew still winding in the skate that was revolving rapidly at the end of the aerial; then, having gained possession of the novel catch, the Blimp bore swiftly southwards to resume her patrol, while No. 1164 B steadied on her helm and shaped a course back to the Bar Buoy.

Happening to glance aft, Derek was somewhat surprised to find a small black kitten in the after-cockpit.

"What's that animal doing on board?" he demanded.

"Our mascot, sir," replied one of the men. "The Adjutant's dog chased it on board just before we left the pier."

"No. 17 coming out, sir," reported the coxswain, pointing to a motor-craft that was approaching at high speed. Interest in the kitten was transferred to the oncoming boat.

"She's signalling, sir," continued the coxswain, as a man holding a couple of hand-flags mounted the plunging fore-deck.

"Will you take Sergeant-Instructor Jenkins on board for the purpose of adjusting compass?" read the coxswain.

Both boats slowed down on approaching, and rounded gunwale to gunwale. The Sergeant, a short, burly man, who looked what he was—a seaman ex-R.N., in spite of his khaki uniform—saluted, and stepped into No. 1164 B.

"Ready to carry on, sir?" he asked.

"Yes, carry on, Sergeant," replied Derek.

The N.C.O. bent down to unship the hood of the compass. As he did so the kitten scrambled upon his back and on to his shoulder. With a yell the Sergeant dropped the metal hood fairly on the top of the compass. The glass cracked, the compass tilted on its gimbals, and the liquid poured from the bowl.

"That's gone west, sir!" exclaimed the Sergeant apologetically. "Sorry, sir; it was that blessed cat. Can't stick cats at any price. Completely up-end me, they do."

It was evident that nothing further could be done in the matter of adjusting that compass. The N.C.O. was profuse in his regrets, but regrets were unable to repair the damaged instrument. Accordingly the coxswain was ordered to take the boat back into the harbour.

"Yes, sir," resumed the Sergeant. "Cats are my 'beatty nowhere', [1] as the Frenchies say. Can't stick 'em at any price," he reiterated. "Got disrated once over a party of cats."

"Eh?" exclaimed Derek incredulously.

"Fact, sir; it was in '97, when I was yeoman of signals on the Spondulux—third-class cruiser she was. We were lying off the west coast, with awnings rigged day and night, and all that sort o' thing, and perishing hot it was, too. Well, we had a cat on board, which was bad enough, but, to make matters worse, the cat had kittens. One night I was keeping the middle watch when I heard a most awful racket. You'll understand, sir, we had the poop awning set, and the dew had stretched it as tight as a drum. There was that cat and her kittens careering up and down the awning and playing all sorts of pranks. The skipper rings his bell, so down I goes to his cabin. 'What's that?' he asked, holding up his hand, as if I couldn't hear plain enough. 'Cats, sir,' says I. 'Stop it,' says he. Those being my orders I had to carry 'em out. So out I turned, creeping along the ridge-rope of that blessed awning trying to collar the furry brood, or, rather, to drive 'em for'ard, 'cause touching 'em always sends cold shivers down my back. I hadn't gone a couple of yards before the awning parted, and down I went through the hole smack upon the poop. The Bloke (Commander) comes tumbling up out of his cabin, swears I've been skylarking, and takes away my badges."

Against the strong ebb tide R.A.F. 1164 B rubbed alongside the pier. The men were ascending the steps when the Officer of the Watch appeared.

"What's that kitten doing on board?" he enquired; then, without waiting for an explanation, he continued: "Sergeant Jenkins, hand that animal out."

The harassed instructor obeyed, although there were strong indications of repugnance as he handled the inoffensive little kitten.

The Officer of the Watch caught Derek's eye. The officers winked at each other, for each knew Sergeant Jenkins's antipathy.

"That's the stuff to give 'em," murmured the O.W.

[1] BÊte noire.

CHAPTER XXI

An Independent Command

Training under war-time conditions must necessarily be as brief as possible, consistent with a certain degree of efficiency; and the period of instruction at Sableridge was no exception. As quickly as raw material could be fashioned into fairly competent motor-boatmen, drafts were sent away and recruits brought in to fill their places, in order that the R.A.F. marine might relieve the Royal Navy of a certain branch of its work—namely, attending upon sea-planes and coastal airships.

As far as an officer under instruction was concerned, the test was a simple, and at the same time a drastic one. He might be sent at a few hours' notice to bring a motor-boat round from, say, Great Yarmouth to Sableridge, a distance of between two and three hundred miles. He had to use his discretion—to remain in port should the weather look threatening, or the atmospheric conditions point to fog or mist. Nevertheless, it was no light task to navigate a half-decked motor-craft in the depth of winter, when short days and dark nights added to the difficulties of making a passage.

It was of no use for an officer to attempt to live on his reputation. He had to be prepared to execute orders rationally and efficiently. There was one second-lieutenant who boasted that in pre-war days he had navigated his own yacht from Blackpool to the Isle of Man. Shortly after he had reported for duty at the depot an officer was required to bring a motor-launch round from Harwich.

"Why not send Ruby, sir?" suggested the Major, as he and the Colonel were debating as to who should be deputed for the task. "He has taken a boat across to the Isle of Man."

So Second-Lieutenant Ruby received his sailing orders, and for the next few days he walked about like a man in a trance. The magnitude of his task appalled him. Finally he went to the Major and declared that he was not equal to navigating the boat. From that moment he ceased to be a motor-boat officer, and was given a tedious but safe shore-billet.

It was towards the end of the first week in November that Derek Daventry received his orders for his first trip as an independent command. His instructions were to take two 35-footers and proceed to Wagshot Air Station, where he was to receive a sea-plane and tow her back to Sableridge. The double distance amounted to nearly seventy miles, of which half was open sea work. The sea-plane was an obsolete machine, the engines of which had been removed, and was required merely for the purpose of practising how to take this kind of aircraft in tow.

All the previous day Derek was exceptionally busy. On him rested the responsibility of the voyage. He had to see that the boats' equipment was in order, that the tanks were filled with petrol, that there was plenty of lubricating oil on board, that the men had drawn their rations and blankets, and that charts and navigating instruments were on board.

Before sunset the two boats were moored alongside the pier. The start was timed for six in the morning. Hardly ever had Derek studied the barometer so frequently and so carefully. Twice during the night he rose from his camp-bed, donned trench-coat and sea-boots, and walked down to the pier, in order to satisfy himself that the boats were riding properly in the tide-way, and that their securing-rope had sufficient slack to allow for the rise and fall of the tide.

At 5 a.m., just as he was enjoying a sound slumber, he was awakened by his batman.

"What sort of morning is it?" he asked.

"Cold, sir, and fine," replied the man. "Bright moonlight, and hardly any wind."

Quickly Derek tumbled out of bed and began to dress. Experience had taught him that to be warmly clad in a boat is as necessary as when flying. Over his khaki breeches he wore a pair of thick flannel trousers. On his feet he had a pair of socks, a pair of woollen stockings, and a voluminous pair of india-rubber sea-boots. Walking even a short distance in loosely-fitting boots inevitably resulted in the total destruction of the heels of the socks, but on the other hand it would be a fairly simple matter to kick off the boots in the event of Derek finding himself "in the ditch". Sea-boots that fit tightly, and cannot be taken off quickly in an emergency, are nothing short of death-traps.

He discarded his tunic, wearing in its place two thick sweaters. The next items were his oilskin trousers and coat, while the only outward and visible sign that he held His Majesty's Commission in the R.A.F. was his cap, with the distinctive badge of the crown, eagle, and wings.

By the time he had completed dressing breakfast was served. He ate his meal in solitary state in the electrically-lighted mess-room. There was no question of the excellence of the food at Sableridge, even in war-time. Hot Scotch porridge, with treacle, eggs and bacon, toast, real butter, marmalade and jam—a square meal to fortify the young officer's inner man for the coming ordeal of a sea-voyage. Feeling rather like an arctic explorer, for across his shoulders he now carried a well-filled haversack and a pair of binoculars, Derek descended the steps of the officers' mess and walked down to the pier.

The batman was right. It was a cold morning. Every bush was festooned with hoar-frost that glistened in the moonlight. The planks of the pier were slippery with ice, while there was a biting coldness in the air that gave a zest to life, even at six o'clock on a November morning.

The crews of the two boats were already at the pier-head, black oilskinned figures, looking like ghostly familiars in the grey light. Both craft had their engines running, the fumes from the exhausts rising strongly in the cold air. From the stern of each boat flew the White Ensign, while as a distinguishing pennant each displayed the "International F" from the short iron mast abaft the fore-deck.

Then came a grim reminder that there were war risks even on a coastal voyage. Before embarking every man had to give his name to the signalman on the pier-head, in order that their next-of-kin should be promptly informed if the boats met with disaster and the crews failed to return.

"All ready?"

"All ready, sir!"

"Cast off!"

With a slight jerk, as the clutch was slipped in, the 35-footer gathered way, her White Ensign temporarily enveloped in the bluish haze of the exhaust. A slight touch on the wheel steadied her on her helm, and soon the white signal-house on Sableridge Pier was a misty wraith in the darkness.

Half a cable's length astern followed the second boat, her sergeant-coxwain, unused to the science of navigation, although he knew how to handle a small craft, keeping station with the utmost fidelity. At that distance she was a mere indistinct grey wedge, her position chiefly indicated by the "bone in her teeth", otherwise the creamy froth leaping from her knife-like bows and thrown wide on either side by her pronounced flare.

Ahead the Bar Buoy winked its friendly greeting. No other light was visible in that quarter, and steering for that particular light was "not good enough", when on either hand of the narrow channel were dangerous sandbanks, on the fringes of which the surf was pounding heavily.

It was on this account that Derek kept looking astern. Over the bobbing canopy and beyond the fluttering ensign were two white lights, one several feet higher than the other, and actually four hundred yards apart. These were the only lights ashore, and were permitted when the exhibition of any other illuminant would result in a fine not exceeding £500. In short, they were the harbour leading lights, and as long as a mariner kept them in line, either when entering or leaving the fairway, he could carry on in absolute confidence, scorning the hidden dangers on either hand.

The Bar Buoy at last! Giving the boat starboard helm Derek swung her round until her head pointed due east. Already his cap and oilskins were running with moisture, and the salt spray was stinging his face and making his eyes smart despite the scanty protection afforded by the "dodger".

"Hardly so comfortable as my old 'bus," thought Daventry; "but it's jolly exhilarating. Now then, old lady, let's see how you take that one!"

"That one" referred to a crested "comber" that was bearing down towards the swiftly-moving boat. A slight touch on the helm and the fine bows swung round to take the advancing mass of water line on. Administrating a vicious slap to the wave the motor-boat lifted to the crested billow. Spray came hissing aft in solid sheets, pattering on the canvas canopy with a sound similar to that of peas being shaken in a wooden box. She was through, but immediately beyond was another wall of water.

Right down until her fore-deck ventilators were hidden plunged the boat. For a moment Derek thought she would never recover herself. The engine faltered. In a second the alert engineer was at the throttle and the "spark".

"Water on the mag, sir," he shouted. "I'll have to ease her."

"And about time," thought Derek. "Wonder if it's like this all the blinking way?"

But soon the boat entered smoother water. The breakers were on the weather side of the bar. Beyond was easier going.

Winking the moisture from his eyes, Derek glanced astern. The other boat was making fairly good weather of it, although she looked to be nothing more than a double wing of white foam.

"Good enough," declared Derek, and, calling to one of the deck-hands, he gave the wheel over into his care, admonishing him to report immediately Thorbury Head became visible.

"Now for a smoke!" he exclaimed, and, pulling out his favourite pipe, he carefully loaded up.

Curiosity prompted him to see what the rest of the crew were doing. Grasping the life-lines on the canopy he made his way aft, his sole foothold being the narrow, slippery water-ways.

Under the awning were the rest of the crew, lying helpless on top of a nondescript heap of blankets and oilskins, together with the disintegrated rations—fresh beef, "bully", and loaves. In the throes of sea-sickness the hapless "George Robey's Marines" hardly cared whether they were on or in the sea.

Clearly nothing could be done to help the luckless victims of mal de mer, so Derek made his way back to the steering-well, and, standing behind the coxswain, surveyed the outlook.

There was very little to be seen, only a limited expanse of white-crested water, bounded by darkness that was even now struggling for mastery with the first faint tints of a grey dawn. Land, somewhere within three miles, was invisible. All that the helmsman had to depend upon was a small and untested compass fixed in a rather inaccessible and unhandy spot, and within three feet of the mass of metal comprising the six-cylinder motor.

There was also the danger of bumping on a drifting mine. Derek realized the peril. Fortunately perhaps for them, the men were in ignorance of the fact that mines had been reported within thirty miles of Fisherton Harbour, and, with an onshore wind and the indraught of the tide, thirty miles was a very small distance for one of these instruments of destruction to drift in forty-eight hours.

Added to this there was the possibility of being fired upon by the batteries at Churst and Fort Edward, guarding the narrow channel leading to the tidal estuary on the banks of which Wagshot Air Station stands. Although the forts had been warned that the two R.A.F. motor-boats were passing, there was always a chance that a highly-strung battery-commander might mistake the two grey hulls for the conning-towers of a pair of U-boats and give the order to open fire. Such a thing had been done before, with disastrous results.

Suddenly Derek's reveries were broken by the coxswain shouting:

"There it is, sir; a couple of points on the port bow!"

