Bowled Out
Fritz was now well on the homeward trail. He knew that the game was
up, but, reluctant to give up the booty, was still maintaining a game
of bluff. Forced back by relentless pressure on all fronts, deserted
by her played-out allies, Germany was on the point of throwing up the
sponge. She knew full well that Foch was ready to deliver a decisive
blow and gain a victory the like of which the world has never seen.
There remained a chance--to enter into an armistice with the
victorious Allies. Better, from the Huns' point of view, to
temporize, and be prepared to make sacrifices of territory and
material, than to lose millions of fit men, who might, at no distant
date, be available for the service of the Fatherland.
There were rumours of peace in the air. The British and French
troops, although "fed up" with fighting, were loath to let their foes
escape from the noose. After more than four years of strenuous
warfare, enduring unheard-of discomforts and privations, they were
reluctant to allow the Hun to temporize. They wanted a fight to the
finish and to deliver a knock-out blow.
It was early in November that Derek Daventry, now a full lieutenant,
R.A.F., was sent on detached duty to a flying-base situated nearly
fifty kilometres behind the aerodrome occupied by his squadron.
The journey was to be performed by car. For certain reasons Derek was
not allowed to fly in the still serviceable EG 19, one of the chief
being that there were papers of a highly-confidential nature that
were not to be delivered by air.
Seated in a high-powered car of a type that in pre-war days only a
millionaire could afford to own, Derek set off. His driver, in civil
life a racing-chauffeur on Brooklands track, was a man who knew his
job, and revelled in the knowledge that no blue-coated policeman
lurked in ambush on the _pavé_ roads. True, there were the military
police to take into consideration, but, except at cross-roads and in
towns and villages, there was no speed-limit.
Jolting, bumping, sometimes leaping clear of the ground, and
frequently swinging round corners with only two wheels touching and
slithering over the ground, the car continued its mad, exhilarating
pace. Speed-lust gripped both driver and passenger. The keen autumnal
air acted like a tonic, while the long-forgotten experience,
ground-travelling, where the sensation of speed is far greater than
in flying at a height, filled Derek with an uncontrollable
exuberance. He wanted to shout at the top of his voice; to urge the
driver to even greater speed. He even detected himself in the act of
waving airy greetings to pompous "brass hats" by the wayside.
In a very short space of time the car had cleared the maze of roads
and huts and was speeding across a country devastated by war, and
temporarily passed over by the contending forces. The landscape was
pitted with waterlogged shell-holes and dotted with jagged stumps of
trees, with an occasional gable-end to mark what was once a peaceful
dwelling. Shrapnel-riddled Nissen huts, derelict tanks, and transport
vehicles added to the desolation of the scene, the only human element
being supplied by gangs of Chinese road-menders, while occasionally
mechanically-propelled wagons and lorries of the supply column were
encountered.
Happening to glance skyward, Derek saw that an aeroplane was passing
overhead. There was nothing out of the ordinary in that; for months
past the air had been stiff with air-craft, and hardly anyone
troubled to crane his neck to watch one.
Derek gave a second look, and looked again, keeping his eyes fixed
upon the descending biplane as far as the jolting and lurching of the
car would permit. Then, leaning forward, he touched the driver on the
shoulder.
"'Bus in difficulties," he shouted. "Slow down, and see what
happens."
The speed of the car diminished. The biplane was vol-planing in short
spirals immediately above. Evidently the engine had "konked out" and
the pilot was seeking a suitable landing-ground.
Down came the machine, pancaking badly. Both tyres burst
simultaneously with a loud report, while the tail rose in the air
like a mute signal of distress.
Out of the pilot's seat clambered a figure dressed in the regulation
outfit. Hardly troubling to examine the damage to his 'bus, he pushed
up his fur-rimmed goggles, and, waving his arms, began to run towards
the road with the intention of attracting the attention of the driver
of the motor.
Derek gave orders to stop, and awaited the arrival of the pilot.
"Mornin', Jimmy," exclaimed the new-corner, on seeing that Derek wore
the R.A.F. uniform. "Can you give me a lift as far as Le Tenetoir
aerodrome?"
"That's where I'm bound for, old son," replied Derek. "What's wrong?"
"Run out of petrol. Union leaking, I fancy. Rotten old 'bus--never
gave a fellow a chance. They are all alike, dash 'em."
"Jump in," interrupted Daventry brusquely. "I'm in a hurry. No, not
here, in the front seat, if you please. Right-o!--full speed ahead,
driver; let her rip!"
Derek leant back against the cushions, and, holding his precious
dispatch-case with one hand, meditatively contemplated the
castor-oil-stained back of the airman in front.
With a sudden jerk the car pulled up before the sentry at the
entrance to Le Tenetoir aerodrome. It did the tyres no good, but the
driver chose the lesser of two evils, since it was decidedly
unhealthy to ignore a challenge in war-time, especially when a sentry
is smart with his trigger-finger.
