Dastral of the Flying Corps

The next instant they were over the top, and making a dash for the spot already hidden in the fog.

"Come back there, you fellows!" cried a sergeant of the Wiltshires, whose company lined the trench. "Where the deuce are you going to?"

"To save Lieutenant Dastral and his observer, sergeant! Don't let your men fire on us. We'll be back in five minutes," shouted Bratby.

"Devil a bit of use you fellows throwing your lives away like that. The Boches are sure to attack under cover of the fog. Come back, the pilot must have been dead an hour. The machine was ablaze when it crashed," called the sergeant again.

To this they returned no answer, but scampered as fast as they could across the broken ground, creeping under barbed wire, and stumbling into shell holes, for the ground had been torn and rent by the morning's bombardment, and huge gaps had been made in the barbed wire defences.

Now, when Dastral, his ammunition expended, his machine damaged to such an extent that it scarcely held together, had reached the British lines that morning, after the brilliant reconnaissance he had carried out with his Flight, he made a steep gradient to get to earth at the first possible landing-place, but even as he made the attempt he knew he would fail. The wasp's fuselage was plugged in a hundred places. The petrol feed had been severed by shrapnel, and a shell from the German lines, hitting the reserve petrol tank, set it ablaze, just at the moment when he was making for the ground.

Half-blinded by the flames and scorched by the heat, he, nevertheless, held the joystick firmly, and tried to reach his objective, but, when near the trenches, the machine nose-dived and crashed, side-slipping to the earth, so that the left aileron struck the ground first. Then she rolled over, and crumpled up. She did not strike the ground with any great force, because Dastral had kept her so well in hand.

Disentangling himself from the wreckage first, bruised, and burnt, he yet remembered Jock, who had received still greater injury.

"Jock!" he called. "Are you hurt?"

But no reply came from the unconscious observer, who lay under the wreckage which was now in flames.

"Come along, old man! Pull yourself together. The Huns are sure to turn their machine guns upon us in a few seconds."

Even as he spoke there came the dreaded sound, which told that the infernal Huns had opened fire upon the wreckage.

"Rep-p-p! Rep-r-r-r-r-r!"

A howl of rage went up from the British trenches at this act of cowardice, which permitted men to turn their guns upon wounded officers, entangled in the wreckage of a burning aeroplane.

"Come on, boys, let's give 'em 'ell!" shouted some of the Wiltshires, when they saw what was happening, and at least a dozen men sprang out of the British trenches of their own free will in a useless attempt to save the lives of the aviators, but every man fell long before he gained the spot where the wreckage lay.

Dastral, however, kept cool, and seeing a pilot's boot projecting from under the blazing he seized it, and tugged away, until the unconscious form of his chum lay at his feet. Then, heedless of the bullets still whizzing around him, he dragged his comrade quickly into the friendly shelter of a huge crater, a dozen yards away. Even as he rolled over into the hollow, after throwing Jock in first, his thick, leather pilot's coat was pierced by several bullets, and he himself was wounded again.

Still cheerful, however, he bandaged his wound, then endeavoured to rouse Jock, but all his efforts failed.

So he searched him, found several wounds, bound them up as well as he could with the emergency lint and bandages which every soldier on active service carries in the lining of his coat. Then, through sheer loss of blood he fainted away, and lay there he knew not how long, for he was thoroughly exhausted, and felt that he was dying.

As he slumbered, sheltered in that little hollow from the direct fire of the enemy, he became feverish, and dreamt wild, fantastic dreams. With Jock beside him he sailed away on the hornet, over distant lands, where the skies were blue and the sun shone bright and the atmosphere was pleasant and warm.

Here there were no Germans to worry them with shrapnel and bullets, but calmly and serenely they sailed over huge forests and deserts, swamps and islands, which studded the deep blue sea far below them, like gems set in emerald. Now they were in the tropics, skimming along over huge palm trees, and lagoons that opened out into the sea. Great monsters basked in the sunlight on the banks of the rivers and lagoons, and on the shores of the sea. They were in an unknown land discovering strange places. Just such a trip it was as Jock and he had often talked about, when, the day's work done, they had settled in the comfortable arm-chairs in the officers' mess at the aerodrome near Contalmaison.

