At 10 a.m. Derek Daventry started off in EG 19 on patrol. Kaye, flying a machine of the same type, had risen five minutes earlier. According to instructions the two airmen were to make a reconnaissance above the important railway junction of Les Jumeaux, where the Huns were supposed to be detraining a number of tanks for the avowed purpose of holding up the British and French counter-advance.
Everywhere the Huns had been held. In certain sectors their line was cracking badly. There were evidences of a retreat on a large scale. Demoralization was sapping their ranks like a canker, while the morale of the Allies, never low in spite of reverses, was again on the rise. At the same time Fritz still had a certain amount of kick left in him. He might strive to stave off disaster by rallying the best of his badly-shaken troops and attempt another break through, in the hope that if the operation were successful he might be able to effect a possible peace by negotiation.
It was therefore necessary to keep a vigilant watch upon the Germans\' back-areas, to observe any great concentration of troops or material, and to continue harassing his lines of communication; and the only way to do this was by means of that juvenile but virile branch of the service, the R.A.F.
That day machines were up in hundreds. The sky seemed stiff with biplanes and monoplanes, all bearing the distinctive red, white, and blue circles. Each machine had a definite object in view—a set task to perform.
On the other hand the Boche was chary of going aloft. Not a single black-cross machine crossed our lines. Even the famous Hun circuses kept well away from the scene, since Fritz recognized the Allied superiority in the air, and rarely, if ever, tried conclusions with superior numbers. Therein lies the difference. British and French airmen are sportsmen, ready to rush in whenever an opportunity offers, and scorning to decline a combat against heavy odds; German flyers are almost invariably cold-blooded, scientific men who calculate their chances deliberately before venturing to meet their aerial foes.
Keeping Kaye\'s \'bus in full view, for both airmen were bound for practically the same destination, Derek flew all out, passing over the German lines at less than two thousand feet. Not an Archibald greeted his appearance. Fritz was getting tired of being strafed, and was beginning to find that it paid better to lie doggo than to invite a few bombs or a hail of machine-gun fire from passing aeroplanes.
Steering partly by compass, and correcting his course by observation of prominent landmarks, Derek held on. Other \'buses passed and repassed—bombers, chasers, and reconnaissance machines—some of the pilots waving a greeting to the squat, businesslike EG 19.
It was a bright, sunny day, although here and there dark clouds drifted slowly across the sun. The ground beneath was honeycombed with shell-craters, and dotted with mounds that at one time, not so very long ago, were prosperous villages. A canal, almost dry owing to the destruction of the locks, cut the landscape in an unswerving straight line, while a network of railways, most of them constructed immediately after the big German offensive, spread like a gigantic cobweb as far as the eye could see.
There was plenty of smoke, for it was now the Huns\' turn to set fire to their own ammunition-dumps, while at frequent intervals long-distance naval guns would drop their gigantic projectiles, that burst in a mighty cloud of black and orange-tinted smoke.
Viewed from the air, the scene of the mighty battle was tame. Distance hid the hideous and ghastly details, while in the pure atmosphere the indescribable but distinctive stenches from the field of carnage were not perceptible. If distance did not exactly lend enchantment to the view it certainly threw a kindly veil over most of its shortcomings.
Half an hour passed. Kaye\'s \'bus was still in sight. If anything, Derek was gaining on her, but in the air five minutes\' start is a long one. The two biplanes were now practically alone, although a flight was visible at a great distance to the south-east.
The objective, Les Jumeaux junction, was now in sight, like a four-pointed star; for all around the converging railway lines were sheds and huts that were not in existence three months previously. That the spot was protected by anti-air-craft guns there could be little doubt, while Derek could see a huge sausage-balloon being rapidly hauled down—a sign that Fritz was aware of the approach of British \'planes.
Suddenly Kaye swerved from his course and held on in a southerly direction.
"Wonder what\'s happened to the old bean?" thought Derek. "He was making straight for the jolly old place, and now he\'s wandering off the track."
Fifteen seconds later Derek solved the mystery, for, approaching the British biplane, was a small monoplane of unmistakably Hun construction—one of the admitted failures of the German Air Service.
The Hun hesitated, banking and circling as if doubtful whether to meet the British craft or to seek safety in flight, while Kaye, all out, bore down to the attack.
"Kaye\'ll mop him up in a brace of shakes," declared Derek, as he too swung round. "I\'ll stand by and see ............