"Thanks, old bird!" exclaimed the pilot of the disabled machine,
taking advantage of the car being at a standstill, and alighting
agilely. "Good of you to bring me home, you blinking Samaritan. See
you later in the mess. I'll be on the look-out for you."
Derek signed to the driver to keep the car stationary, then, when the
stranger was out of earshot:
"Who is that officer, sentry?"
"Dunno, sir," replied the man. "We gets such a lot o' new officers
'ere it's no tellin' who's who."
"Thank you," replied the Lieutenant. "Carry on, driver."
Arriving at the orderly-room, Derek handed over his documents, and
waited until the C. O. had drafted a reply and had passed it on to be
typewritten. By the time the official reply was in order, nearly half
an hour had gone.
This part of the business completed, Derek was free to commence his
return journey. Instead, he strolled into the officers' mess, where
he was not surprised to find that the man he had befriended was not
present.
He looked round to see if he knew any of the crowd of flying-men. To
his satisfaction he recognized a pilot who had been with him at
Averleigh.
"Hallo, Canterbury!" he exclaimed. "So you're out here?"
"And well I know it, you old merchant," replied the Lieutenant,
shaking Derek's hand. "Had quite a sticky time ever since I joined
the squadron. Well, how goes it? Anything I can do?"
"Can you find me the Orderly Officer?" asked Daventry.
"Behold in me the Orderly dog," replied Canterbury, with mock
obeisance. "For this day only--until next time. What is it?"
"You have a number of big bombers here?"
"Yes; a number," was the guarded reply.
"Where?"
Canterbury waved his hand in a comprehensive sweep.
"Out there," he answered. "But why this curiosity?"
"Look here, old man," said Derek earnestly. "You can vouch for me. I
want to get hold of an armed party. I'll explain why as briefly as I
can."
"By Jove! Is that so?" ejaculated Canterbury, when Derek had reported
the details required to back up his request for an armed party.
"Right-o! I'll turn out a crowd in half a shake. Wait till I've
informed the 'Adjy.', and then we'll see what's to be done."
Lieutenant Canterbury was as good as his word. Having explained
matters to the Adjutant, he led a file of airmen to the hangars,
where the secret battleplanes were jealously hidden from prying eyes
by an elaborate camouflage scheme.
At the first of the sheds, in which the giant machines assembled for
the purpose of bombing Berlin were stored, the Orderly Officer halted
his men.
"Carry on, Daventry," he said. "See if your merchant is knocking
around. We'll stand by in case of an accident."
Derek's investigation of the first shed drew blank. As he was
entering the second he came face to face with the flying-officer he
had befriended.
"Hallo, George!" exclaimed the pilot of the disabled machine. "You're
just the fellow I wanted to see. Hung around the mess for a deuce of
a time, but it was _na poo._"
"Better late than never," rejoined Derek. "We'll stroll back. S'pose
you can spare the time?"
The officer hesitated. Then:
"Right-o! I'm on!" he exclaimed. "Can't stop very long, though. I'm
on a special stunt with these bombers. By the way, do you happen to
know----"
Derek laid his hand heavily upon the pilot's shoulder.
"Count von Peilfell," he said sternly, "I arrest you as a spy!"
Instantly the armed guard surrounded the prisoner.
"By Jove! This is great--absolutely!" he exclaimed, bursting into a
roar of laughter. "Count who? You silly juggins, it's you who'll have
to count, I guess! Quit fooling, and don't be a silly ass!"
The armed party showed signs of incredulous astonishment. Canterbury
looked at Derek as if he had been one of the victims of a practical
joke. Even Daventry began to wonder whether he, too, had made a
grievous error in placing the stranger under arrest. Then he nodded
to the Orderly Officer in a manner that showed confidence in his
action.
"Carry on; remove the prisoner," ordered Lieutenant Canterbury.
The formalities before the Adjutant having been completed, the
accused, still protesting that it was all an idiotic mistake, was
removed to the guard-room. On being subjected to a strict
search--which resulted in the discovery of nothing of an
incriminating nature--the prisoner was informed that he would be
given facilities for proving his identity, and that no doubt some of
his brother officers would appear to establish his innocence.
Then, to the surprise of all present, the accused turned to Derek.
"You are very smart," he remarked in quite a casual way. "I am Count
von Peilfell. I should like to know how you spotted me?"
"Considering that we were flying side by side a short while ago,"
replied Derek, "and you were making faces at me the whole time
(perhaps you recollect the incident), I think I've good cause to
recognize you again."
"_Der Teufel!_" ejaculated the Count. "It was a thousand pities that
on that occasion my ammunition was expended."
"I am sorry to hear that," replied the British pilot enigmatically.