"BLIGHTY"
AFTER the fall of Himmelman the supremacy of the air was wrested from
the Germans; the enemy's advance was definitely stopped. Thus was the
way paved for the final victory, which was to end in the defeat of
militarism, the restoration to Europe of her liberties, and to
civilisation of her freedom.
There is only one more incident to record, before this story of
adventure and heroism is finished. It concerns one of those
unfortunate persons whose heroic soul had been confined, by some
mysterious dispensation of Providence, to the narrow limits of a
misshapen and deformed body.
We have met this poor fellow once before, in the earlier part of the
story. Then it was that we saw his brave young spirit yearning with
desire to do some manly deed, but we found him broken-hearted and
dismayed, because all his efforts to serve his country, in her time
of peril, had been refused. Now, by another strange dealing of
Providence, which always assigns to every brave man his post in the
day of trial, we meet him again.
When Dastral, after his fight with Himmelman, crashed just behind the
British lines, he was carried away unconscious from the wreckage,
scorched and blistered, and wounded in no less than three places, and
taken to the field hospital. From there he was removed quickly to the
base hospital, and, after three days of feverish tossing, during the
whole of which time he remained unconscious, he was sent, at the
urgent request of a General Officer commanding, by the next hospital
ship to Blighty.
It was during the voyage from Havre to Southampton that he first
regained consciousness. Once, on opening his eyes and trying to look
about him, he asked:
"Where am I? What is the matter? And why is it so dark?"
A gentle hand was laid on his fevered brow. Dastral thought it was
the hand of his mother, so soft it felt and kind. Then a tender
voice, which seemed to echo far down into the distant past,
whispered:
"Be quiet yet a little while, and you will soon be better."
The wounded pilot tried to turn his face towards the voice, but found
that he could not move, for his head, his hands and limbs were
powerless. The light also in the room was very dim. So he lay still,
and tried to think, but his head was confused, and his brain was in a
whirl.
"What is the matter? Have I been wounded?" he asked after another
minute or two, without trying to turn his head this time, for the
pain racked him so.
"Yes, you have been seriously wounded, and you must not try to talk
or think much for the present. You just need to rest quietly, and you
will soon be out of all danger," came the answer in those same quiet,
but strong tones,
Again that voice which stirred the memories of the past, yet Dastral
could not fix it. Somewhere he had heard it before, but where?
His eyes burned like live coals, and his body ached in every limb. He
fancied that he could hear the throb, throb of an engine, and, as he
dozed off again, with that pulsating throb in his ears, he was away
again in his wild dreams, rushing through the heavens to meet
Himmelman, and, over the German trenches, he was fighting his last
great fight over again. But his dream kept changing, for the constant
watcher by his bedside saw at times a stern look, and then a smile,
flicker over his countenance.
"I wonder of what he is dreaming now?" murmured the hospital
attendant, who, himself, wore the ribbon of the D.C.M. on his breast,
lately awarded for bravery on the high seas, in the service of his
country.
Suddenly the pilot started again, and opened his eyes. As he did so,
he caught sight of the face bending over him, and instinctively the
words fell from his lips, as from the mouth of a child:
"Tim Burkitt!"
"Yes, Dastral, you are right. It is Tim Burkitt. God has sent me to
watch over you, and to nurse you back to life."
Tim, who had been serving latterly as ward attendant on board one of
His Majesty's hospital ships conveying the wounded men back to
Blighty, had heard of Dastral's accident, and had been to fetch him
from the base hospital, having secured permission from the D.D.M.S.
to have him under his own special care.
"There, that will do, Dastral. I did not intend to let you recognise
me until you were out of all danger."
Despite his orders, however, Dastral would persist in half-raising
his hand, to grasp that of his friend. And, seeing the ribbon on his
tunic, he gasped:
"Tim, where did you win that?"
"Hush! That will keep till another time," replied Tim.
"But, Tim, how came you here?"
In a few words the attendant told him how he had at last, after
persistent effort, gained a footing in the services, and, though only
the humble post of sick-ward attendant on a hospital ship had been
offered to him, yet he had gladly accepted it.
"And so you see by a stroke of luck you happen to be one of my
patients. And I am going to take you all the way home."
