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 ............