Dastral of the Flying Corps

by Rowland Walker

  CHAPTER VII

  COWDIE, THE "SPARE PART"

  "REVEILLE! Show a leg there!" shouted Corporal Yap, one morning, ashe went round the tents and hangars about the aerodrome nearContalmaison.

  The sleepy air-mechanics of the Royal Flying Corps in the fieldopened their eyes and yawned, showing no immediate disposition torise, for the fatigue of the previous day's work had scarcely passedaway.

  "Did you hear me, Cowdie, you, 'spare part.' Get up there smartly. Ishan't call you again. If you're not on parade in fifteen minutesyou'll be for the high jump."

  "'S all right, Corporal," shouted the "spare part," trying to wriggleout of his roll of blankets and commencing to sing in a dolefulmonotone:

  "Oh, it' snice to get up in the mornin' But it' snicer to stop in bed..."

  Corporal Yap turned and went off on his errand, shaking up a few more"spare parts," and threatening everybody more or less with "the highjump"; which, of course, meant an appearance before the CommandingOfficer of the Squadron.

  As soon as his woolly head had disappeared behind the flap of thetent door, Cowdie rolled back into his blankets for anotherminute-and-a-half's nap. As he lay there he looked for all the worldlike an Egyptian mummy, for he had a peculiar way of rolling himselfup in his blankets at night which gave him that appearance. Butalthough his eyes were closed his ears were wide awake for the soft,stealthy tread of the orderly N.C.O., who he knew would be sure toreturn in about the space of ninety seconds to try to find who hadleft his warning unheeded.

  Cowdie, though a spare part about the aerodrome, was quite a geniusin his way. His senses were so acute that the others said he couldhear the "footsteps" of a snake in the grass, so they dubbed him the"listening post" and made him sleep next the door of the tent, sothat he could always give the alarm in case of need.

  At the present moment he was counting under his breath. He knew theorderly's round, and knew to a nicety how long it would take him toget back to tent No. 7. He allowed ninety seconds, and he had justgot as far as "eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine," when hesuddenly stood bolt upright in his roll of blankets, therebyperforming a wonderful gymnastic feat, and looking, with his sleepingcap over his head and ears, not unlike a Turk preparing for hismorning ablutions.

  Evidently he had heard some soft stealthy tread on the grass outside,for exactly at "ninety" the woolly head of Corporal Yap appeared atthe door once more, and his yapping voice called:

  "Caught you this time, you trilobite. Out you come! Can't say Ididn't give you warning, Cowdie!"

  Then catching sight of his man in the grey morning light, theCorporal gasped, and fell back a pace or two.

  "The deuce! Do you sleep standing up, man?"

  "Sometimes," replied the Spare Part. "M.O.'s orders. Number Nine toldme to do so the last time I reported sick."

  "Where are you going to? About to have a Turkish bath, I s'pose; allright, my man, I'll catch you yet. If you're not on parade in twelveminutes, bath or no bath, you're for it. D'y'understand?"

  "Yes, Corporal, but I'm not going to have a bath. They're dangerous.Number Nine ordered me not to. Said I'd got a murmuring heart, hedid," replied the Spare Part meekly.

  "Murmuring heart, have you? Then where are you goin' to in that rig?"

  "Ain't goin' anywhere; Corporal. I'm standin' still."

  "What are you standin' still for?"

  "Waitin' for my turn with the shavin' brush," came the quiet answer.

  At this the Corporal departed, swearing wrathfully, for he was nomatch for Cowdie. At his departure the rest of the company in No. 7tent burst into loud laughter, for they enjoyed immensely this dailytug-of-war between the bullying orderly N.C.O. and the apparentlymeek but cunning Cowdie, who was a great favourite, despite thenickname of "Spare Part," and "Regimental Cuckoo," which had beenbestowed upon him.

  Though he had lost two minutes in the start yet Cowdie was dressed,washed and shaved first as usual, for somehow he had the knack ofliterally jumping into his clothes, even when the men received analarm and were turned out in the dark of the night.

  These little morning episodes did much to enliven the men and to helpthem to endure the dull fatigue and monotony which was part of thelot of every man ho went overseas with the British ExpeditionaryForce. All the time they were preparing for the roll call, dressing,shaving, rolling up their beds, tidying their kits, a running fire ofsparkling wit and frolic was kept up.

  Even when the aerodrome was bombed by the German aeroplanes, whichhappened two or three times each week, almost always just as dawn wasbreaking, these brave men joked just the same, amid the burstingbombs, and the blinding flashes of the explosions, the ensuingcrashes, and the rattle of the anti-aircraft guns with which theaerodrome was defended.