Unable to comprehend the nature of the intelligence, Derek peered ahead in the direction indicated, quite expecting to see a horned mine a few yards from the bows. Then he heaved a sigh of relief, for looming faintly through the mist was the unmistakable outline of Thorbury Head.

CHAPTER XXII

A Mouldy Station

Ten minutes later the boats were in the turmoil of the troubled water caused by the swirl of the tide over Thorbury Ledge. Had it been light enough for anyone standing on the headland to watch the two diminutive craft struggling through the broken water, he would doubtless have expected to see the frail cockle-shells founder under his eyes.

It was hazardous work, certainly; but by this time Derek had the utmost confidence in the seaworthiness of his two craft. Often hidden from each other by the intervening crests, the boats behaved wondrously; but the youthful officer in charge was relieved to know that wind and tide were in the same direction. Had it been otherwise things might have been different. From the headland it was now plain sailing, for in the gathering light the slender tower of the lighthouse at Fort Churst could be discerned, standing out clearly against the dark background of the well-wooded hills. In forty minutes both boats were passing through the narrow channel. Signals were exchanged with the batteries, and the welcome order to proceed was received.

It was now comparatively smooth water. The crews, recovering from their malady, were able to sit up and take nourishment in the shape of bread and bully beef. More, they began to take a lively interest in their surroundings, although the aspect of that land-locked stretch of water in war-time and in November was far different from what it had been previous to August, 1914, when the sea was dotted with the sails of countless yachts.

"Wonder if it will ever be the same again?" thought Derek. "One thing's fairly certain: we won't see the German Emperor afloat here, unless as a prisoner of war on a British battleship."

Over a vast observation minefield the boats glided serenely. Fifty feet beneath their keels were cylinders of powerful explosive that at the touch of an electrically-connected key ashore would blow a hostile ship to atoms. Farther on there were mechanical contact-mines, moored fathoms down so that a vessel of the deepest draught could pass unscathed but should a U-boat attempt to nose her way in by creeping just above the bottom of the sea, her fate would be swift and terrible.

"Keep a sharp look-out for the gateway," ordered Derek, as he placed a fresh man at the helm. "It's getting a bit misty, and we don't want to run full tilt against the boom."

The boats were now nearing the innermost line of anti-submarine defences of the western approach to the greatest naval harbour in the world. Right across the water-way was a triple line of massive wire hawsers, supported by barrels at frequent intervals. So much was visible; what was not visible was a wondrous complication of nets, explosive charges, and other effective anti-submarine defences. Britain's sure and safe shield was taking no undue risks with Fritz and all his evil works. To enable authorized vessels to pass, a gateway had been constructed. Between two large craft moored a cable's length apart there was a movable section of the barrier, and towards this the two motor-boats steered.

"Motor-boats ahoy!" hailed an officer from one of the guard-ships. "You are to proceed to Bull Roads and await further orders from the S.N.O."

Against this mandate there was no appeal. The word of the Senior Naval Officer was more than law. Doubtless it meant irritating and apparently needless delay, but, whatever the object of the order, it had to be put into effect without delay.

"Aye, aye, sir!" shouted Derek in reply. He knew perfectly well that non-compliance would result in a six-pounder shell fired across his bows, and almost immediately a salvo from the guardship's quick-firers.

"Port helm!" continued Daventry, addressing the coxswain. Round swung his boat; the one astern instantly followed suit, and a course was shaped for Bull Roads, an open anchorage barely two miles distant.

Arriving here the boats had orders to anchor, and for four long hours they rolled heavily in the tide-way. Naval patrol-boats of all sorts and sizes passed continually, but none appeared to pay the slightest attention to the two strangers within their gates. It was not until well into the afternoon that a patrol-boat eased down within a few feet of Derek's craft.

"You can proceed," announced the officer.

"Why have we been detained?" asked Derek, wondering at the bald announcement and the lack of explanation.

The sub-lieutenant R.N.R. shrugged his shoulders.

"Ask me another, old sport," he replied. "If you want to carry on do so at once, before the Old Man puts another stopper on you. Bon voyage!"

The motors were started up; foot by foot the chain cables were brought on board until the anchors, their palms smothered in blue, slimy clay, were hauled up and secured. Then, in the gathering twilight, the boats headed for their destination. By this time the mist had increased considerably. Visibility was a matter of a couple of hundred yards. It was bitterly cold, the air being raw and damp. "Verily," thought Derek, "motor-boating in November differs considerably from yachting in August."

At length the huge air-sheds of the Wagshot Station loomed up through the mist. Ordering half-speed, Derek brought his boat alongside the pier, and signalled to the second craft to lie up alongside him.

"Where are you from?" enquired a great-coated individual from the pier-head—the Officer of the Watch.

"From. Sableridge," replied Derek. "We've come to take away a sea-plane."

"First I've heard about it," rejoined the O.W. "You'd better see the Adjutant. You're stopping here the night?"

"'Fraid there's no option," replied Daventry.

"Right-o! Moor your craft out there. I'll send a duty-boat out to take off the crews."

"Out there" was a partially-protected anchorage, about a hundred yards from the pier. The boats pushed off and made for their appointed stations for the night, Derek taking particular care that each boat was properly moored with both anchor and kedge.

This done the crews were taken off. Visions of a hot meal first for his men and then for himself (for it is an unwritten law that officers must first provide for the comfort of their crews before "packing up" themselves) were rudely shattered when the Officer of the Watch appeared.

"I've seen the Adjutant," he announced. "You'll have to take those boats across to Bumble Creek. They'll be in the way of our flying-boats if they stay there."

Derek felt inclined to use forcible language; to enquire pointedly why these instructions could not have been given him before the elaborate process of mooring the boats had commenced. To be ordered at the end of a strenuous day's work to undertake another hour's toil was a tough proposition for the cold and hungry men to tackle.

"I'll send the duty-boat to pilot you," continued the O.W. "She'll bring you back to the station." Thankful for small mercies Derek turned his men to. It required fifteen minutes of hard work to unmoor and get under way. Fortunately the duty-boat was standing by, for the run across to Bumble Creek meant crossing an arm of the sea that was constantly alive with traffic.

Once more the two boats were secured for the night, this time alongside a hulk. It was pitch dark when Derek and his men returned to Wagshot Air Station.

Having seen his men installed in their temporary quarters and provided with a hot meal, Derek made his way to the officers' mess. Instead of a bright, cheerful building like that at Sableridge, he was directed to a large hut, which was divided into two large rooms and a few smaller ones.

"There's the ward-room, sir," replied a girl in the uniform of the W.R.N.S. "The steward will arrange for dinner and quarters."

The ward-room was a wood-lined but devoid of almost every comfort. Floor and walls were bare, except, in the case of the walls, for a few technical prints of sea-planes and flying-boats. In one corner was a table piled high with leather coats, helmets, gloves, and other garments affected by airmen. A fire burned dully in a large grate, round which were seated, shoulder to shoulder, half a dozen young "quirks".

They greeted Daventry with supercilious glances; then, having surveyed him in stony silence, they resumed their conversation in loud tones, apparently with the idea of impressing the new arrival with their importance and familiarity with life in town.

"Cubs—utter outsiders," thought Derek. "And what a bear-garden this mess is."

Chilled both mentally and physically, Daventry went out, preferring to pace the bleak parade-ground until dinner was served to remaining in such inhospitable company.

Dinner over, payment was promptly demanded—another difference compared with the way they ran things at Sableridge, where any strange officer who happens to blow into the mess is given hospitality and never charged for his entertainment.

"I've secured a room for you in the new building, sir," announced the steward. "There'll be a car ready to take you up in twenty minutes."

Derek spent the time in revisiting his men. They were none too happy, although making the best of things. There were abundant evidences that Wagshot was what is known as a "Mouldy Station", but worse was to follow.

Up rattled the car; Derek took his seat, and off the ramshackle vehicle went. It may have been owing to the state of the road, but the jolting of the car was worse than any he had experienced in France. Over narrow-gauge railway lines, sometimes grinding on shingle, at others sinking in sand and mud, the car held on its way. The road was narrow, with the sea on either side, for Wagshot Air Station is built on a natural peninsula of which the isthmus is long, narrow, and rugged. The shore was littered with the skeletons of burned sea-planes and flying-boats, the gaunt framework of which stood out clearly against the misty sky.

Presently the car gained the mainland, swung round several sharp corners, and pulled up outside the quarters known as the New Buildings.

An orderly conducted Derek to his temporary quarters, which were well termed "New", for they were still in the builders' hands. After traversing several hundred yards of corridors that looked like those of a prison, with dozens of doors exactly alike, his guide stopped, produced a key, and threw open the portal of the "cabin".

It was a small room lighted by a feeble electric lamp. Walls and floor were of concrete that literally ran with moisture. There was neither carpet nor rug on the floor, while the furniture was of a most Spartan character, comprising two beds—one already occupied by a soundly-sleeping officer—a trestle table, and a chair.

"Hope you'll be comfortable, sir," remarked the batman ironically. He had seen strange officers "blow in" many times before, but he could not resist the temptation to indulge in mild plaisanterie. "Lights are turned off at ten-thirty," he added, with infinite relish; "and if you shut the door on the outside you can't get in unless you come to me for a key, sir."

Left to the sole companionship of the soundly-snoring officer, Derek prepared to turn in. Investigations showed that the bed had a wire mattress, a straw pillow, and two army blankets. The pillow showed signs of disintegration; the blankets felt damp and smelt musty. Daventry felt inclined to use strong language. On active service on the Western Front he would have borne the discomfort with equanimity; in a permanent home-station there was no excuse for the wretched accommodation.

Kicking off his sea-boots and tunic Derek turned in practically "all standing", to pass a fitful night, and to awake to find a white mist enveloping everything.

He had breakfast with about twenty young officers, the meal consisting of a tablespoonful of luke-warm porridge, two square inches of American bacon, bread, margarine, and tea. Before he left the building the messman presented a bill for half a crown for this sorry repast.

Upon arriving at the pier-head Derek found that his men had fared no better, and in spite of the thick fog they brightened up considerably when their officer announced his intention of getting away from Wagshot Air Station "even if it rained ink".

The first step was to induce the Officer of the Watch to send the duty-boat over to Bumble Creek to fetch the motor-boats. This was successfully accomplished, notwithstanding the fact that twice the duty-boat ran aground, fortunately on soft mud and on a rising tide. By ten o'clock Derek's two craft were alongside the pier, and the sea-plane that had to be towed back to Sableridge was prepared for her voyage.

"The fog's lifting, I fancy," remarked the Officer of the Watch. "You'll be able to get away to-day after all."

"I mean to," rejoined Derek grimly.

CHAPTER XXIII

An Error of Judgment

A lifting fog, a calm sea, and the sun shining brightly overhead, all presaged a successful voyage. With the first pulsations of the motors Derek's feelings of resentment towards the Wagshot Air Station vanished. The bright, healthsome feeling of being afloat once more dispelled the hideous nightmare of damp concrete walls, hard beds, and inadequate food.

It soon became apparent that the task of towing the sea-plane was not so easy as Derek imagined. The unwieldy machine—for out of its natural element it was unwieldy—yawed, dipped, and strained at the towing-hawser until Derek ordered the second boat to make fast astern of the sea-plane and run at half throttle in order to steady the awkward tow.

With the ebb tide the passage through the "gateway" was soon completed. Another ten miles would find the sea-plane and her tug out in the open sea.

In the tide-rip off Fort Churst the behaviour of the sea-plane gave rise to some anxiety, but, upon gaining the exposed waters of the English Channel, the rate of progress was uniformly maintained.

Presently Derek noticed that a bank of fog was bearing down before a stiff southerly, or on-shore breeze. Already the outlines of Thorbury Head, nine miles away, were blotted out, while, on the starboard hand, the long line of low, yellowish cliffs was cut up into sections by the rolling, fleecy vapour.

Consulting the chart Derek found that his course was due west magnetic, which would pass at least a mile to the south'ard of the dangerous headland. Allowing for the reduced speed of the boats and the tow, he calculated that it would take about an hour to bring Thorbury Head broad on the beam.

Down swept the fog, enveloping everything. From the steering-wheel it was almost impossible to distinguish the boat's stem-head; while astern the sea-plane was absolutely invisible.

At the end of forty minutes Derek began to feel a bit doubtful of his position. Miles astern he could hear the monotonous, mournful wail of the Bodkin Lighthouse. The sea, hitherto calm, was now setting in with a long roll, breaking heavily upon the invisible shore with a continuous, sullen roar.

"It seems rather shallow, sir," remarked the coxswain, as he shook the drops of moisture from the rim of his sou'wester. "Shall I take a cast, sir?"

"Yes, please."

In his anxiety about keeping the boat on her course Derek had forgotten the indispensable lead-line. A cast gave two and a quarter fathoms, whereas, according to the chart, there ought to be a depth of nine.

"Steer south-west," ordered Derek. "There's something strange about this business," he added in an undertone.

"Breakers ahead, sir!"

A partial lifting of the fog enabled the range of visibility to extend to nearly a quarter of a mile. As far as the eye could see the water was one seething mass of huge waves, from which there was no escape. The boats were trapped in the dangerous Thorbury Bay.

It was the result of an error of judgment on the part of Derek Daventry. He had laid off the course of the chart without taking into consideration the leeway made by the slowly-moving boats and the ungainly sea-plane; neither had he made allowance for the deviation of the compass, which happened to be one and a half points on a westerly course; there was also the indraught of the tide, which tended to set a vessel shorewards. All three factors were hard at work during the run through the fog-bank.

