The Next Day
Rendered well-nigh breathless by the shock of the water following the
crash, Derek struggled feverishly to unbuckle the stiff leather belt
that held him to the seat. Swallowing mouthfuls of water, until his
lungs felt on the point of bursting under the asphyxiating strain, he
at length succeeded in unfastening the buckle. Then, scrambling
blindly, he endeavoured to extricate himself from the tangle of
wreckage that, in his heated imagination, was encompassing him on
every side. A severed tension-wire coiled itself round his left
ankle. At the expense of his fleece-lined boot he succeeded in
disengaging the sinuous embrace of the spring-like metal. Then,
almost at his last gasp, the young officer resisted the temptation to
struggle to the surface, but, diving under the upturned fuselage, he
swam half a dozen strokes before attempting to rise.
Then, hardly able to withstand the numbing coldness of the water, he
allowed himself to float to the surface.
Taking in copious draughts of the pure night-air, Derek floated
impassively until the instinct of self-preservation urged him to make
for the bank.
Silhouetted against the glare of the concealed searchlights were the
figures of a score or more of men. Towards them the crashed pilot
struck out feebly, until, to his unbounded relief, he saw two men
plunging into the water to his assistance.
"Sorry, chum!" shouted a voice, as a pair of hands grasped him under
the shoulders. "We thought you were a bloomin' Boche. You'll be all
right in 'arf a mo'."
Derek could not reply. He was temporarily speechless, but he was
heartily glad of the assistance of the men who had swum out to his
aid. Then he was dimly conscious of his feet coming in contact with
the muddy bottom and willing hands helping him up the steeply-rising
bank.
His senses returning, Daventry was able to take a
fairly-comprehensive view of the situation. He was standing on the
edge of a large reservoir. In the centre, looming up in the reflected
glare of the still fiercely-burning Gotha, was the tail of his trusty
Dromedary, resembling an obelisk to commemorate the aerial encounter.
A short distance away was a searchlight, its beams slowly sweeping
the sky, while, standing out against the rays, was the gaunt muzzle
of a heaven-directed anti-aircraft gun, ready for instant action.
Round the weapon were the gunners, seemingly oblivious to the British
pilot's presence, their whole attention centred upon the patch of
luminosity that swung slowly to and fro across the murky sky. Other
searchlights were also trained upwards in the hope of spotting yet
other undesirable aerial visitors from Hunland.
A quarter of a mile away a red glow marked the spot where the Gotha
had crashed, although the actual wreckage was hidden by a
considerable concourse of people, both military and civilian, who
signified their delight at the raider's downfall by prolonged and
lusty cheers.
An anti-aircraft officer, his features partly hidden by the upturned
collar of his "British warm", hurried up to the spot where Derek was
standing.
"Sorry, old man!" he exclaimed apologetically. "I was responsible for
bringing you down, I'm afraid. Didn't know that any of our machines
were up. No telephone message came through to us. I hadn't a chance
to distinguish the markings on your plane. Deuced sorry--very!"
"There's little harm done," replied Derek as well as his chattering
teeth would allow. "My fault entirely. I ought to have----"
"No fear!" replied the anti-aircraft man. "My mistake absolutely.
Here; it's no use arguing the point about responsibility. You're
coming back to our mess and to get a fresh rig-out."
Up dashed a closed-in motor-car. Into this Derek was assisted, the
battery captain accompanying him, and amid the cheers of the now
dense crowd of sightseers the destroyer of the Gotha was borne away.
A hot bath and a change of clothing provided by willing hands quickly
restored Derek to an almost normal condition--but not quite.
Pardonably he was excited at the thought of having accomplished a
good deed, but in reply to numerous congratulations he frankly stated
that it was a piece of sheer good luck.
News of the destruction of the raider and the victor's crash into the
reservoir had been promptly telephoned to Torringham aerodrome, and
in reply came the curtly-official message:--
"From O.W. to Second-Lieutenant D. Daventry,
R.A.F.--Await arrival of salvage-party. Forward
report forthwith--Ack, ack, ack."