  While the shaving was in progress this morning and three of the menwere trying to shave by the aid of one little cracked mirror aboutthree inches by two in size, Brat, the despatch-rider attached to thesquadron, said to the inimitable Cowdie,

  "I hope you finished that letter last night, old man. You finished upall that two inches of candle I lent you. It must have been a longletter you wrote."

  "No, I didn't quite finish it," replied Cowdie quietly.

  "Was it another letter to your little girl in Old Blighty?"

  "No, it was a short letter to mother," replied the Spare Part in achoking voice.

  "Dear me! And you didn't finish it?"

  "No," came the quiet answer, as Cowdie began to attack his upper lip,which was all quivering with apparent emotion.

  "What did you say, then?"

  "I said, 'Dear Mother,--I am sending you five shillings, but not thisweek.'"

  At this a burst of laughter from the whole party called forth the ireof Old Snorty, who was passing by, for he had been up early, withseveral squads of air-mechanics, seeing off "B" Flight, who werepaying another early morning visit to the enemy.

  "A little less noise there, Number Seven, or some of you'll be in theguard room. How the deuce can we hear when 'B' Flight's coming in, ifyou kick up a row like that?"

  "Old Snorty seems to have something on his mind this morning, doesn'the?" said some one. "'B' Flight won't be back for a couple of hoursyet."

  So the men were quiet for a whole minute after that until thesergeant-major, having passed out of earshot, and there still beingthree minutes left for parade, the men returned to their chaff andtitter, Brat leading off again by saying:

  "That letter of yours, Cowdie, reminds me of another chap who workedalongside of me near St. Pierre with the --th Squadron. He once wrotea letter to his mother as follows:

  "'Dear Mother,--Enclosed please find fifteen shillings. I cannot. "'Your affectionate son, John.'"

  And the joke was reckoned so good in our squadron that we raised themoney for the poor chap, and he sent it after all."

  "Fall in!" came a stentorian shout, as Brat finished telling thisyarn. And the men of Number Seven doubled up to fall in on the left,and answer their names to the early morning roll, for another day hadbegun, and more than one man of that small crowd was to prove himselfa hero before another sun should come up out of the German linesbeyond Ginchy, and set in blood-red clouds behind the British lines.

  Some two hours after that, as the men busy about the labours of theday, which in an aerodrome, under active service conditions, rangefrom the rigging of a defective aeroplane, mending struts, replacingcontrols, preparing ammunition dumps, to the taking down of a R.A.F.engine, and while "A" Flight was returning from a reconnaissance, and"C" Flight was preparing to go up and over the lines on a bombingraid, Grenfell, the orderly officer at the aerodrome 'phone, receiveda broken message from somewhere near Ginchy.

  The message had to do with the crash of a British 'plane somewhere infront or just behind the first line trenches, but a terrificbombardment being concentrated on the place at the time the messagesuddenly ceased, as though the wires had been broken, or the speakerat the other end put out of action.
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  A minute later Snorty came dashing down towards the spot where NumberSeven squad were working.

  "Where is Brat?" he shouted.

  "Over there, sir, in the transport shed," replied Cowdie.

  "Fetch him at once!"

  And Cowdie dashed off to find his chum, bringing him back a momentlater.

  "Bratby!" shouted Snorty, giving the despatch-rider his full name foronce, as he saw the two doubling up.

  "Yes, sir," came the answer smartly.

  "You know the observing officer's dug-out near Ginchy?"

  "The place where I carried the despatches the other day, sir?"

  "Exactly."

  "Yes, sir, I know it."

  "Good! Go there at once. The wires are snapped again, and we havereceived a broken message through which stopped in the middle. One ofour 'planes has come down. It must be part of 'B' Flight, for they'renot in yet. Go there at once, take this message to the officer orsenior N.C.O. in charge, and get the full message from him. Learnwhat you can while you are there, and come back at once, so that wemay send out a breakdown gang for the machine, if not too late."

  "Right, sir."

  "Mind, we want the exact location of the machine, and you must try tofind out if it is a bad crash, and what has become of the pilot andobserver."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Now get off at once. It is five minutes since the machine crashed.And be careful now. There are some nasty corners there, and theGermans are shelling the Ginchy lines 'hell for leather' thismorning."

  Then, catching sight of Cowdie, for whom he had rather a soft placein his rugged heart, the Sergeant-Major added,

  "Better take the 'Spare Part' with you. You may need a second man."

  "Right, sir."

  The next moment the two chums, happy as schoolboys because they wereentrusted with a dangerous commission, had the "New Triumph" out ofthe shed. Then, with Cowdie seated on the carrier, Brat on thesaddle, away they went, past the aerodrome sentries, out at the gate,and down the road towards the trenches.