The first breaker bore down, enveloping the leading boat's bows in a swirling cascade of water. Lifting the stocked anchor from its bed it swept the heavy mass of metal overboard. With a rush and a rattle the cable paid out until the boat brought up with a savage jerk. Simultaneously she swung round broadside on to a particularly fearful-looking breaker. Pouring over the cockpit the water promptly short-circuited the ignition, and the motor stopped dead. Helpless in the trough of the sea, the boat was at the mercy of the next crested wave.

"Cut away the sea-plane!" shouted Derek.

A hand gave the tautened cable a slash with a knife. Simultaneously the second boat cast off her steadying-line, and the abandoned sea-plane began drifting towards the shore with incredible rapidity.

To make matters worse the engineer, under the impression that the next sea would roll the boat completely over, kicked off his sea-boots and plunged overboard. In the grip of the tide he was swept to leeward, and even had he been an exceptionally good swimmer his chances of reaching the shore alive were very remote.

A deck-hand, seeing his comrade's predicament, jumped into the sea and struck out to his aid. It was a gallant but unavailing act, although by so doing he additionally hampered the work of rescue.

Meanwhile the second boat, ignorant of what had occurred, was making heavy weather in the breakers. She had all her work cut out to keep "end-on" to the hissing, seething masses of water that threatened to overwhelm her. Her coxswain-learner, who had a few months previously been steering a plough on a chalky Wiltshire down, was handling the boat with cool and calculated skill.

For want of an engineer Derek tackled the broken-down engine, working in feverish desperation in order to make an effort to save his two men. Plugs were out and replaced in record time, the magneto was wiped and dried, and the cylinders "doped". A couple of determined swings of the cranking-lever and the engine fired, spasmodically at first, then with every indication of "carrying on".

"Slip the cable!" shouted Derek.

A couple of hands made their way along the heaving, slippery fore-deck, hanging on tenaciously as masses of solid water swept over them. Watching his opportunity one of the men dropped down the fore-hatch, which his companion immediately replaced. In utter darkness, for the inspection lamp he carried was jerked violently against the coaming of the hatchway, the man toiled desperately, knocking out the stubborn pin of the shackle and allowing the cable to fly through the fair-lead.

The moment Derek saw the end of the cable disappear beneath the waves he slipped in the clutch, while the coxswain steadied the vessel on her helm and bore down toward the two swimmers. By dispensation of Providence the waves were no longer of such a threatening character. They were still formidable, and had to be treated with caution.

Judging his distance well the helmsman brought the boat close alongside the now well-nigh exhausted men. Already Derek had thrown the clutch into neutral, and, losing way, the motor-boat stopped to windward of the swimmers. Willing hands hauled them into safety, the engineer bleeding from a severe cut on the forehead, and showing distinct signs of light-headedness.

Meanwhile the second boat, having drawn clear of the dangerous breakers, was returning to the aid of her consort. As she did so her motor "konked". Instead of rendering assistance she was now in urgent need of help.

Another partial lifting of the fog revealed the true position. Within three hundred yards to the west'ard could be discerned the bold outlines of Thorbury Head, while to the nor'ard were the sand-dunes at the mouth of the shallow Thorbury Harbour, and it was between these two points that the breakers were raging. Elsewhere the sea was almost as calm as the proverbial mill-pond, but in the mist Derek had steered his boat right through the danger-zone.

Heaving a line to the disabled motor-boat Derek took her in tow, steering a circuitous course to avoid the now very apparent danger. Then, having made a good offing, he handed the helm to the coxswain. The engineer was quite hors de combat. Stripped of his saturated clothing and wrapped up in blankets, he was being attended to in the warm but cramped engine-room. Still light-headed, he required the sole attentions of one of the crew to keep him under control.

Derek was now able to review the situation. He felt far from comfortable on the matter. The seaplane was lost—probably smashed to matchwood on the beach. Both boats were considerably knocked about, while two of the crew were out of action, and a third was temporarily disabled by reason of a badly-crushed finger-nail. In addition there was the loss of a practically brand-new anchor and forty fathoms of galvanized cable, two life-buoys, and a White Ensign and its staff, which had been carried away during the towing manoeuvres.

And now, with malevolent irony, the sun was shining brightly, the last vestiges of fog had dispersed, and the sea was as smooth as glass.

Visions of a court martial, or at least a stringent court of enquiry, stared Derek in the face, with the possibility of being dismissed from the Marine Branch of the R.A.F.

"We'll be back just in time to miss the after-dinner parade, sir," remarked the coxswain, as the leading boat swept round the south-westerly extremity of Sableridge and the pier opened out at less than two hundred yards distance. "It's close on three bells."

"There's not a man on the parade-ground," rejoined Derek, "but there's a crowd on the pier-head, and all the boats are on their moorings 'cept the duty-boat. Looks jolly funny."

But the mystery of suspended activity on the part of the Marine Depot was soon elucidated, for a stentorian voice called Derek as his boat ran alongside the pier.

"Cheerio, old bird! Can you fancy yourself out of a job?"

Derek had been doing so for the last hour.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

A dozen voices answered the question.

"ARMISTICE!"

CHAPTER XXIV

The Guard-ship

"You don't look particularly happy over the news, old man," remarked one of the officers on the pier-head. "P'raps, like old Mouldy here, you think that you'll be out of a job very soon. Cheer up, the war's not over yet."

Derek made no reply. As a matter of fact he was thinking more about the loss of the sea-plane than the news that Germany had thrown up the sponge. The two, taken in conjunction, might make things rather unpleasant for him, since it was evident that the navy, army, and air force must be drastically reduced after the cessation of hostilities —and Derek Daventry had not had enough of life in the R.A.F. He wanted to remain.

Just then someone slapped him vigorously on the back. Turning, he found himself face to face with his old flying-chum, John Kaye.

"What in the name of goodness brings you down here?" asked Derek.

"Joined the Marine Branch at Sableridge yesterday," replied Kaye. "Of course you took jolly good care to be out of the way when I wanted a pal to take me by the hand and show me the ropes. So when your two packets were sighted coming over the bar I came down to the pier to give you my candid opinion of your perfidious desertion. Had a good time?"

"Just so so," answered Derek.

"Then we're in for a lively evening, old thing," chipped in another officer. "We've packed up for the rest of the day. There's a football match on this afternoon, and to-night we all go to the theatre and let 'em know what an armistice means. So cut and shift, you salt-encrusted ancient mariner."

But there was work to do before Derek could be at liberty. The spare gear had to be taken out of the boats; the boats themselves had to be moored to their respective buoys; the crews had to be marched off, and their officer had to satisfy himself that they were able to obtain a belated dinner. Then there was his report to be made out and submitted to the C.O.

Greatly to his surprise and satisfaction the report was favourably received. In view of the circumstances, it was conceded that the officer in charge of the boats had extricated himself with skill and determination. The loss of the sea-plane was considered to be unavoidable, and, as a telegram had been received from the coast-guards at Thorbury Head saying that she had drifted ashore practically uninjured, the work of salvage had to be undertaken at the first favourable opportunity.

Armistice night was, to quote the general consensus of opinion, a topping rag. Earlier in the evening all the men who could be spared were taken into the town by "liberty-boats", otherwise three large motor-lorries. Shortly afterwards the officers followed, every available motor-vehicle on the station being pressed into service. Derek and Kaye, together with seven other kindred spirits, crowded into and upon a car normally constructed to hold five, including the driver, two officers riding on the footboard, while another perched himself upon the bonnet.

Fifty yards behind came another similarly-laden car, followed by a third, and possibly it was solely tolerance on the part of the local police that every officer of the depot was not summoned to appear before the Bench for exceeding the speed limit.

Upon approaching the limits of the town the speedy cortÈge reduced its pace considerably. Through crowds of wildly-excited people the cars threaded their way. No one yet knew the terms of the Armistice. They were perfectly convinced in their own minds that the war was virtually over and that the Allies were top dog. It was an occasion for jollification, and the opportunity was seized.

"Some crowd, eh, what?" remarked Kaye.

"Rather," agreed Derek. "But what strikes me most is the display of street lamps. After years of almost total darkness at night one can hardly recognize the town in its blaze of light. Hallo! here we are."

The cars came to a standstill outside the theatre. Into the first two rows of the stalls trooped the Royal Air Force contingent, determined to have, at all costs, a topping rag. It was a dull play, but the audience amply atoned for its shortcomings. The members of the orchestra were invited to partake of bitter lemons, to the discomfiture of the wind-instrumentalists; the principal actors were presented with huge bouquets of cabbages and carrots; the manager was bombarded with requests for a speech, and was unmercifully ragged when he responded to the vociferous invitation. The piÈce de rÉsistance was the appearance upon the stage of His Worship the Mayor, who did his level best to deliver a patriotic harangue, at the conclusion of which he was solemnly presented with a titanic replica of a gorgeous jewel (tinselled cardboard) purporting to be the O.B.E.

Then, at the conclusion of the impromptu performance, the R.A.F. contingent filed out into the crowded street, to make their way to an hotel to enjoy a sumptuous supper in the unwonted setting of a brilliantly-lighted room with uncurtained windows. It was merely one way of bidding defiance to D.O.R.A., but it was symbolical of the beginning of a new regime.

During the ensuing week there was very little serious work done at the depot. It was a period of rejoicing, to which was added the disquieting consideration that sooner or later demobilization would bring its disturbing influence to bear upon efficiency. Followed a series of congratulatory calls between the officers of the various naval and military establishments in the district.

One of these was a visit to the Coastal Airship establishment at Downbury. Why the motor-cars on the return journey took a wrong turning and did not arrive at Sableridge till two o'clock in the morning was never satisfactorily explained, but upon returning the Adjutant discovered that he had left behind his favourite stick, fashioned from the blade of an air-propeller, with a top turned from the fuse-cap of a Boche shell that, fortunately for the present owner, had failed to explode.

Enquiries on the telephone next morning elicited the information that the stick was left in the mess at Downbury, and would be sent during the day.

Just before eleven two large coastal airships were seen making over Sableridge. Manoeuvred with a skill acquired by long practice, the huge gasbags began to circle over the depot, one of their crew actually attempting to remove the Colonel's flag from the masthead of the flagstaff outside the officers' quarters. By means of semaphore a lively exchange of compliments passed between the airmen up aloft and the airmen on the ground, while the former continued to show their stunt turns in a manner that caused the onlookers to anticipate a collision with the chimney-pots. Then, describing a curve over the harbour, one of the airships dropped an object to which was attached a bunch of streamers. With a splash the thing struck the water and floated vertically. It was the missing stick. Promptly a motor-boat pushed off from the pier and retrieved the returned property, then, with a final exchange of compliments, the two Blimps flew back to their sheds.

Next morning the signal officer's face looked grave. A letter, purporting to be an official document, had been handed to him. It was signed "Senior Naval Officer, Fisherton", and requested an explanation why a White Ensign, the jealously-guarded emblem of the pukka Royal Navy, was flown from the gaff of the flagstaff of a Royal Air Force establishment.

The whole thing was a hoax on the part of Dixon, the Lieutenant, R.N.V.R., commanding the guard-ship at Sableridge, and the R.A.F. signal officer "bit it badly". It was not until a reply had been drafted and submitted to the Commanding Officer of the depot that Dixon let the cat out of the bag. It was the first round of a friendly contest between the R.N. and the R.A.F., and the former was "one up".

When the men fell in parade that next morning the White Ensign was not flying. In its place dangled a large earthenware jug, a silent tribute on the part of the Sableridge signalling officer to the guard-ship officer's capacity for stowing away mild ale. It was as well that it was armistice week and the C.O. was in a tolerant mood, for the incident passed off without rebuke. R.N. and R.A.F. were now "honours even".

Next day the guard-ship was to be "paid off". After four years she was to be released from her moorings and towed back to Fisherton, and the departure of a time-honoured veteran could not take place without a farewell demonstration on the part of the Royal Air Force at Sableridge.

At two o'clock in the morning a small but desperate band of adventurers turned out of their camp-beds. There were Derek Daventry, clad in trench-coat, pyjamas, sea-boots, and muffler; Dennis, the Adjutant, muffled in a sweater, two greatcoats, and a pair of flying-boots; Wells, the signalling officer, and Kaye. The latter carried a small bundle of rag liberally smeared with vaseline.

It was a pitch-dark night. The stars were obscured by heavy, low-lying clouds. A keen easterly wind moaned through the fortress and hummed through the rigging of the guard-ship.

Softly the desperadoes made their way to the pier, three of them sheltering under the lee of the signal-house, while the fourth groped for the painter and stern-post of a small dinghy.

"Any signs of 'em?" asked Dennis.

"Not a movement," whispered Wells. "The watch on deck is evidently having a caulk. Got the dinghy ready yet, Kaye?"

"Can't find the rotten ropes," complained Kaye. "Ugh! Isn't it horribly cold? Why did I leave my little back room——? Hallo! Someone's tied a granny in the rope, and my fingers are frozen stiff."

"Not so much row there," cautioned Dennis. "If you can't unlash the thing, cut it. Now then, you fellows, don't capsize the boat and throw us into the ditch. How's the tide?"