The last three words, be it understood, do not bear any relationship
to the Teutonic "Hoch, hoch, hoch", but are the usual official way of
indicating that a telegraphic or telephonic message is ended.
Generally speaking, the smaller the mess the more hospitably
strangers are treated, and at Sisternbury there was no exception to
the rule. Although the mess was composed of a captain, a lieutenant,
and two subalterns only, the officers did everything they could for
the comfort of the crashed pilot.
In spite of the fact that it was early morning and Derek had had very
little sleep during the last twenty hours, the young officer tossed
restlessly on his bed. The events of the midnight pursuit and its
startling finish were photographed so vividly on his brain that he
could not banish the mental vision of the Gotha streaming earthwards
in flames. Then, just as Daventry was falling into a fitful slumber,
he was awakened by a batman bringing him a large cup of hot,
sugarless tea, with the announcement that it was eight o'clock and
that the salvage-party had arrived.
The salvage-party consisted of a dozen air-mechanics and a couple of
corporals and a sergeant, who had come from Torringham on a large
R.A.F. lorry, but with them came an unofficial party made up of
almost every officer not on duty and as many on duty who could
furnish even the flimsiest pretext for joining the "joy-riders".
Having submitted to the many and varied congratulations and caustic
remarks of his brother officers, Derek was taken to the spot where
the Gotha crashed. Already sentries had been posted and a wire fence
erected around the calcined debris of the huge aeroplane, for it was
imperative that nothing should be disturbed until scientific and
technical examinations had been made by qualified experts.
The motors had fallen with such force that they had made a hole five
feet in depth. Thirty yards away were the battered remains of a
machine-gun, while other debris had been discovered half a mile from
the main wreckage. The Gotha had had a crew of five men, their
corpses, horribly burnt and battered, being found at widely different
distances. These had already been removed to be given a military
funeral, for, notwithstanding the undoubtedly cowardly methods
adopted by Hun raiders, the German airmen were acting under orders,
and had met their fate in much the same way as soldiers on the field
of battle.
As for the poor old Dromedary, it looked a pitiable object when
removed from the reservoir. Never again would the battered object
soar proudly through the air. As a fighting-machine its days were
ended. Its fate, after the more important parts had been removed, was
to be burnt.
"I think I can claim the old prop.," remarked Derek to a brother
officer. "I'll get a clock fitted to it and send it home to my
people. It will look all right in a hall, won't it?"
So the badly-chipped propeller was removed and placed in the lorry
until it could be converted into a novel timepiece. Then, having seen
the valuable portions of the crashed Dromedary safely in the huge
petrol-drawn vehicle, Derek bade farewell to his newly-found friends
of the Sisternbury Anti-aircraft Force and was motored back to
Torringham.
It was a sort of triumphal progress, for the now thoroughly-excited
officers, jubilant at the idea that the raider had fallen a victim to
one of their depot, were "letting themselves go" with no uncertain
voice.
With motor-horns adding to the din, and a tattoo of sticks beating
the covers of the cars, the motor cavalcade swept into the aerodrome,
where Derek, taking to his heels, fled precipitately to his quarters.
It was not long before the C.O. sent for the victorious pilot.
"In case you may be suffering from swelled head, Mr. Daventry," he
remarked, at the conclusion of a congratulatory interview, "I think
we'll have you posted for active service in France. That, I think, is
a fitting reward, and I hope that you'll recognize that it is so.
Meanwhile I must warn you that on no account must your name figure in
the press. It is an unwritten law in the R.A.F. that individuality
should be eliminated as far as possible, and the undoubted honour
shared by the unit to which you belong."
Within a week Derek's orders to proceed across Channel came through.
His field-kit was soon packed, and after a couple of days' leave
Daventry found himself at Richborough, _en route_ for Dunkirk.