  "Zinc-zinc-a-bonck-rep-r-r-r-r!"

  But, alas, it was an adventure which was to prove something more thana joy ride, before another two hours were past.

  It was a clear sunny morning as they pattered along, wondering muchwhat new venture it was that awaited them. Over there towards Ginchythe air was thick with bursting shells, and the clear, blue sky wasmarked in a score of places at once by aeroplanes and kite balloons,whilst round about them were splashes of fire, and floatingmilk-white cloudlets where the shells burst, as the Huns tried tobring down our "birds."

  An air-fight was in progress already over Ginchy; two Fokkers whichhad ventured near the British lines were being countered and chasedby several of our Sopwiths. They were two of the very same Fokkerswhich had chased Dastral and the remnant of "B" Flight after theirdrums of ammunition were all used up.

  But Dastral, where was he at this moment? This was the thought thatwas uppermost in the minds of the two men as they whizzed down theGinchy road, leaving Bazentin on their left. For of all the pilots ofthe --th Squadron, Dastral was the greatest favourite with the men.He was so brilliant and daring that they felt they could not affordto lose him.

  "I hope it isn't Dastral who has crashed, Cowdie," said Brat.

  "I hope not," replied Cowdie, feeling at the time somehow that itcould be no one else.

  "'B' Flight ought to have returned some time ago now. I'm very muchafraid they've met their match this time. We could afford to losehalf a dozen men rather than the Commander of 'B' Flight."

  "Perhaps he's met Himmelman," urged the man on the carrier, steadyinghimself for the next heavy jolt, for the last one had nearly thrownhim off, and the bad places were becoming more and more plentiful asthey neared the lines.

  "He will meet him some day, and there'll be a deuce of a fight. Justmark my words. There isn't room for two lords of the air, not inthese parts, and one of them will go under."

  "Well, I hope it will be the Boche."

  "So it will be if they meet on equal terms, but the German air-fiendis a wily brute."

  "Whiz-z-z! Bang-g-g!" came a shell at that moment, striking theground not thirty yards away from them, and sending both men andmotor-cycle spinning into the ditch by the very concussion.

  "Not hurt, are you, Cowdie?" asked Brat, as he scrambled out of theditch first, and ran to help his friend.

  "No, but it was a very near thing that. Another few inches and thatwould have been the end of the regimental 'spare part.' Look here!"and Cowdie showed a rent in his tunic where a piece of shrapnel hadtorn away six inches of it behind the left shoulder.

  Fortunately, though both were shaken, neither of the men had beenactually hit It was a marvellous escape, however, one of those thingsone cannot account for. Though the machine had been badly knockedabout and splintered, it had received no vital injury, and, afterstraightening out a few spokes, and cutting away a few more theymounted again and proceeded a little further.

  "Halt Who goes there?" came the shout as they pattered up to thesupport trenches.

  They halted and dismounted, and after telling their business wereallowed to proceed, but they were cautioned that the road ahead wasfull of shell holes, and that they would not be able to ride muchfurther. They would certainly be stopped at the reserve trenches.

  Once more they started, their heads throbbing and aching with thenoise of the terrific bombardment which was proceeding, for they werenow in the super-danger zone, and shells were screaming overheadevery few seconds, and many were bursting on their left and on theirright.

  Again they were halted, this time by a sentry near the second linetrenches, and were absolutely refused permission to proceed furthertill they explained to the officer of the company commanding thetrench what their errand was.

  "Wires broken, did you say?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Nearly all the wires to the front line trenches in this sector havebeen broken. We have had the engineers out all the morning mendingthem."

  "There is news of one of our fighting 'planes having crashedsomewhere over there, half an hour ago, sir," said Bratby, "and wehave been ordered to proceed as near as possible to the place, tofind out what has happened, as the aerodrome wire has been snapped."

  "An aeroplane crashed, did you say?" asked the officer.

  "Yes, sir."

  "There have been half a dozen of them down in front of us since seveno'clock this morning; most of them German, I think."

  "This was one of ours, sir."

  "Yes, I saw it. There were two of them came down about the same time,but the other one fell by our support trenches and the pilot andobserver were saved."

  "And the other one, sir?"

  "Oh, there is no hope for that one. She came down over there near ourfront line trench, and she was blazing when she crashed. We could notget at her, or at least we kept the men back who volunteered, as theGermans turned their machine guns on her directly she hit the groundand swept the spot for twenty minutes."

  "The devils!" ejaculated Brat, looking more serious than he had everlooked in his life, while a strange light shone in Cowdie's eyes.