"On the flood," replied Derek. "Oars muffled? Kaye, you rotter, you've put more vaseline on the thwarts than you have upon the rag round the rowlocks. I thought I was on the skating-rink for the moment. All ready? Give way."

Very silently the deeply-laden little craft pushed off. Partly paddled, partly carried by the tide, the boat neared the dark-grey bows of the guard-ship.

"Who's got the quart pot?" whispered Dennis. "You, Daventry—no? How about you, Kaye? No luck? I say, you blighters, don't all say you've left the beastly thing on the pier."

Cautious groping resulted in the discovery that the earthenware trophy was not in the boat. In the darkness the conspirators had left it perched precariously on the bottom step of the landing-stage.

"Together!" hissed the Adjutant. "Don't splash so, Kaye. You sent a shower down my back, and the water's horribly cold. 'Sides, you're making an awful row. Old man Dixon will be roused out of his beauty-sleep, and our little stunt will be a proper wash-out."

It was a hard tussle to regain the pier, for the spring tide was swirling viciously. The signalling officer managed to grab the jug and deposit it in the stern-sheets, and once more the raiders approached the silent and unsuspecting guard-ship.

Deftly Derek bent the boat's painter to a deadeye in the vessel's chains, and allowed the dinghy to drop astern until she lay alongside the Jacob's ladder that served as an accommodation-ladder. One by one the four swarmed up and gained the guard-ship's deck. Here they waited, listening intently. The wind, moaning dismally through the rigging, failed to outvoice the nasal efforts of the three men forming the guard-ship's crew. The Lieutenant, berthed aft, was also soundly asleep.

Wells nudged Derek in the ribs, and handed him the earthenware pitcher. Very cautiously the two commenced to mount the creaking ladder to the bridge, while Dennis and Kaye remained by the gangway, ready to cover their comrades' retreat should their presence be detected.

It did not take the signalling officer long to uncleat the masthead halyards. These he bent to the handle of the jug, at the same time inserting a piece of brass wire through the rope so that it would render through the sheaves in the masthead truck, but refuse to return when once a strain was put upon it.

Up into the darkness rose the fragile trophy. More than once it struck dully against the top-mast, fortunately without breaking. Lost to view, it announced its arrival at the top-mast head in no unmistakable manner. A sharp jerk, and the metal pin was released. The jug was almost literally nailed to the mast; until a hand was sent aloft—and it was hardly likely that any of the ancient mariners composing the guard-ship's crew could essay the feat—there it must perforce remain.

The work of re-embarkation was performed with more haste than discretion, the Adjutant stepping confidently into fifteen feet of water instead of into the boat. With praiseworthy devotion to the great cause, he refrained from audible comment in spite of the fact that Wells grabbed him by the hair. Unfortunately Dennis had adopted the latest fashion of allowing his hair to grow fairly long and to brush it back from his forehead. It made an excellent hand-grip for the signalling officer's massive and horny paw, but nevertheless the operation was a painful one.

At the risk of capsizing the dinghy, the Adjutant was hauled in, and the return trip was accomplished without further incident.

Exultant but shivering, the four officers made their way back to their quarters, and turned in to sleep the sleep of men who had achieved their ends.

Directly Derek awoke he sprang out of his folding bed and hastened to the window. In the pale-grey dawn he could see the outlines of the guard-ship silhouetted against the light. Aloft the trophy hung in uninterrupted serenity.

"Tug's alongside the guard-ship," announced the Adjutant at breakfast. "Let's go down to the pier and give her a good send-off."

Practically every R.A.F. officer on the station hurried out of the building and crowded on the pier-head. Crowds of men lined the shore, while dozens of civilian spectators appeared to watch the departure of one of the links of the Great War—the humble coaster that for the last four years had, under the authority of the White Ensign, prevented all unauthorized craft from leaving or entering Fisherton Harbour.

The Royal Air Force had made up its mind to give its departing confrÈre a fitting farewell. From the signal yard-arm on the pier fluttered a triple hoist of flags: "Good-bye; good luck". Klaxon horns, sirens, and the long-neglected trumpet blared forth in noisy lament; petrol-tins, on which to beat a rousing tattoo, were pressed into service; while the steam-tug, straining at the hawser, responded with a succession of strident whoops.

Slowly the guard-ship swung round and shaped a course for Fisherton, following obediently in the wake of the tug. On her bridge stood the burly figure of genial Lieutenant Dixon as he waved an acknowledgment of the exuberant welcome. Fifty feet above his head dangled the earthenware jug.

"He doesn't know it's there," remarked Derek.

"Then he jolly well will do so," rejoined the signalling officer, and, grasping a pair of hand-flags, he steadied himself on the pier-head rail.

"Guard-ship, what's that at your fore top-mast head?" he signalled.

The R.N.V.R. Lieutenant glanced aloft. For a moment he looked puzzled, then he realized that honours were no longer even. The R.A.F. were "one up".

A broad smile suffused his features. Snatching up a pair of hand-flags he semaphored:

"Thanks; but why didn't you fill it before you returned it?"

For the best part of the next five weeks adverse climatic conditions prevented the salvage of the stranded sea-plane. Unless given remarkably fine and calm weather, the sand-dunes of Thorbury, fringed by extensive shoals carrying less than a fathom of water, were inaccessible.

Christmas was drawing on apace, and the prospect of liberal leave demanded a "settling up" of the matter of the sea-plane as soon as possible. Having received his instructions either to salve or destroy the errant machine, Derek proceeded to Thorbury in a brand-new motor-boat fitted with a powerful paraffin engine, and capable of keeping the sea in almost any weather. Compared with the earlier motor-boats to which Derek had been accustomed, R.A.F. 21, as she was officially designated, was a ship. With sleeping accommodation for two officers and four men, and fitted with a small but efficient galley, she was practically independent of the shore in the matter of sleeping and feeding her crew.

Rounding Thorbury Head, R.A.F. 21 very cautiously approached the coast, keeping her lead-line going continuously. At a fathom and a half she anchored. It would be unwise to proceed farther in; even then the shore was only four hundred yards away.

Manning a dinghy Derek went ashore. It was a difficult matter, for the ground-swell was breaking heavily.

A brief examination of the sea-plane showed that her days were over. "Beach-combers" had already been at work, and several of the metal fittings had been stolen. It was also evident that an attempt to launch the sea-plane through the surf would meet with failure.

"She'll have to go," declared Derek to Kaye, who had accompanied him. "I'll send off for some petrol."

The crew set to work to remove the floats and dismantle the motor. This done, the fuselage was drenched with petrol and set on fire. In a quarter of an hour nothing but a few charred struts and tangled tension-wires remained.

Finding that it was impracticable to remove the floats—each of which weighed two hundredweight—except by land, Derek returned to make his report. His next task was to proceed by motor-lorry and bring the remains back to the depot.

Laden with a dinghy, two coils of three-inch rope, some "internal iron-bound blocks" (otherwise large pulleys), and nine men under Derek's orders, a large motor-lorry left Sableridge for Thorbury. The day was a perfect one, and the men were in high spirits, for the "stunt" promised to be of the nature of a picnic. In forty minutes the ponderous vehicle had covered the twelve miles between Sableridge and Thorbury, then further progress was barred by soft, yielding sand.

Between the lorry and the floats were first a stretch of fairly deep water forming part of Thorbury Harbour, and then three hundred yards of hummocking sand covered with coarse grass. The dinghy was unloaded, and the men and gear ferried across. Round one of the floats was passed a long rope, and all hands, tailing on to the slack, began to haul away. The result was rather surprising, for directly the heavy mass began to move half a dozen large rats scampered from the interior of the float.

Foot by foot, yard by yard, the float was man-hauled to the shore of the harbour, where, in sheltered water, it was launched and anchored until the second float was treated in a similar manner.

By this time the tide was ebbing with considerable strength, its rate exceeding five knots. The danger arose of the unwieldy craft being carried out across the bar to the open sea, and it was only by dint of hanging on to fifty fathoms of rope that the men could keep the floats in check. During these operations one of the floats capsized in the rollers that were sweeping in over the bar, and before it could be righted Derek and half a dozen of his men had their sea-boots filled with water.

At the nearest point to the lorry where the floats could be grounded was an expanse of a hundred yards of soft sand. All the man-power at Derek's command was unable to drag the floats up the gradually-shelving incline, nor could the lorry be brought any nearer by reason of the yielding nature of the sand.

"Proper Marathon, eh, what?" remarked Derek, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

"Pity we hadn't burnt these as well," rejoined Kaye. "Already these salvage operations cannot have cost a penny less than thirty pounds, and in the end these blessed floats will be sold for as many shillings to some blighter who wants them for fishing-punts."

"Service, my impatient lad; Service with a big S!" exclaimed Derek laughingly. "The main point is, we've got to bring these wretched floats back to the depot. I'm going to try hauling them up by means of the lorry. S'pose it's man enough for the job."

Accordingly a sufficient length of stout rope was lashed round one of the floats and also to the lorry. At the signal the powerful vehicle began to move slowly ahead, and, with hardly a hitch, the float slithered over the sand up the incline and on to the hard ground. The second float followed suit, and then came the task of loading up.

By the time the two floats, the dinghy, and the gear were piled upon the lorry there was precious little room for eleven persons, but the Royal Air Force men were not to be deterred by trifles. Swarming all over the small mountain of gear, and even perched upon the canvas awning, they returned tired but triumphant. At last the work of salvage was completed, although the actual amount of material recovered was but a moiety of the original sea-plane.

Upon entering the ante-room of the mess Derek and Kaye encountered Grainger, lieutenant and hydro expert. Grainger was in high spirits. His particular task was to get a hydro-glisseur into running order before he proceeded on Christmas leave, and in spite of numerous difficulties he had achieved his end.

"The priceless old thing has been running this morning," he declared. "I'm taking her for a spin up to Fisherton. Coming, you fellows?"

"Right-o!" replied Derek. "Hang on half a minute until I change my socks and sea-boots. I'm carrying about a quart of sea water in each boot, and it's beginning to feel slightly damp."

The hydro-glisseur, as its name implies, is a weird sort of craft that skims on the surface of the water and is propelled by a two-bladed aerial propeller. The body consists of six floats lashed together in pairs. Credited with a speed of fifty knots, hydro-glisseurs are used for towing aeroplane targets at high speed, while air-craft hovering overhead try their level best to bomb the targets into fragments.

"You'll want your flying-kit, you fellows," declared Grainger, as the trio prepared for the trial trip. "Unless you want to be as deaf as posts, don't forget your helmets."

Arrayed in leather jackets, flying head-dress and fur-lined gloves—gear that took Derek's thoughts back to those seemingly far-off days at Torringham aerodrome and on the Western Front—the "glisseurs" made their way to the boat-sheds out of which the freak craft were moored.

A few minor adjustments, and the powerful engine fired. Throttled well down, the motor was running at sufficient speed to make the propeller buzz as it cleft the air.

"All ready? Let go!" roared Grainger.

A touch of the controls, and the glisseur gathered way. Soon she began to lift under the enormously powerful drive of the huge propeller, until, with a deafening roar that could be heard for miles, the freak craft quickly worked up to a speed of certainly not less than forty-five knots.

Presently Grainger throttled down.

"There's a Boche submarine alongside Fisherton Quay," he announced. "She came into harbour at lunch-time. I vote we go and have a look at her."

The proposal met with unanimous assent, and a course was shaped for the place where the ex-German submarine was moored.

As the hydro-glisseur approached the quay the speed was greatly reduced. Derek could see the long, unlovely above-water outlines of the U-boat, her deck literally packed with people while from her mast floated the White Ensign over the discredited emblem of the badly-bruised Mailed Fist—the Black Cross of Hunland. For yards either way beyond the submarine the quay was lined with hundreds of interested spectators, for the trophy had been sent for public inspection, a small charge being made, and the proceeds given to local charities.

The Mayor of Fisherton, accompanied by the members of the Corporation, was engaged upon an official civic welcome to the surrendered U-boat. There were aldermen and councillors in blue and scarlet robes, in cocked-hats and "top-hats". Their wives, sisters, cousins, and aunts helped to swell the throng; while the gorgeously-attired mace-bearer and the portly town-crier, with his silver-plated bell, contributed their share to the splendour of the occasion. In the wake of the spectators was the town band; the musicians, having just completed a patriotic selection, were partaking of refreshment.

"Mind how you come alongside with that gadget of yours," sung out the Lieutenant in command of the submarine. "We've a terrific lot of camber, you know. If I were you I'd tie up alongside the quay. I'll show you round if you like, but there's a fine old crush already."

"We'll accept your invitation another day, thanks," replied Grainger, as the hydro-glisseur, with the ignition switched off, glided slowly and silently with the tide. "Nip ashore, Kaye, and make that rope fast!"

Moored stern-on to the granite wall of the quay, the hydro-glisseur bid fair to attract even more attention than the U-boat. Even the Mayor and Corporation delayed their departure to gaze upon the marine freak; while perspiring policemen strove in vain to keep back the Fisherton townsfolk and prevent them from unduly crowding upon the mayoral party.

"This is our little stunt," remarked Grainger. "Evidently people are curious to see us start up. We won't disappoint them. Stand by, Kaye, to cast off, but don't slip till I give the signal."