"Home! Blighty! Home!" murmured the patient. "Are we on the way
home?"
"Yes, we are on the way to Blighty. We are now only a matter of
twenty miles from the Nab Light at the eastern end of the Isle of
Wight. In another two hours we should be in Southampton Water."
"Thank God!" replied Dastral quietly and reverently, as he closed his
eyes, bewildered by all he had heard. But he opened them again
shortly, and said:
"Tim, war is a ghastly thing. I hope it will soon be over, for it
turns brave men who might otherwise be friends into enemies. But I am
happy to think that you have won that decoration."
"Tut, tut! Dastral," replied the other. "Do you know that the King
has conferred upon you the honour of a C.B., and also made you a Wing
Commander. Do you know also that the whole country is talking of your
fight with Himmelman, the German air-fiend?"
"Tim, I would willingly shed all these honours if I could bring back
my brave comrades, who are buried in unknown graves out yonder. Alas,
I shall never see them again," and here Dastral closed his eyes to
keep back the tears that tried to force themselves out, and to gulp
down a sob. Then he fell fast asleep, and Tim let him sleep on, till
they had passed the Nab Light, and steamed along by the Southsea
Forts, and Spithead, and Portsmouth, and had entered the lower
reaches of Southampton Water.
Then again Dastral opened his eyes, and called softly for Tim.
"I have had such a dream," he whispered. "And I have seen Himmelman,
and we are friends again. And I saw Steve, and Brum and Mac, and they
were with Himmelman, for there are no enemies in the other world,
amongst the brave men who have gone there. And the captain of the
German warplane, he who died in my arms on the aerodrome near
Contalmaison--he was there too. They were all happy together, and
they said that one day I should meet them all. Oh, tell me, Tim, you
who are so wise and learned, and know all these things, was it a
dream or did I really see them?"
"Dastral, I don't quite understand. You say you have seen them, and
they are all dead?"
"Yes, all dead, all brave fellows, killed by this accursed war. But
come, tell me, do you really think I saw them, or was it only a
dream, a spirit dream?" and the wounded pilot looked appealingly up
at his friend.
"I do not know, Dastral," calmly replied the scholar after a full
minute's pause. "We often discussed these things in the old days at
college, though, after what has happened, it seems years and years
ago. We will talk of it again, when you are stronger, but I do
believe that for brave men, who have followed the star which has
called them, and served God truly, there is, there must be, after
death, something like that of which you have spoken, where good men
are re-united, even though they have fought with each other in the
days that are past."
Then, after another long pause, he added
"Yes, Dastral, I believe there is a heaven."
* * * * *
Thus ends this tale of adventure and heroism during the great war.
Dastral eventually recovered his health and strength, under the
careful nursing of his friend, Tim Burkitt, but his work in the great
war was finished. He had served his King and country nobly. He had
crowded into twenty months of service a record second to none during
the great war. He was the recipient of great honours from his King
and Country. And right nobly had he carried them, for he had believed
that the cause for which he fought was for freedom against tyranny.
In days gone by the brave and daring sons of Britain--men like Drake
and Cromwell, Blake and Nelson--gained for this country the liberties
of the present. And when the story of these days of bitter struggle
is fully told, the names of Dastral and his comrades will be engraved
in letters of gold, for, against the most fearful odds, they went out
in jeopardy of their lives, risking every day a terrible death, so
that they might lay deep and sure the foundations of our future
liberty and peace.
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THE LONDOND AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND
[Transcribers Notes:
Some inconsistencies in the text were left uncorrected, following
the original. Examples are the inconsistent use of {Mac} and
{Mac.}, {planes} and {'planes} (the single quote stands for {aero})
and also the symbols to indicate a person is going to say something:
{:}, {:--} and {,}.
Corrected type-errors:
{at the first wh sper of dawn,} -> {at the first whisper of dawn,}
Not corrected type-errors:
{Seven, six- five,} -> {Seven, six, five,}
{were carefully consuled,} -> {were carefully consulted,}
{boys. We must cros} -> {boys. We must cross}
{from the Bosche,} -> {from the Boche,}
]
End of Project Gutenberg's Dastral of the Flying Corps, by Rowland Walker