  "We were told that we must get to the dug-out of Captain Grenfell,somewhere in the front line trench."

  "Oh, very well; but you fellows go at your own risk. The Boches havebeen shelling the place like hell most of the time since daybreak."

  "We're quite prepared to take the risk, sir!" replied Cowdie.

  "Come this way, then, and mind that corner. We call it Hell-fireCorner these days, for we have lost more men there than at any otherpoint," replied the officer.

  A few minutes later he handed them over to a sergeant, withinstructions to conduct them to the dug-out where Captain Grenfelland his two operators still held on to the end of the broken wires.No messages had come through for some time, but several squads ofRoyal Engineers were busy crawling out in the open and trying to findthe loose ends in order to restore communication.

  When
they arrived there Captain Grenfell gave them the full text ofthe message which he had tried to get through, and pointed out tothem the place where the ruins of the aeroplane lay, for they werestill smoking.

  "But the pilot, sir, where is he? And where is the observer? Theywere the best men in the Squadron, and their loss will be feltgreatly, for Lieutenant Dastral was reckoned the best pilot inFrance, and great things were expected from him in the near future,"said Brat.

  For answer the Captain shrugged his shoulders and made a gesturewhich seemed to indicate that he feared the case was hopeless.

  "Their bodies must be somewhere over there. Several of our menvolunteered to go over to rescue them, but every man who went overthe top went to his death, until the O.C. refused permission for anymore to attempt it, for he said he could not spare the men."

  While they were thus discussing the matter, one of the sentries alittle further down the trench gave an alarm:

  "Cloud of gas or fog coming over, sir, from the German lines!"

  Brat and Cowdie, at these words, peeped over the edge of the parapet,and saw, about a quarter of a mile away, a dense yellowish vapourcoming slowly onward from a point where the enemy's lines curvedround and faced the British lines from almost due south-east. Theorder was passed quickly down the lines for the men to don theirgas-helmets, but the C.O. coming along the trench shortly afterwards,remarked that it could not possibly be gas, for, from the directionwhence it came, it would pass onwards over a portion of the enemy'slines at a spot where the trenches curved back again and made asalient. At this point the lines twisted and bent themselves intomany curious salients, for the last advance had not thoroughlystraightened out the position.

  "The Germans are not such fools as to gas their own men, Grenfell,what do you say?" remarked the officer commanding the trench toGrenfell, who had come out of his dug-out to get a view of the cloud.

  "No, sir. There must be some other reason."

  "Yes, and the reason is, I think, a change of wind which is bringingon a dense fog."

  "You are quite right, sir," added the other, after regarding the airand sky for some ten seconds. "There has been a sudden change ofwind, and a dense local fog is coming up from the valley. The wholelandscape will be blotted out in a few minutes."

  "You're right, Grenfell," replied the officer. Then, turning to hisorderly-sergeant, he called out:

  "Pass the order for the men to stand-to! There is no telling but thatthe Boches may come over the top with the fog, and try to surpriseus."

  "Yes, sir," came the reply smartly, and the sergeant, saluting,disappeared along the trench, calling out the men from the dug-outs,and ordering a general "stand-to."

  The chance was too good to be lost. Cowdie gave Brat a dig in theribs, and whispered to him,

  "Now is the time. See, the fog thickens, and it is nearly up to thewrecked aeroplane. Let's go over, or the Boches will be there first.They're sure to try it on. What say you?"

  "I'm with you, old man, but it will be an awful job. Have you gotyour revolver loaded, for we've got nothing else?"

  "Yes," replied his chum, feeling that his weapon was safe in theleather case, which hung at his left side.

  "Come on, then; we haven't a second to lose."

  The next instant they were over the top, and making a dash for thespot 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 letyour 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, thepilot must have been dead an hour. The machine was ablaze when itcrashed," called the sergeant again.

  To this they returned no answer, but scampered as fast as they couldacross the broken ground, creeping under barbed wire, and stumblinginto shell holes, for the ground had been torn and rent by themorning's bombardment, and huge gaps had been made in the barbed wiredefences.

  Now, when Dastral, his ammunition expended, his machine damaged tosuch an extent that it scarcely held together, had reached theBritish lines that morning, after the brilliant reconnaissance he hadcarried out with his Flight, he made a steep gradient to get to earthat the first possible landing-place, but even as he made the attempthe knew he would fail. The wasp's fuselage was plugged in a hundredplaces. The petrol feed had been severed by shrapnel, and a shellfrom the German lines, hitting the reserve petrol tank, set itablaze, 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 hisobjective, but, when near the trenches, the machine nose-dived andcrashed, side-slipping to the earth, so that the left aileron struckthe ground first. Then she rolled over, and crumpled up. She did notstrike the ground with any great force, because Dastral had kept herso well in hand.

