The Flight-Sergeant surveyed GV 7 dispassionately. It was part of his job to condemn unserviceable machines, and the frequency of having to do it bored him.

"It\'s a wonder you got back, sir," he reported. "Why the motors didn\'t konk out puzzles me, and there\'s hardly a strut that\'s perfect. No, sir; I can\'t pass her. May as well set her on fire and have done with it."

And so GV 7, after a week of gallant and strenuous service, received her death-warrant. At the best of times the life of an aeroplane is a brief one, and in active-service conditions the wastage is simply astounding. Every machine must be of the very best workmanship possible and kept in perfect tune, otherwise it must be scrapped and replaced by another of the vast quantity turned out in the numerous air-craft factories at home.

Derek heard the mandate, against which there was no appeal, with genuine regret. In a few days he had gained an affection for his old \'bus, much as a cavalryman does for his charger. Nevertheless he realized that the verdict was a just one. He, too, could not help wondering how the badly-scarred biplane had brought down her crew in safety, for there were thirty-three holes in the wings and tail-planes and seven perforations of the fuselage, while most of the struts were chipped and several of the tension-wires severed.

Accordingly the motors were removed, together with the more important fittings. These towed to a safe distance, the doomed battleplane was set on fire. Her late pilot watched her burn. It was a sight that fascinated him. It was as though he had destroyed a favourite dog. He waited until nothing but a charred mass remained, and then made his way back to the newly-erected aerodrome—quite twenty miles farther back than the one abandoned on the night of his first flight across the enemy lines.

"I\'ll have to find the Equipment Officer," thought Derek, "and get him to let me have another \'bus. Wonder where his show is?"

Failing to find the desired officer, Derek turned to enquire of a goggled and leather-coated pilot who was literally smothered with grease and castor oil.

"Bless me, Daventry! Who on earth expected to run across you in this Johnny Horner hole?"

For some moments Derek stared at the apparition in perplexity, unable to recognize either the voice or its owner.

"Give it up!" he replied. "Hanged if I can fix you, George."

"What! Forgotten poor little Johnny Kaye! An\' we vowed life-long friendship an\' all that any-old-thing sort of tosh, old bean!"

The two pilots shook hands.

"I\'ve been here a week on different stunts," continued Kaye. "They don\'t forget to work you here, by Jove! Not that I mind though. Derek, old man, I had the time of my life yesterday, when two Huns thought they had me cold. Led \'em a pretty dance, and finally persuaded them to collide. One Boche plopped fairly on top of my tail-plane, and I had cold feet pretty badly until I looped and let him slide off. The funny thing was that I hadn\'t a single round of ammunition left. How long have you been here? You were asking for the Equipment Officer, I believe. There\'s his show. Smithers is his name. He\'ll fix you up with anything you want, from a double-seater to a cotter-pin."

Linking arms with Kaye, Derek made his way by means of a duck-board track to the Nissen but wherein the Equipment Officer held court. Smithers was a grey-haired lieutenant of fifty, who, heart and soul devoted to his work, was obsessed by the idea that he was the one and only man who did any real work in the aerodrome.

"State your wants briefly," he began, before Derek could say a word. "I\'m terribly busy."

Derek did so. The Equipment Officer consulted a board festooned with red, blue, and yellow tabs.

"A single-seater is all I can manage just at present. Suit? Good. EG 19\'s the bird. Mornin\'."

Enquiries at the hangars showed that EG 19 had alighted, owing to slight engine defects, in a field at a distance of two miles from the aerodrome. That occurred three days previously, and the former pilot had been sent away to another squadron. Repairs had been effected, and the machine was now ready for flight.

"I\'ll take a tender," declared Derek. "Come along, old man, and keep me company. You can return in the tender, you know."

"Right-o!" agreed Kaye, divesting himself of his flying-coat and tossing it to an orderly. "Just as likely I\'ll tramp back after I\'ve seen you started."

The tender, a covered-in Ford van, was soon forthcoming, and the two chums seated themselves under the canvas tilt. The view was strictly limited to the ground already covered, but this mattered little, since the two pilots had plenty to talk about.

The road was typically French. It ran in a straight line as far as the eye could see. In the centre was a strip of pavé, interrupted at frequent intervals by shell-holes—some of recent origin, others filled in with material that was subsiding badly. On either side of the pavé was nothing more nor less than a morass, the road being torn up by ceaseless heavy traffic. Bordering the highway on either hand were tall, leafless trees, many of them having been splintered and cut down by shell-fire.

Swinging along the mud-covered pavé was a battalion newly............