Suddenly the buzz of conversation on the quay was absolutely drowned by the appalling and deafening roar of the powerful engine and the deep bass hum of the whirling propeller. The next instant almost every hat in the wake of the rapidly-revolving "prop" was torn from it's owner's head and whirled aloft in the tornado-like back-draught. Scarlet and violet gowns flapped in the terrific blast like clothes hung out to dry on a boisterous day. In ten seconds a section of the crowd was swept aside like a portion of a cornfield falling under the action of a tractor reaper, while those of the spectators who were beyond the danger-zone rocked with merriment and shouted encouragement to the Marathon competitors for the runaway head-gear.

CHAPTER XXVI

Christmas Eve

"Six o'clock, sir, and a fine morning," announced Derek's batman, as he switched on the electric light, and handed the still half asleep officer a cup of strongly-brewed tea.

"By Jove! it's Christmas Eve, and I'm Orderly Dog till eight o'clock," thought Derek. "What with this wretched demobilization business and officers clearing out almost every day my turn comes once every five days. Well, here goes!"

Jumping out of bed Daventry dressed for the occasion, his garb consisting of a pair of flannel trousers drawn on over his pyjamas, a sweater, sea-boots, trench-coat, muffler, and cap—the last three items served to camouflage the rest for the work immediately in hand, that of being present on rÉveillÉ.

Making his way across the parade-ground the Orderly Officer entered the main building. Already the corridors were resounding to the shrill notes of the Orderly Sergeant's whistle and his strident shouts of "Show a leg, everybody!"

Derek had to visit personally twenty-five rooms and satisfy himself that their occupants were really awake. The sentries, too, had to be visited, and their early morning parade attended. These functions completed, Derek was at liberty to return to his quarters and attend to his toilet at his leisure, happy in the knowledge that his twenty-four-hour trick of "Orderly Dog" was nearing completion.

The spirit of Yule-tide was in the air. For days past officers and men had been going off on eleven days' leave, while those who remained were entering into the prospect of a happy Christmas with the utmost zeal.

In the officers' quarters the mess-room was transformed with brightly-coloured bunting, the walls being hung with flags, while the ceiling was almost hidden by chains and festoons of coloured paper. In the men's building each room entered into healthy rivalry with the others, and some of the decorations showed that a great amount of patience and artistic prowess had been employed to transform the usually Spartan-like quarters into bowers of evergreens.

Breakfast over and the eight-o'clock parade dismissed, Derek was relieved of his duties as Orderly Officer, but he quickly found that, even during armistice-time and Christmas week, there is always something cropping up for an officer to tackle.

At six o'clock the last liberty-boat had left, and the depot, sadly depleted, settled down to spend the eve of Christmas in strange surroundings. Derek was about to write some letters when a telephone message came through stating that a motor-boat had just arrived from Stourborough and asking what was to be done with her.

"Sticky sort of day for a half-decked boat to make a hundred-miles run," thought Derek, as he donned sea-boots and oilskins, for as senior officer on the station (there were only seven not on Christmas leave) he had to receive the new arrival and see that she was made secure for the night.

It was both blowing and raining. Pitch dark, too, except for the gleam of the Low Light. The tide was at half flood, and making strongly. Grinding against the pier was the motor-boat, manned by half a dozen hands in oilskins and sou'westers.

"They won't be able to find moorings on a night like this, sir," remarked the Corporal in charge of the pier.

"And they look about done up," added Derek. "I'll find a fresh crew from the Duty Watch, and let them take her up to Fisherton Quay for the night. The old crew will come ashore and get a hot meal."

"We've had nothing to eat since midday, sir," reported the coxswain of the boat. "She was making heavy weather of it coming down Channel, and we hadn't a chance to tackle any grub."

Having seen the well-nigh exhausted crew ashore Derek made his way to the mess-deck, where in response to the whistle and the order "Fall in the Duty Watch!" nine men paraded.

"I'm calling for volunteers to take a boat up to Fisherton," said Derek. "The boat has been running continuously since daybreak, and the men are done up. I want a coxswain, an engineer, and two deck-hands. Those willing to carry on take one pace forward."

Without hesitation every man of the nine took a pace to the front, although for the most part they were new or only partially-trained hands. Selecting the new crew, Derek sent them off to don oilskins and sea-boots.

"I'm not quite certain of the channel, sir," said the coxswain, as the crew mustered on the pier-head. "I've only been up once, and that was in daylight."

"All right," replied Derek "I'll come with you." For nearly twenty minutes Derek waited on the boat in the driving scud and rain, for the motor, that had hitherto been running without a hitch, evinced no tendency to start.

"It's the rummiest Christmas Eve I've ever spent," declared the young officer to himself. "Ah! well, it's all in a day's work. Nothing like yachting in December to give a fellow an appetite. By Jove! it's nearly dinner-time already, and this stunt will take an hour, if not more."

At length the engineer conquered the refractory motor, and, after running the engine with the clutch out for a couple of minutes, Derek decided to start.

"Cast off, there!" he shouted to the signalman. "Easy ahead!"

The boat gave a final grind against the pier, then forged ahead with a strong tide under her. Barely had she got beyond heaving distance of the pier-head, when, with a fierce roar, the whole of the confined space of the engine-room seemed to burst into flames. Simultaneously the motor ceased firing.

It was not an enviable situation. Adrift in a roughish sea with the engine-room well alight, it looked as if the crew had the choice either of being burnt or else compelled to take an involuntary bath in the icy-cold water. In the latter case there would be slight chance of reaching the shore, since the strong tide would carry the swimmers into the wide and exposed harbour, and in the pitch darkness of the night the possibility of rescue by another boat would be very remote.

In spite of the danger the crew kept their heads. There was not the slightest sign of panic. One of the men raised a laugh by exclaiming:

"We can only drown once, lads; but we may burn twice, so let's get the fire under."

Without hesitation the engineer acted, directing a heavy discharge of "pyrene" into the heart of the flames. In a few seconds the anti-fire apparatus did its work. As if by magic the fierce tongue of flame died down, but for some minutes the crew were almost overcome by the fumes.

During that interval the broken-down boat had drifted across the bows of two other craft moored in the vicinity. Standing on the plunging fore-deck the intrepid bowman, maintaining his precarious position, succeeded in fending off by means of a boat-hook. Then, with three miles of water to leeward, the crew had time to consider their position and act accordingly.

At length the motor was restarted, and the long, tedious run up to Fisherton began. Steering by means of a series of leading lights Derek held on, drenched with spray and numbed with the cold, until, with a sigh of relief, he ported helm past the revolving green light at the entrance to Fisherton Quay.

A motor-car was waiting to take Derek and the men back to Sableridge, where Daventry found that the signalman had reported the fire, and that the depot had been in a state of ferment over the news.

"You practically spoiled our dinner, you rotter!" exclaimed Kaye.

"I've certainly lost mine," rejoined Derek.

"That's base ingratitude," protested his chum, "considering I told the messman to keep it hot. I say, you guys!" he added, addressing the other five or six occupants of the ante-room. "Daventry's raising a moan about his grub. What's the penalty?"

The next instant a rolled-up flag came hurtling at Derek's head. It was the signal for battle. There was ammunition in plenty, for nearly fifty rolled signal-flags that were left over after decorating the mess were lying on the table in the hall.

Grabbing half a dozen missiles, Derek ran upstairs; Kaye, out of loyalty, joined him, and Dennis threw in his lot with the weaker side. Ensued a battle royal. From the first-floor landing bundles of tightly-rolled bunting came flying down with tremendous force, while the attackers of the ground-floor retaliated with similar missiles, until the air was stiff with a hurtling galaxy of signal-flags.

For a time it seemed as if weight of "metal" and superior numbers would prevail. Already the attackers were half-way up the stairs, dauntlessly facing an overhead fusillade, when the youthful Adjutant was seized with a "toppin' brainy idea".

Grasping one of the filled fire-buckets, he balanced it on the balustrade, then, awaiting his opportunity, poured the cold contents upon the heads of his opponents. Kaye and Derek, fired by Dennis's example, followed suit, and the attack melted away.

"Gosh!" exclaimed Dennis, "won't little Wells be in a horrible tear when he finds his precious signal-flags used like this?"

It was indeed a scene of chaos. Partly unfolded the flags lay everywhere. Pools of water lay in the hall, while a considerable quantity had made its way down into the basement to the discomfiture of the batmen.

"It's merely a change in the day's occupation," declared Kaye. "Blame Daventry; he must have a safety-valve to let off superfluous energy after having tried his level best to provide the fishes with roast meat for Christmas."

"Who's turning in?" asked Derek, stifling a yawn. "It's ten o'clock, and I've been at it since six this morning."

Before anyone could reply there came from outside the officers' quarters a voice singing the words of a well-known carol.

"What's this stunt?" asked Dennis.

"The sergeants," replied the Orderly Officer. "They've come to serenade us, I believe. It'll mean a bottle of whisky against the mess."

"Invite them in," suggested another.

The suggestion was acted upon, but little did the mess know what it was in for when it invited the roystering serenaders into its fold.

Very solemnly the sergeants filed in—eleven N.C.Os., of whom every man save one had been in the Royal Navy before transferring into the Royal Air Force. Headed by a sergeant with a side-drum, and followed by two with fifes, the motley-arrayed crush took up semi-circular formation at one end of the ante-room, the Sergeant-Major acting as master of the ceremonies. In half an hour their repertoire of carols was exhausted, so they "switched on" to the old-time sea-chanties. Followed an interval for refreshments and speechmaking, to which Derek, in his capacity of Deputy Mess-President, had to reply.

"It's about time they piped down," thought Derek, glancing at his wristlet-watch.

But no!

"Would the officers like to hear Sergeant Butler sing 'The Long-Lost Cabin-Boy'?" asked the Sergeant-Major.

In a weak moment Derek assented on behalf of the officers, and the act of torture began. There were twenty-five verses of "The Long-Lost Cabin-Boy", each with a double chorus. Then, with hardly a break, the now almost exhausted mess had to listen to another song, "You stand by the Ship, lads, I must be ashore by five", and a pointedly topical recitation, "Christmas Day in the Marine Depot", in which the sergeants got in several witty hits against their officers.

It was not until just on midnight that, after rendering "God Save the King", the lusty vocalists marched back to their quarters, leaving the mess to its rightful occupants.

"But," remarked Kaye, "Christmas Eve only comes once a year, and goodness only knows where we'll be in a twelvemonth's time. There's Eight Bells! A Merry Christmas, you fellows!"

CHAPTER XXVII

Hard and Fast Aground

Christmas Day dawned bright and clear—a pleasing contrast to the preceding day. Hardly a ripple disturbed the surface of the sea, while the hills surrounding the harbour were perfectly hidden by light, fleecy mists. The air, too, was mild. From a weather aspect it was as unlike the old-time festive day as one could possibly imagine.

The depleted mess sat down to breakfast in high spirits, but behind the display of gaiety was the thought that to many it would be the last Christmas Day that they would spend under Active Service conditions. Already demobilization was working havoc both with numbers and efficiency. Months of strenuous training looked like being wasted, while there was uncertainty of the future. Quite possibly the "Band of Brothers" would be dispersed to the four quarters of the globe. Many of them, of course, wanted to get back to their homes, but others, particularly the young crash pilots, regarded their possible release to civil life with feelings akin to consternation. Growing up to manhood as responsible officers of a fighting force, they had no enthusiasm for the hum-drum life that awaited them upon demobilization. In several cases their post-school studies had been entirely interrupted, and their chance of qualifying for professional careers hopelessly shattered. The phantom "after-the-war" problem was merging into a real and burning question.

Being Christmas Day, parade did not take place until ten o'clock, after which the C.O. made a tour of the buildings and inspected the decorated messes. This over, Derek had to take the duty-boat and visit the R.A.F. vessels moored in the harbour.

Almost the first craft visited was a large motorboat lying right in the tide-way. As the duty-boat ran alongside the bowman stepped on board with the intention of making fast with a rope. As he did so the boats' bows began to drift apart.

"Look out!" shouted Derek. "You'll be in the ditch in half a shake!"

The warning came too late. With one foot on the motor-boat and the other on the duty-boat, the luckless bowman tried to save himself by recovering his lost balance. In vain; the gap increased more and more until, with a loud splash, the man plunged into the icy water.

Fortunately he could swim, but the task of getting him on board, encumbered as he was with oilskin jacket and trousers, was not an easy one. It was not until Derek and the engineer came to his assistance that the bowman was hauled into the boat.

There was now no option but to return to the pier and land the shivering man. Provided with a stiff glass of brandy, he was sent back to his room to change, his arrival in saturated clothes being hailed with good-natured banter by his comrades.

As the duty-boat pushed off to resume her interrupted patrol the sergeant-coxswain must needs emulate the bowman's example, for on stepping from the pier steps to the boat his foot slipped, and into the water he went.

That meant more brandy and another coxswain. "The next man who tumbles into the ditch will not get any brandy," declared Derek, by way of warning. Doubtless the hint was taken, for there was no further trouble in that direction.

Back to the depot to change for dinner, and Derek's duty ended for the rest of the day. Yet there was work for him to do—the task of getting ready to proceed on his eleven days' leave.

At eight the following morning Derek set out on his long journey, travelling to the railway station in a tender in default of a car, for the three motor-cars attached to the depot had all been placed hors de combat on Christmas Eve. It was an enjoyable, though a crowded railway journey. Packed in with nine other officers, a civilian, and a dog in a first-class compartment, Derek found himself in good company. The spirit of Yule-tide predominated, and even though the crowded train was an hour late, stopping at every station, and frequently between stations, the prospect of getting home smoothed over the inconvenience of travelling.