  Disentangling himself from the wreckage first, bruised, and burnt, heyet 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 thewreckage which was now in flames.

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

  Even as he spoke there came the dreaded sound, which told that theinfernal 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 ofcowardice, which permitted men to turn their guns upon woundedofficers, 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 outof the British trenches of their own free will in a useless attemptto save the lives of the aviators, but every man fell long before hegained the spot where the wreckage lay.

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

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

  So he searched him, found several wounds, bound them up as well as hecould with the emergency lint and bandages which every soldier onactive service carries in the lining of his coat. Then, through sheerloss 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 fireof the enemy, he became feverish, and dreamt wild, fantastic dreams.With Jock beside him he sailed away on the hornet, over distantlands, where the skies were blue and the sun shone bright and theatmosphere 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, skimmingalong over huge palm trees, and lagoons that opened out into the sea.Great monsters basked in the sunlight on the banks of the rivers andlagoons, and on the shores of the sea. They were in an unknown landdiscovering strange places. Just such a trip it was as Jock and hehad often talked about, when, the day's work done, they had settledin the comfortable arm-chairs in the officers' mess at the aerodromenear Contalmaison.

  Often they had talked of these things, and the trips they were goingto make in the happy years to come, when the fighting was all over,and the sm
oke of battle had blown away, and the liberties of mankindhad 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-stretchedbattlefields, the dead and the dying lay. And always he was parchedand thirsty, and sometimes he would turn and say to Jock:

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

  But the vision would fade before he reached the promised land, andthe 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 fromfar below and forbid them to land.

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

  "Dastral! Lieutenant Dastral!"

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

  Half regaining consciousness he murmured:

  "Where am I? Who called me?" But while he wondered, his hand touchedsomething, and he shrank back startled. It was Jock's poor woundedand bruised body that he had touched. Then he remembered it all. Theflight over the German lines; the attack which had been made uponthem by a whole German squadron; the fierce fight and the dash back,followed by a cloud of Fokkers and Aviatiks. Then the crash----. Yeshe remembered it all now, and Jock, poor Jock must be dead, for hehad not moved, and they must have been there for hours, daysperhaps--at least, it seemed so, for it was dark as night, and it wasmorning when they crashed.

  Then again he heard that welcome sound, a human voice, and it calledhim 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 thecrater, for Cowdie and Brat had just arrived at the spot, and as yetscarcely an hour had elapsed since the crash. Strong arms were putaround the pilot, which raised him up, for he had fallen down again,after his effort to rise. He had just time to murmur something, andpoint to the unconscious form of his observer, when he relapsed intounconsciousness 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 comingstorm. Cowdie was the first to read its meaning.

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

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

  "Hist! What was that?"

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

  "We have come the wrong way. Those are the German trenches overthere, 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 hadseen the shadowy forms of the Germans not twenty yards away.Fortunately, they had not been observed as yet, but they were not outof danger. They had regained their right direction, however. TheBritish trenches were not more than seventy yards away.

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

  Suddenly they heard the sound of voices behind them. Low voicescalled 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 thirtyyards 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 Verylights were fired up from the British trenches. The two figures ofthe men carrying the unconscious pilot and observer were clearlyoutlined. The sergeant of the Wiltshires shouted to his men:

  "Don't fire! They are the R.F.C. men bringing in their officers."

  The firing, however, came from a different direction, for theGermans, baulked of their prey, and seeing who had given them away,opened fire, and Cowdie stumbled into the British first-line trenchinto the arms of the sergeant of the Wiltshires, carrying his burdento the last. He was dead, shot through the heart. He had made thesupreme sacrifice to save the man he loved.

  With a wild cheer the British received the welcome order to charge,and the last thing that Brat remembered was that cheer, as the menswept by him, and he also sank down with his load.

  Next day they buried Cowdie, "the regimental spare part." Gently theylaid him to rest in a little graveyard by a shattered church, behindthe British lines. And over his grave the bugles of the Wiltshiressounded the solemn notes of the "Last Post." And his comrades inNumber 7 tent fired three volleys over the hero's grave, just as inthe olden days, two thousand years ago, AEneas and his comrades, whenthey buried the hero Misenus, called his name thrice into the shades.

  And Bratby, he recovered from his wounds, and, to-day, upon hisbreast he wears the ribbons of the Military Medal.

  Dastral and Jock also recovered from their wounds, for their work wasnot yet done, and six weeks later were back from sick leave,preparing once more to strafe the Huns.