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.