"Well, Derek," remarked Captain Daventry after dinner, when father and son were alone, "the war's over, or practically so. Men are being demobilized right and left. The papers teem with advertisements from released officers requiring employment. What do you propose doing?"

"Hanging on, Pater, in the Micawber-like spirit: hoping that something may turn up."

"And what are the prospects?"

Derek had to confess that up to the present there was nothing definite. No decided information was forthcoming from the Air Ministry, although the air was thick with rumours.

"I'd go in for flying again if the Medical Board passed me," he added. "Failing that, I'd like to continue in the Marine Branch. It's a weird and fairly exciting existence, and every day I like it more and more."

"Thought so," rejoined his father laconically; "it's the adage: 'What's bred in the bone,' &c. With generations of sea-faring ancestors, Derek, you can't get away from the fact that you've an innate desire for the sea. Flying was only a sort of stop-gap—necessary, no doubt, but it's not the rock-bottom of an Englishman's constitution, so to speak. The sea made Britain what it is to-day, and the sea will continue to do so, unless the country allows her maritime supremacy to pass into the hands of others. To return to a personal view—I mentioned the matter before, I believe—you'll be able to go to sea till you're well over middle age, but it's an obvious certainty that you won't be flying at that time of life."

"You don't seem very sanguine over the future of aviation, Pater."

"I hardly like to express an opinion, Derek; but when comparing a ship with an aeroplane you must remember that the former is in its natural element. Given a seaworthy craft ably managed, a ship is as safe as a house. Even if the engines break down the vessel floats. But take an aircraft. If anything happens to it, it is not in its natural element. It must descend."

"A heavier-than-air machine, you mean."

"Precisely. And take the case of an airship. Its vulnerability to fire is a great drawback, while I doubt its ability to ride out a gale. A ship has a grip upon the water; an airship, if disabled, is simply at the mercy of the winds."

"And that is where we—the marine section—come in," added Derek. "Once the authorities realize that, our future is assured."

The eleven days passed only too quickly, and almost before he realized that his leave would expire that night Derek found himself packing his kit-bag and haversack.

It was eleven o'clock when he arrived at Fisherton Station, and nearly midnight by the time he reached Sableridge depot. All the rest of the occupants of the officers' quarters were in bed; there was no supper left out for him, and the ante-room fire had died down. Without it was blowing a gale from the south-east, and raining heavily. The spray was dashing against the windows, while above the howling of the wind could be heard the continuous roar of the surf upon the Dairymaid Sands.

"What a night!" soliloquized Derek, as he proceeded to unpack and prepare to turn in. "Thank goodness I'm not out. Wonder if our boats will drag their moorings? Well, here's to bed. I'll sleep like a log till morning."

Alas for that resolution! It seemed as if Daventry had been asleep but a few minutes when he was aroused by the Officer of the Watch.

"You'll have to turn out, Daventry, old man," he announced. "There's a vessel of some sort ashore on the Dairymaid Bank. The Fisherton life-boat is coming down harbour, and they want us to stand by. I've turned out the Duty Watch and told off No. 21's crew. Take her out and keep to windward of the shoal. There's a deuce of a sea breaking over it, so look out!"

Already Derek was out of bed and donning his sea-kit. A glance at his wristlet-watch showed that it was 3 a.m. The gale was at its height. Windows were rattling, stones were being hurled up from the beach and thudding against the shuttered windows of the building. Rain and sleet were descending in hissing and blinding sheets.

Literally battling his way to the pier-head Derek found his crew busily engaged in preparing motor-boat No. 21 for the coming contest with the elements. The craft was a stout one, specially built for hard work, and heavily engined. If any vessel on the station were capable of keeping the sea that night it was No. 21.

"Plenty of petrol, engineer?" shouted Derek, as he gained the deck of the plunging boat.

"Tanks full, sir."

"Good enough," rejoined Derek, holding on like grim death as the boat ground and bumped heavily against the piles of the pier. "Any sign of the life-boat, signalman?"

"Not yet in sight, sir."

The youthful Lieutenant gazed seaward. All was a chaotic blur of driving rain and spray. In vain he waited to see the occulting light on the distant Bar Buoy. It was no longer there. An unfortunate accident had extinguished the friendly gleam; and Heaven help the mariner who, running for shelter into Fisherton Harbour, reckoned upon finding the important light in position!

"Life-boat in sight, sir!"

With her red, blue, and white hull looming up in the glare of the high leading light the life-boat was fighting her way towards the scene of the disaster. She was under sail—close reefed main and mizzen. Her yellow-oilskinned crew were crouching on the thwarts, the only man visible being the coxswain as he stood erect and gripped the long tiller. In another hundred yards a bend in the channel would bring the life-boat's course dead to windward and against a surging flood-tide. It was now that No. 21 would be able to render timely aid.

"Cast off bow and stern warps," shouted Derek. "Easy ahead!"

With helm hard-a-port the motor-craft swung round, passed to windward of the life-boat, turned again, and ranged up to windward, her crew standing by, ready to pass a stout grass hawser to the life-boat.

The latter lost no time in accepting the proffered aid. In a trice her scanty canvas was lowered and stowed; a heavy line fell athwart the R.A.F. boat's deck, and to this the towing-warp was bent and paid out.

"All fast!" shouted the life-boat's bowman in stentorian tones. It was as well that he confirmed the information with a gesture, for in the roar of the elements his voice was inaudible.

"Easy ahead!" ordered Derek.

With a jerk that shook No. 21 from keel to truck the hawser took up the strain. For some moments it seemed as if no progress were being made against wind and tide, until foot by foot the hardly-pressed boat and her tow fought their way towards the surging waters on the bar.

At one minute the motor-craft's stern was deep in the water. At another the propeller was whirling in the air and the powerful engine racing madly. Sheets of solid water poured over her bluff bows, until the thick glass panes of the wheel-house threatened to give way under the formidable onslaught.

Well it was that Derek knew the channel well both by night and day. All he had to guide him were the leading lights astern. Ahead nothing but inky blackness; to port the breakers threshing against the Tinker Shoal; to starboard more white-foamed masses of water hurling themselves upon the flats of the Dairymaid Sands. An error of eighty yards on either hand would result in disaster both to the R.A.F. boat and her tow, for, notwithstanding her strong construction and uncapsizable design, the life-boat would stand no earthly chance should she be hurled upon the boiling breakers over the sands.

Suddenly a light flashed through the darkness away on the starboard bow.

"NC—NC—NC" it called, signifying in code language: "In distress; require immediate assistance."

"Three hundred yards over the Dairymaid Bank," declared Derek to his coxswain. "Keep her as she is; we can't edge in any closer. I'll slip the life-boat when she's dead to windward."

"Aye, aye, sir!" replied the man, wiping the spray from his eyes. The wheel-house window was open, for closed, with the water continually being flung against the glass, the limited range of vision was still further reduced.

Plunging, rolling, and staggering, the staunch little craft plugged steadily onwards, the life-boat straining and yawing at the end of three hundred feet of stout grass hawser. With little protection save that afforded by the high, rounded fore-deck, the life-belted and oilskinned crew of the life-boat were literally sitting in water, in spite of the relieving tubes that allowed the boat to free itself of any breaking seas.

"Far enough," decided Derek. "Keep her head to wind, coxswain!"

Making his way aft the young officer ascended the short iron ladder and looked astern. He had to hold on like grim death, for the lively motion of the motor-craft made it impossible to stand unaided on the slippery deck.

Raising one arm Derek motioned to the life-boat to cast off. The coxswain of the latter saw the signal. The motionless crew became active. The hawser was cast off, and oars fell into the crutches. Backing the while, the life-boat vanished into the darkness.

Returning to the wheel-house Derek consulted his watch. It was now nearly six o'clock. Already he had been afloat for more than two hours, and the time had passed with inconceivable rapidity. In another hour and a quarter there would be sufficient light to distinguish the position and nature of the vessel in distress.

Meanwhile ensued a tedious wait. Unable to anchor, since the seas were vicious and breaking, and the holding-ground was bad, No. 21 had to keep her motor running, continuously throttling down, so that her position was practically unaltered. Yet the task of keeping to the channel was one that taxed the helmsman's and the engineer's skill to the uttermost. The latter, unfortunately, was seized with a violent attack of sea-sickness, yet in spite of the nausea, accentuated by the reek of hot oil, he stuck doggedly to his post, knowing full well that any failure on his part to keep the motor running would inevitably result in the boat becoming a total wreck on the Dairymaid Sands, with the possibility of loss of life on the part of the crew.

Very slowly the day dawned, the growing light laying bare the dangers that the veil of night had partly hidden. R.A.F. No. 21 was still chugging away in the centre of the channel. Ahead, astern, as far as the eye could see, was a foaming mass of broken water, thundering to leeward upon the flat, sandy beach. Broad on the starboard beam the Bar Buoy, the light of which had ignominiously failed, was plunging in the foaming water. Beyond the buoy the outlines of Old Tom, the detached chalk pinnacle, could be faintly discerned through the mirk. The lofty hills were as if they were not. Hidden in the driving rain, their absence gave the coast-line an unfamiliar aspect.

Midway between the edge of the buoyed channel and the sand-dunes lay a long, low grey craft over which the breakers were sweeping continuously. From a light mast two flags streamed out stiffly in the breeze. Being end-on they were unrecognizable until a temporary change in the wind revealed their nationality. The upper one was the Rising Sun of Japan; underneath was the craven Black Cross of Germany. The stranded craft was a surrendered U-boat that had been handed over to Japan, and it was an unfortunate occurrence that on the commencement of her voyage to the Far East the prize showed every sign of slipping through her new owner's fingers.

"This is a rummy world," thought Derek. "A few months ago I was doing my level best to strafe these bounders; now I'm doing ditto to assist in the salvage of one of them. But, by Jove! I wouldn't give much for her chance; she's done in, I fancy."

Midway between the motor-craft and the U-boat lay the life-boat, buoyantly riding to a long cable. She had approached the stranded vessel as close as she dared, and was even now in danger of bumping her keel on the hard sand. Solidly constructed and well built as she was, she could not afford to risk stranding in the breakers, which would roll her over and over like a barrel. It was almost dead low water, and until the flood had made considerably it was madness for the life-boat to attempt to run alongside the U-boat and take off the crew.

But as long as the life-boat was engaged in the work of rescue R.A.F. No. 21 had to stand by. Chilled to the bone by the cold and wet, and fatigued by their night's exertions, the life-boat-men would be relying on the motor-craft to tow them into harbour.

In the grey dawn a long, lean black destroyer was sighted making her way slowly towards the Bar Buoy. Green seas were tumbling viciously over her raised fo'c'sle, while showers of spray were sizzling against her hot funnel. As she approached, Derek noticed that her life-buoys were painted white with four bands of red. Buoys painted thus are foreign to the British navy; and, although the destroyer resembled in almost every detail the British "River" Class boats, Derek rightly concluded that she also was Japanese.

Later on it transpired that the destroyer was towing the submarine. In heavy weather the hawser parted, one end getting foul of the destroyer's starboard propeller, while the U-boat, without means of self-propulsion, drifted ashore on the Dairymaid Bank.

It was noon before the Japanese crew of the submarine were fetched off by the life-boat, and until this was done R.A.F. 21 had to stand by. Finally, with less than two gallons of fuel in her tanks, she brought the life-boat safely into Fisherton Harbour.

Dog-tired, his ears raw from exposure to the cold spray, his heels galled by the chafing of his sea-boots, Derek, having dismissed his crew, turned in and slept like a log, happy in the knowledge that another useful peace-time task had been successfully accomplished.

CHAPTER XXVIII

To the Sea-plane's Aid

"O Joy! O Rapture!" exclaimed John Kaye. "At last the mighty stream of demobilization is stayed, Daventry. Forty new hands have come in this morning. There will be a chance of commissioning some more boats. They're shouting for you in the Adjutant's office, old son."

"What for?" enquired Derek. "S'pose it's not in connection with our demob. or otherwise?"

For weeks Derek and Kaye had been more or less on tenterhooks. Both had applied for permanent commissions in the Marine Branch of the Royal Air Force, and, although their papers had been endorsed with a strong recommendation by the C.O., there appeared to be an endless and exasperating period of suspense.

"Unfortunately, no," replied Kaye. "They are overwhelmed with work in the Adjutant's office. The Adjy. hasn't had time even to play deck-quoits for the last three days. They want your aid, my festive bravo."

"Rotten luck!" growled Derek. "If there's anything I loathe it's fugging in an office. Had two half days at it at Torringham, I remember. Didn't feel fit for flying for nearly a week. Make the best of it, though, and the sooner the job's done the better I'll be pleased."

The reason for Derek's presence in the office was quickly forthcoming. The forty new arrivals were formed up in the corridor, each man having to furnish particulars of himself in order that the office records might be checked.

"Something wrong here, Daventry," remarked the Adjutant, tossing over a slip of paper on which a pay-room sergeant had written down certain particulars. "George Townley, born 1899, at Itching Abbess—sounds like the head of a nunnery plagued with vermin, eh, what?"

"I'll have the man in and see what it means," suggested Derek.

He opened the door. Just outside was the Sergeant engaged in questioning the new arrivals, One was an ex-R.N. able-seaman who had re-engaged for transfer to the R.A.F.