Often they had talked of these things, and the trips they were going to make in the happy years to come, when the fighting was all over, and the smoke of battle had blown away, and the liberties of mankind had been won back from the tyrants of these latter days.

Thus he dreamt, for he was feverish, while over him the shells burst, and the great guns thundered, and all around, upon the wide-stretched battlefields, the dead and the dying lay. And always he was parched and thirsty, and sometimes he would turn and say to Jock:

"There, far below us in the desert, Jock, I can see an oasis, with pools of cold refreshing water, and a cluster of tall trees, where we shall find dates and figs. Let us go down, Jock."

But the vision would fade before he reached the promised land, and the cup of water was dashed from his lips, and the goblet broken. Again he would see across the desert, which now seemed interminable, mystic and wonderful lakes of fresh water. But always he was mocked, and again and again those horrid German guns would thunder out from far below and forbid them to land.

Suddenly from out of the midst of his dream, he heard some one calling his name.

"Dastral! Lieutenant Dastral!"

He turned uneasily in his sleep; then he woke with a start, and looked about him. His brow was flushed, his head burned as though it were on fire, and his eyes glittered. All seemed dark, for the landscape was blotted out by a dark cloud.

Half regaining consciousness he murmured:

"Where am I? Who called me?" But while he wondered, his hand touched something, and he shrank back startled. It was Jock's poor wounded and bruised body that he had touched. Then he remembered it all. The flight over the German lines; the attack which had been made upon them by a whole German squadron; the fierce fight and the dash back, followed by a cloud of Fokkers and Aviatiks. Then the crash–. Yes he remembered it all now, and Jock, poor Jock must be dead, for he had not moved, and they must have been there for hours, days perhaps–at least, it seemed so, for it was dark as night, and it was morning when they crashed.

Then again he heard that welcome sound, a human voice, and it called him by name.

"Dastral! Lieutenant Dastral, where are you?"

And he feebly answered with all his strength.

"Here! Here! For heaven's sake help us!"

The next instant two burly forms came stumbling and rolling down the crater, for Cowdie and Brat had just arrived at the spot, and as yet scarcely an hour had elapsed since the crash. Strong arms were put around the pilot, which raised him up, for he had fallen down again, after his effort to rise. He had just time to murmur something, and point to the unconscious form of his observer, when he relapsed into unconsciousness again.

"Thank God we have found you both, sir!" exclaimed a strong voice, which seemed to resound again and again through his being.

As the thick fog came on, the firing had been suspended for a moment. It was a strange, weird silence that seemed to presage a coming storm. Cowdie was the first to read its meaning.

"Quick, Brat!" he cried. "They're going to attack. We must make a dash for it."

It was only too true. Scarcely had they reached the top of the crater, and proceeded a dozen yards with their heavy burdens, when they heard the sound of voices.

"Hist! What was that?"

They paused for a moment, and waited, but it seemed to them that their panting and the loud thumping of their hearts would betray them. How far had they to go yet? they asked each other. Then, with a shudder, Cowdie turned and began to retrace his steps, whispering to his comrade:

"We have come the wrong way. Those are the German trenches over there, and look, they are forming up over the top ready to attack."

"Good heavens! Then we are lost," replied his comrade.

"No, we may yet be in time. Come along. It cannot be far."

With his keen blue eyes Cowdie peered through the gloom, for Cowdie, the "spare part," had been the first to make the discovery. He had seen the shadowy forms of the Germans not twenty yards away. Fortunately, they had not been observed as yet, but they were not out of danger. They had regained their right direction, however. The British trenches were not more than seventy yards away.

On they stumbled, over the broken ground, through pools of water, and soon they reached the tangled wire. Exhausted they were ready to sink with fatigue, yet they held out. But their hands were bleeding and torn by the wire, and their clothing was in shreds.

Suddenly they heard the sound of voices behind them. Low voices called to each other, and the tramp of feet was also heard.

"They are advancing. Quick! quick!" shouted Cowdie.

Then, knowing that the British trenches could not be more than thirty yards in front of him, he called out:

"Stand-to! The Huns are attacking!"

The next instant a blaze of fire lit up the fog, as a dozen Very lights were fired up from the British trenches. The two figures of the men carrying the unconscious pilot and observer were clearly outlined. The sergeant of the Wiltshires shouted to his men: