[Illustration: cover (front)]

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Winning his Wings

[Illustration: THERE WAS NO TIME FOR QUESTIONS. DEREK COULD DISCERN SEVERAL FIELD-GREY FIGURES ADVANCING RAPIDLY]

Winning his Wings

A Story of the R.A.F.

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Lieut. R.A.F.

Author of "With Beatty off Jutland"
"A Lively Bit of the Front"
"A Sub and a Submarine"
&c. &c.

LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Contents

WINNING HIS WINGS

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?"