"Three good-conduct stripes, eh?" exclaimed the N.C.O. disdainfully. His acquaintance with conduct stripes was rather a distressful one, he having been disrated twice before he turned over a new leaf. "My opinion of a three-good-conduct-badges man is one who keeps the Commander, Master-at-Arms, and the Mainmast all in a straight line—savvy?"

Catching sight of Derek the Sergeant pulled himself up. He was one of those men who, unfortunately, do exist in all three services—sarcastically overbearing to those under him, and fawningly civil to those in authority.

"What's this, Sergeant?" asked Derek, holding out the paper. "There seems to be some mistake about this man's birthplace."

"No, sir," replied the N.C.O. with conviction. "I looked the words up in the dictionary to make sure. 'Taint the first man I've come across who can't spell."

"Where's the man?" asked the Lieutenant.

"Here, sir!"

"Well," began Derek, addressing the airman, "there seems to be some slight doubt concerning the place in which you were born. What is it?"

A suspicion of a smile flitted across the man's face.

"Itchen Abbass, sir; a village near Winchester," he replied. "I tried to explain to the Sergeant, but he would have his own way."

For the next month or so Sableridge Training Depot was passing through a dark period of its history. Like other army and air establishments it was suffering from the blight of demobilization. Those officers and men who knew that they might be returned to civil life any day didn't trouble in the slightest about duty. Their one idea was to pack up and clear out as quickly as possible. Discipline was lax; vague rumours of the closing down of the station were in the air. On parade the numbers steadily, nay, rapidly, dwindled, until the four "flights" were reduced to a tenth of their former strength. In the harbour expensive motor-boats were rotting and rusting at their moorings for want of hands to man them and keep them in a state of efficiency.

All this was a disconcerting outlook for men of Derek's type. The departing units exercised an undesirable influence on those who were staying on, while, what was worse, they gave a cue to the new recruits.

"We're sending you to the doctor this morning, old son," announced the Adjutant to Derek. "All officers applying for permanent commissions are to be medically examined before noon."

Derek heard the tidings without emotion. He remembered his first medical examination for the service; how it filled him with trepidation, as he feared that the doctor would discover some defect hitherto unknown to him. Since that time Daventry had become case-hardened. The examination, which might prove an ordeal to many, hardly troubled him in the least.

The R.A.M.C. Captain, an elderly man, whose rugged features and bull voice were merely foils to a kindly and sympathetic nature, wasted no time.

"You're O.K., Daventry," he declared, "fit as a fiddle. I'll put you in A category. That means you're all right for aerial work. Why, what's the matter? You don't look pleased."

There was an expression of perplexity in Derek's face. A few months previously he would have hailed with delight the prospect of being a knight of the air once more; now a different feeling had arisen. The innate seaman's instinct had developed. He loved the sea; the actual marine work at Sableridge fascinated him. The thought of having to sever his connection with the depot rather staggered him.

"It's the uncertainty of everything that's worrying me," remarked the doctor, after Derek had explained. "Here am I, Medical Officer of Health to a large manufacturing district, hanging about here with precious little to do, while there are tons of work awaiting me at home. The authorities can't make up their minds, or if they can they won't, and the consequence is I'm at a loose end. Now, only the other day——"

Just then the doctor's flow of oratory was cut short by the arrival of a messenger.

"Mr. Daventry here, sir?" he enquired. "The Major wants to see him at once."

Hastily donning his tunic Derek made his way to the room of the Second in Command.

"Oh, Daventry," began the Major, returning his subordinate's salute. "I've a little stunt for you. There's a wireless message just been received at Baxton and telephoned on to us. A large seaplane has been forced to descend here"—he placed his finger on a large chart of the English Channel—"latitude so and so; longitude so and so. Why she's come down we don't know, but she's wirelessed for assistance. I want you to take R.A.F. 1292 B and make for her at full speed. Get hold of her and take her in tow. I'll send No. 21 to give a hand in case she's too much of a handful. 1292 B has plenty of petrol, I hope?"

"Yes, sir," replied Derek. "Filled up this morning."

It was one of Daventry's forms of recreation, in the hum-drum days of the demobilization period, to see that boats immediately under his charge were kept as efficient as the scarcity of hands permitted. Every day he had the engines running, so that the boats would be in a state of seaworthiness. No. 1292 B was a twenty-two knotter, while No. 21 was capable of doing only nine and a half knots. Could he get the crippled sea-plane in tow with the first boat he could slow down until the more powerfully-engined No. 21 could relieve her of the tow.

"Wonder what a sea-plane's doing about here?" thought Derek, as he hurried off to turn out the crew from the Duty Watch. "Haven't seen a machine up since the armistice. Joy-riders, I suppose."

Fortunately it was a fine day, although the sky was overcast. The sea was smooth, so that, running at a high speed, the first motor-boat was fairly dry. What spray she raised she threw aside by her pronounced flare.

"All out!" ordered Derek. "Give her full throttle!"

Steering by compass Daventry held on for nearly two hours, continually sweeping the horizon with his glasses in the hope of spotting the disabled sea-plane. Smudges of smoke indicated shipping, so that it was quite possible that the aviators might have been picked up by a vessel bound up or down Channel.

Standing with feet well apart on the slippery fore-deck one of the crew also kept a sharp look out. It was he who reported something at a distance of four or five miles on the port bow.

"That's what we're looking for," declared Derek, as he, too, took up a precarious position on the cambered fore-deck. "Starboard your helm, coxswain; steady—at that!"

A few minutes' run enabled the crew of No. 1292 B to verify their skipper's words. Riding easily on the gentle swell was a triplane of the latest type—a four-engined, cabined sea-plane capable of a 2000 miles non-stop run, accidents excepted. Soon it was easy to discern the tricoloured circles on her fuselage. By the arrangement of colours Derek knew that she was not an American, as he first supposed, but a British R.A.F. 'bus.

"Can't see anything wrong with her," he soliloquized. "Something must be adrift, of course, but hanged if I can see."

Adroitly handling his boat the coxswain brought her close alongside the huge starboard float, one of the triplane's crew swarming down to assist in making fast the heaving line. Other airmen and mechanics were taking a lively interest in the salvage operations, while from an open window in the side of the fuselage a red face surmounted by a gold-leafed cap was gazing down upon the rescuing boat.

"What's wrong?" enquired Derek.

"Both pilots crocked, sir," replied the man on the float. "They were just turning over when we hit a pocket pretty badly. One is stunned; the other has a broken collar-bone and two fingers dislocated. Have you a doctor with you, sir?"

"No," replied Derek. "We had no information that one was required. Why didn't you wireless for medical aid?"

"We just got off our first message, sir, and then we landed rather badly. Our aerial was trailing, and the bump 'konked' out the apparatus. I'm not a wireless man myself, sir; but our operator can explain."

"I'll take you in tow," said Daventry. "With luck we'll have you in Fisherton Harbour within four or five hours."

"Not if it can be avoided," protested the Staff Officer, from his elevated perch. "Why the deuce didn't they send out more pilots? You'd better go back at full speed and bring off a couple of good, experienced flying-officers. It's an urgent case; absolutely imperative that the flight be resumed without loss of time."

Derek was about to order the bowman to cast off when a thought struck him.

"May I come on board, sir?" he asked. "I'm a pilot."

"Are you, by Jove?" rejoined the Staff Officer, who, as shown by the badges on his shoulder-straps, was a Brigadier-General. "That's fortunate! Yes, come aboard, by all means."

Leaping on to the float Derek swarmed up one of the struts and gained the open hatchway on the underside of the fuselage. The sight within was an eye-opener. He had no idea of the vast strides in aerial construction that had been made since the time when he had to relinquish flying.

The fuselage was nearly a hundred feet in length and entirely enclosed. It gave one the impression that it was the interior of a yacht, for on either side of the central corridor were partitioned-off compartments—cabins for passengers, officers, and crew, as well as a spacious but completely-crowded engine-room.

Right amidships were the two state-rooms in the occupation of the Staff Officer and his secretary. One compartment was furnished as a combined dining- and living-room, the other as a bedroom, with aluminium cots so arranged that, at any normal angle the sea-plane might assume, they would be always horizontal.

It was in the former cabin that Derek was received. There was nobody about to overhear the interview.

"Can you pilot this craft to Corunna?" asked the Brigadier-General. "It is a matter of extreme national importance that I arrive there before five this afternoon. If you cannot do it, then perhaps you might be able to take the sea-plane as far as Falmouth, where I can get experienced pilots."

"I can, sir," replied Derek.

"You've had experience?"

"Cross-Channel flights, sir; also some months' service on the Western Front."

"Good enough!" exclaimed the Staff Officer. "Carry on! The engineers say there's nothing wrong with the motors."

"Very good, sir," replied Derek, saluting.

Entering the pilot's cabin Daventry found the two injured men. One was still insensible; the other, white-faced, was trying to make the best of his injuries. To him Derek put a few questions; then he telephoned to the engine-room, and received the reply that all was in readiness to resume the interrupted flight.

Very gently the two injured officers were lowered into the still waiting motor-boat.

"Carry on, coxswain!" ordered Derek. "Steer nor'-a-quarter-east and you'll pick up land within ten miles of Sableridge, even if you don't fall in with No. 21 before. Report to the C.O. that I am detained on duty, and that I will wire him directly I get ashore."

The motor-boat pushed off, swung round, and set off at full speed for the invisible shore; while Derek, after testing the contacts—a process that took what seemed ages of suspense to the impatient Brigadier-General—gave the word for the four motors to be started.

Taxi-ing over the smooth sea nearly two hundred yards until sufficient speed was attained, the huge sea-plane "took-off" almost imperceptibly. Then, climbing to two thousand feet, the triplane settled down to her long flight to the distant shores of Spain.

CHAPTER XXIX

In the Interests of the State

It did not take Derek long to accustom himself to the peculiarities of the sea-plane. Had it been one of the flying-boats that the Lieutenant had been called upon to pilot across the seas the task would have been an awkward and difficult one. Once fairly up, there is very little difference between an aeroplane and a sea-plane, but there are wide distinctions between the latter and the huge flying-boats which, devoid of floats, rely upon their hulls for buoyancy when on the water.

Derek elected to fly fairly high, maintaining a height of five thousand feet. This gave him a chance, in the event of making a blunder with the unaccustomed system of controls, while at the same time there was less chance of coming across an air-pocket.

Quickly he discovered that his hand had not lost its cunning. Although it was months—it seemed like years—since Derek had had control of joy-stick and rudder-bar, the old skill still remained. And the exhilaration of it! To be once more rushing through space, soaring high above the waves!

"This is some stunt," thought the reinstated pilot. "Wonder what's taking the old Brass Hat to Spain? Joy-ride, or what? After all, it's all in a day's work."

Applying the automatic steering device Derek turned to consult the charts. A hasty examination showed that his predecessor had faithfully recorded the course almost up to the time of the triplane's involuntary descent. The red-inked line and rough-pencilled notations were of considerable service. They enabled Derek to set a compass-course corrected for air leeway and ordinary magnetic deviation. Provided the force and direction of the wind remained fairly constant, the task of piloting the seaplane would be a fairly simple matter.

It was aviation de luxe. The pilot's house, with windows of triplex glass affording an all-round view, was warm and free from buffeting draughts. With the glass in position the roar of the powerful engines was reduced to a barely perceptible purr.

Thirty miles to the nor'ard the rugged uplands of Dartmoor could be clearly discerned, while ahead, and slightly on the starboard bow, could be seen the indented outlines of the Cornish coast, for Derek was purposely keeping within easy distance of shore until well over the Scillies. Then it was his intention to strike a bee-line for his destination. Occasionally altering the automatic course-director, Derek found that he had plenty of time at his disposal. After a while things became tedious. Cooped up in a glass box he missed the actual sensation of flying through the air. It was more like sitting in a carriage of an express train than being absolutely in control of an air-craft. Compared with the lift and heave of the ocean the motion seemed a very tame affair.

"By Jove! the Pater was right after all," soliloquized Derek. "Flying's all very well; but it's the sea that scores—scores every time. There's nothing to equal a life afloat."

He let down one of the sliding glass panels. The rush of air acted like a tonic. The suggestion of actual aerial speed reasserted itself. There was something indescribably joyous in the sensation. He could almost imagine himself back in his old 'bus circling over the Hun lines.

He missed the airman's flying-helmet, goggles, and leather coat. It was bitterly cold. The wind buffeted his face until his eyes smarted and his ears throbbed and tingled, yet it was better, in his opinion, than being cooped up in a glass box.

Just then the door opened and one of the crew entered. Vainly the man tried to make himself understood, and it was not until the glass slide had been replaced that Derek was able to engage in conversation.

"The actuating wire of the starboard aileron of the lower plane's carried away, sir," reported the man in quite a matter-of-fact tone. A housewife on discovering that a cat had stolen the morning's milk would have shown much more concern. "I'll just nip along and make a temporary repair."

"Very good!" replied Derek, cutting out the automatic control, and grasping the joy-stick. "Carry on!"

The airman withdrew. Presently Derek saw him cautiously making his way along outside the covered fuselage; then, throwing himself flat upon the plane and grasping the forward edge, the man began to work his way outwards. Only his hold upon the sharp edge of the cambered wing prevented him being swept away like a piece of paper by the two-hundred-mile-per-hour wind.

