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."