Hanging on like a limpet, and keeping his head well down, the dauntless airman at length reached the spot where the wire had parted—a distance of about six feet from the extremity of the plane. In spite of the man's weight the triplane evinced no tendency to tilt, although it required a slight alteration of helm of the horizontal rudder to counteract the additional resistance set up by his body. In this hazardous position, holding on with one hand, and keeping his legs planted firmly against a vertical strut, the airman set to work to make good the damage.

First the ends of the severed wire had to be secured in a bowline made in each. Through these loops the clips of a bottle-screw were placed, and the wires drawn up to their original tension.

Working at a height of five thousand feet, while travelling at a speed of one hundred and sixty miles an hour—for Derek had ordered the motors to be throttled slightly—the gallant airman completed his task in twenty minutes; then, benumbed with the cold and with lying in a decidedly awkward position, he made his way back to the shelter of the enclosed fuselage.

By this time the Scillies, looking like a scattered heap of pebbles showing above a large sheet of tranquil water, were left astern. Ahead great masses of indigo-coloured clouds, tinged with vivid coppery hues, betokened the presence of a storm-centre. Ragged wisps of dark-grey vapour were scurrying over the sky, interrupting at frequent intervals the hitherto continuous blaze of sunlight.

Derek realized that there was no escape except by a tremendously long detour. Since time was a decided object, such a course was impracticable, for there would be the risk of being carried away a long distance from the objective. It was a case of carrying on at full speed, and taking one's chance with the approaching storm.

"What do you make of that?" enquired a voice, as Derek again closed the window of the pilot's house.

Turning, the Lieutenant found the exalted passenger—the Brigadier-General—standing behind him.

"Atmospheric disturbance of some magnitude, sir," replied Daventry. "There is no cause for anxiety," he added.

"Isn't there? by Jove!" ejaculated the Brigadier-General grimly. "Hope you're right, young man. What's up with your meteorological experts at the Air Ministry, I should like to know? Their forecast is 'light variable breezes; conditions fit for cross-country flights with all types of machines'. Someone adrift somewhere, I should imagine."

In his mind Derek was obliged to admit the impeachment.

"But that refers to the British Isles, sir," he remarked diplomatically. "Already we are approaching the Bay of Biscay."

"Let's hope we don't have to swim for it," growled the Brigadier-General. "I'm trusting to you. I'll stay here, if you don't mind."

"You'd do better in your cabin, sir," Derek reminded him. "We may be in for a bit of a dusting, and you'll be all right lying on your bunk."

"Lying on my bunk!" exclaimed the Staff Officer loudly. "By Gad, sir! I've never yet faced danger lying down. J'y suis; j'y reste is my motto."

Before Derek could say anything further the triplane entered the storm-zone. The first blast of disturbed air tilted the giant machine until the planes assumed an angle of seventy degrees to the horizontal. Then, staggering and plunging, the triplane was literally hurled in the opposite direction, until it seemed to be standing on the tips of the starboard wing.

It was now almost as dark as the blackest night. Unable to read the clinometer, Derek strove by sense of touch to keep the machine, as far as possible, on an even keel. More than once his feet slipped violently, as if someone had knocked them from under him. It was only by hanging on to the sensitive joy-stick that the pilot saved himself from being hurled bodily against the panelling of the cabin. At one moment literally standing on its tail, at another diving almost vertically, the while lurching from side to side, the triplane battled with the storm. Hail-stones rattled like machine-gun fire against the redoubtable triplex glass. The whole fabric groaned and creaked under the unusual stresses and strains, the disconcerting roar of the storm completely outvoicing the noise of the motors. Whether the engines were still running or not Derek had no means of determining. Literally penned in the enclosed space, he could merely hold on, hoping for the best.

This state of things, nerve-racking and appalling in their vehemence, and rendered still more so by reason of the utter darkness, continued for a seemingly endless space of time. Then, almost without warning, the badly-buffeted triplane emerged from the dense pall of the storm-cloud into dazzling sunshine.

The first thing that Derek did was to assure himself that the sea-plane was under control. Fortunately such was the case, although there were ominous rents in certain parts of the enormous wing-spread. The triplex glass of the pilot's room still held, although the stout substance was "starred" in many places, as if hit by a bullet. The altimeter registered a height of only one thousand five hundred feet, while a glance at the clock showed that the seemingly interminable passage through the storm had occupied only eleven minutes.

Something plucking at Derek's sea-boots attracted his attention. He had forgotten his companion, the Brigadier-General. The latter was lying on his back along the starboard side of the compartment, purple-faced and wellnigh breathless with the unmerciful buffeting he had received. In one of the opposite corners reclined his gold-leafed cap, presenting an appearance hardly compatible with that of a Brigadier-General's head-gear.

"That's the stuff to give 'em," thought Derek grimly, as he contemplated the recumbent figure. "I wonder if he's wishing he'd taken my advice."

To assist the unfortunate Staff Officer was out of the question, for all Derek's attention had to be devoted to keeping the triplane under control. Although clear of the storm-cloud, the machine was still rocking in the wind-eddies in the wake of the violent gale.

Presently the Brigadier-General sat up and groped for his displaced head-gear.

"By Jove, young man," he exclaimed, "that was a twister! Thought we were done in this time. Wish I'd taken your advice."

"It certainly was a bit thick, sir," replied Derek, ignoring the latter part of the Brigadier's remarks, which so closely coincided with his own unspoken thoughts. "But it's all over now. Everything points to a good passage for the rest of the run."

The remainder of the flight turned out as Daventry had predicted. In a clear sky, and in the full blaze of the sunshine, the triplane, pelting along as fast as the skilled engineer knew how to make her go, was rapidly decreasing the distance between her and the rugged hills of northern Spain.

"Land right ahead!"

This announcement, coming from the lips of one of the crew, roused Derek's failing energies, for, unprepared for the journey, and desperately hungry, he was beginning to feel the effects of mental and physical strain.

Low down to the south'ard he could discern a serrated range of hills, looming up dark-blue against the pale azure sky. Away to the westward the land terminated abruptly, although Derek thought he could distinguish more high ground beyond.

"Must be Cape Ortegal; and the other land is Cape Finisterre," he decided. "I'm only between ten to twenty miles out in my reckoning. Not bad for a first attempt."

Altering helm, Daventry made straight for the land that he supposed to be Cape Ortegal. Flying at two hundred miles an hour does not give a pilot much time to make up his mind. He must decide quickly and definitely.

A few minutes later the Staff Officer, who had retired for repairs and refreshment, entered the pilot's cabin.

"You're doing well," he remarked. "I know this part of Spain intimately, and we are heading straight for Corunna. You'll see the harbour in a few minutes. But you look a bit done up. Try a drop of this."

And he handed Derek a flask.

The pilot accepted the liquid gratefully. It acted as a stimulus, although he drank sparingly.

"There you are!" continued the Brigadier-General, as an apparently narrow slip of water appeared in view between the enclosing high ground. "That's Corunna Harbour. I'll tell you when to—er—alight. I was almost on the point of saying 'land'."

"Quite a professional term in the R.A.F., sir," rejoined Derek. "Without being guilty of perpetrating an Irish bull, one may correctly apply the term 'land' to flying-boats and sea-planes alighting on the water. What space do I want? Two hundred yards will be ample, sir, and the harbour doesn't seem to be crowded."

Descending to five hundred feet Derek brought the triplane head to wind, and then, "choosing his pitch", made a creditable landing within fifty yards of a quay. Then, taxi-ing to a buoy, the giant sea-plane was secured, but not before she was surrounded by a small fleet of motor-launches and rowing-boats.

"I'll be back in two hours," said the Brigadier-General, as he boarded a Customs launch. He spoke as casually as if he were ordering his chauffeur to wait outside his club. "In the meanwhile, I expect that you will make all necessary preparations for the return journey—petrol and all that sort of thing."

Punctually to time the British Staff Officer returned in a Spanish Government launch, and attended by a bevy of brightly-uniformed grandees and naval and military officers. His bronzed face was wreathed in smiles. He looked like a schoolboy granted an unexpected half-holiday.

"I'm afraid I cannot let you into state secrets, Mr. Daventry," he remarked, when safely on board the triplane; "but, without divulging anything of a strictly confidential nature, I can tell you that my mission has been entirely successful. The result of my conference with certain Spanish authorities means the death-blow to Bolshevism in Spain, for, as you possibly know, there has been for months past a dangerous tendency in that direction amongst a certain section of the Iberian populace. Certain measures had to be taken instantly, and you have contributed in no slight way to their success. I congratulate you. And now concerning the return journey. How long will it take?"

Derek glanced at his watch.

"Where do you wish to make for, sir?" he enquired.

"Anywhere you jolly well like!" rejoined the Brigadier-General boisterously. "S'long as it's Blighty the rest doesn't matter much. You're used to night flying?"

"Yes, sir," replied Derek. "All being well, I hope to set you ashore at Sableridge depot at or about eight o'clock to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER XXX

The Choice

At a quarter to eight on the following morning the officers of the Sableridge depot forgathered, according to custom, in the ante-room of the mess before proceeding to breakfast.

Some were busy with their correspondence, for the morning post had just arrived. Others were studiously scanning the official notices on the board; while the majority were engaged in conversation on various topics.

"Hasn't that young blighter Daventry telegraphed?" enquired the Major. "Wonder what stunt he's on? In any case he ought to have landed before dark last evening."

"Nothing come through from him, sir," replied the Officer of the Watch. "Here's a report from Scantlebury announcing the arrival of R.A.F. 23 at Harwich. Jephson wires that No. 19 is detained at Falmouth owing to heavy weather."

"Heavy weather!" echoed the Major. "It's been perfectly calm here. What was the meteorological report for South-west England yesterday, Captain Wells? H'm! 'Heavy squalls; wind attaining a velocity of sixty miles an hour.' Hope Daventry didn't strike that and get into trouble."

"Aeroplane somewhere!" announced one of the junior officers.

There was a rush to the windows. Since the armistice there had been few air-craft in the vicinity of Sableridge, and when one did put in an appearance it attracted more attention than in those seemingly far-off days when the world was at war.

A deep bass hum, momentarily growing louder and louder, proclaimed the fact that a super-powerful aeroplane was approaching.

"A triplane—there she is!" exclaimed the Officer of the Watch. "By Jove, she's coming down! I'll have to turn out the duty-boat's crew."

He hurried off to the telephone, while the rest of his brother officers, many of them capless, raced out of the ante-room to the water's edge.

"Some bird that!" remarked one. "I believe it's a Yankee just across for the trans-Atlantic flight."

"Yankee my grandmother!" interrupted another contemptuously. "That chap knows his job, and he knows where he's landing. Look! He's making straight for the pier-head, against wind and tide."

Like an enormous hawk the triplane swooped down, coming in contact with the water with little more than a double "plop" and a small cloud of foam. Then, disdaining the assistance of a motor-boat, the giant sea-plane glided on the surface, coming to a stop within ten feet of the now crowded pier-head.

A coil of rope was dexterously flung and the end made fast; then, to everyone's surprise, the window of the pilot's cabin was lowered, and the head and shoulders of Lieutenant Derek Daventry were revealed.

"What have you been up to, old bird?" enquired Kaye, as his chum ascended the pier steps.

"Keeping late hours," replied Derek, with a prodigious yawn. "An' now I'm going to sleep the clock round."

It is one thing to make a resolution and quite another to keep it. Derek, having reported himself, promptly retreated to his quarters, bolted the door, undressed, and turned in.

Three hours later—it was a few minutes after the morning papers had arrived—he was aroused by a tremendous hubbub outside. The door rattled and shook under the hammer-like blows of half a dozen lusty officers.

"Open the door!" they bawled.

"Push off!" replied Derek. "Rag someone else; but for goodness sake let me alone!"

But with an utter disregard for official warnings concerning the care and maintenance of private buildings appropriated for official use, the boisterous crew without promptly charged the door with their shoulders. Locks and hinges were not proof against the onslaught, and, with a crash, the woodwork was burst, and a swarm of officers poured in, headed by Kaye, who was brandishing a copy of The Times.

"Here you are!" exclaimed Kaye, when the uproar had somewhat subsided. "From last night's Gazette: 'Awarded the D.S.O.: Lieutenant Derek Daventry, R.A.F., for valuable services rendered under heavy hostile fire whilst engaged upon machine-gunning and bombing enemy trenches; also for good work performed in the destruction of enemy air-craft both at home and on the Western Front'."

"Are you fellows trying to pull my leg?" enquired Derek grimly, as he ostentatiously handled the water-jug. "If so——"

"Kamerad! kamerad!" exclaimed the deputation in mock dismay. "Put up your lethal weapon, Daventry, old sport. It's a fact! No hoax! It's drinks all round the mess at your expense, my lad!"

In the midst of the torrent of congratulations, mingled with good-natured banter, an orderly announced that the Colonel wished to see Mr. Daventry. Promptly Derek bundled the deputation out of the room, and dressed with the utmost haste.

"Congratulations, Mr. Daventry!" began the Colonel. "It is gratifying to know that honours do come our way, although, in your case, you won them before you entered this branch of the service. And now, another point. Your application for a permanent commission has been granted —here is the approval. You are required to state whether you wish to remain in the Marine Branch or re-transfer to the Flying Section, as I understand that you are again passed medically fit for aerial work. Well, have you come to any decision? or, perhaps, you might like to have time to consider the question?"

Derek did not require time. For weeks he had debated with himself upon the subject of his choice.

"I prefer the life afloat, sir," he replied.

"Good man!" rejoined the Colonel warmly, for, born and bred to the sea himself, he understood.