Читать книгу The Trail of Death: War Adventures of the Flying Beetle - George E. Rochester - Страница 6

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The Laird of Clancarde was seated at dinner. Very young he was for a laird, just nineteen years of age, in fact. And very pale and slight he looked seated there alone at the great mahogany table with its cluster of candles, in the vast and shadowy dining-room.

In the dim illumination, his strangely bloodless and sharply featured face was thrown into almost bizarre relief against the dark background of shadow, and so thin and white were his hands, with their long and sensitive fingers, that they might well have been those of a girl.

“Williams!” he said quietly; and as the portly butler turned from the serving-table beside the massive sideboard, he asked: “Is the car ready?”

“Yes, sir!” answered Williams.

“And the room?”

“Yes, sir. We have prepared the captain’s old room!”

“He will like that,” commented the laird.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” went on the butler a trifle nervously, “but is the captain likely to be staying long?”

“A fortnight,” answered the laird. “He has been given fourteen days’ leave and is spending it here.”

He smiled, but it was a smile which found no reflection in his dark and sombre eyes.

“Why do you ask how long he is staying?” he inquired.

“Only that it’ll be grand to see him back, sir,” replied the butler. “Back from them shambles. We’re—we’re proud of him here, sir!”

The laird’s thin lips tightened into a grim and forbidding line.

“Yes,” he said coldly, “he has done well!”

Laden with the tray, Williams withdrew to the kitchen where old Angus, the gardener, was seated smoking.

“Queer he is to-night,” said Williams setting down the tray and giving a jerk of his head in the direction of the dining-room.

“Aye, and it’s queer he’s been these months past,” said old Angus. “I’ve see’d the change in him ever since his cousin Harry went away for to be an airman and fight the Germans. He misses him, I’m afeared!”

“Yes, of course he misses him,” said Williams. “And it’s only natural. This has been Mr. Harry’s home ever since his father was killed in the Boer War and him and the laird have grown up together like brothers. You’d think the laird would be pleased Mr. Harry’s coming back to-night, wouldn’t you? But he isn’t, Angus. I took the liberty of saying that it would be grand to see Mr. Harry back here at Clancarde and the laird just screwed up his face and gave me a sour sort of look!”

“Aye, he’s changed!” said old Angus sadly. “It’s been so lonesome for him here since Mr. Harry went away. That’s what’s done it. He’s brooded and got morose. I mind me what friends the two of them used to be——”

He broke off as there came the burr of a bell.

“That’s him ringing,” said Williams. “It’ll be coffee he’ll be wanting!”

Deftly he prepared a tray and carried it into the dining-room.

In silence, his sombre gaze on the table, the laird waited until the butler had withdrawn, then slowly and thoughtfully he took his coffee.

At length he set down his cup, and pushing back his chair, rose to his feet. Now could be seen the frail figure of him which had been suggested by his pale and finely-drawn features. But very erect he held himself and there was a set to his narrow shoulders which somehow gave the impression of litheness and of strength.

Crossing to the door he stepped out into the large, stone-floored hallway, pulled on greatcoat, cap and gloves, let himself out by the massive front door and walked round to the rear of the house where his old two-seater car was waiting outside the garage.

A few moments later with his coat collar turned well up about his ears, he had turned the car out through the big iron gates of the avenue and was purring along the moonlit road in the direction of Glenmuir railway station four miles distant.

He did not hurry, for he had plenty of time. Eventually he drew up outside the little wayside station, and throwing a rug over the radiator of the car, he walked on to the badly-lighted and deserted platform.

With hands plunged deep in the pockets of his greatcoat he slowly walked the length of the platform until the sudden rattle of a signal wire caused a distant light to change from red to green and brought an untidily-uniformed man from the booking-office.

Seeing the solitary figure on the platform the stationmaster-cum-porter ambled forward, touching the peak of his cap as he recognized the young Laird of Clancarde.

“Nice evening, sir,” he greeted. “Are ye travelling?”

“No,” returned the laird. “I’m meeting my cousin, Captain Davies!”

“What, is the captain coming?” exclaimed the other eagerly. “That’s fine, sir. Glad indeed ye’ll be to see him. Aye, and so will all of us. A captain, mind ye, and him just a laddie. And all them medals what the newspapers say he’s got. Proud ye must be of him, sir!”

“Yes,” said the laird.

“The newspapers say that the Germans call him the Flying Beetle along o’ him having a flying beetle painted on his aeroplane,” went on the other garrulously. “Aye, he was allus one for a lark, was Mister Harry. Ha’e ye heard aboot young MacNab—him fra’ the village here?”

“No,” said the laird.

“He’s been killed, puir laddie. That’s the second one in that fam’ly. The telegram come this morning. Went out wi’ the Gordons, he did. They say their losses ha’e been something fearful. Oh, sir, sir, when is this awfu’ bluidy slaughter gan tae stop?”

The laird turned away.

“Indeed I do not know,” he said in a low voice.

There was a moment of silence and to the ears of the pair came the rumble of an approaching train.

“Here she comes!” exclaimed the stationmaster. “I’ll be gettin’ ma lamp!”

He retreated to the office to reappear with his lamp and a few moments later the train clanked its way into the station. Scarcely had it come to a stop when the door of a first-class compartment was thrown open and a good-looking lad in stained and double-breasted khaki leapt down to the platform.

“Hallo, Alastair!” he cried, running forward with outstretched hand. “Jove! but it’s good to see you again!”

“And to see you, Harry!” replied the laird, taking in limp clasp the hand of his cousin, Captain Harry Davies, home on leave from the Western Front where, from Ostend to the Swiss frontier, he was known as the Flying Beetle.

.....

In the flickering shadows of the dining-room fire the two cousins sat late that night.

“Tell me what it is like over there,” the young laird had said. “Tell me everything!”

And in silence he sat listening, his face strangely pale and set in the firelight glow, whilst the Flying Beetle talked of France, of life with the squadron, of stirring encounters with Germany’s fighting airmen high above the battle-smoke and the shell-pocked shambles of trench and No-Man’s-Land.

Time and again as the young laird listened, his dark eyes moved with a fierce intensity from the laughing, eager face of his cousin to the row of worn and oil-stained medal ribbons on the left breast of the khaki tunic.

Fascinated, the laird appeared to be by those ribbons, but it was only by repeated and direct questioning that he could learn the details of the winning of them.

“I’m not rejoining my squadron at Duville,” said the Flying Beetle at length. “When my fourteen days’ leave is up, I’ve to report to Two Hundred and Seven Squadron operating from Ouchy. Alastair, old man, I only wish you were coming out with me!”

The laird was silent a moment. When he spoke his voice was low and quivering.

“Yes,” he said, “so do I!”

The Flying Beetle leaned forward, his eyes on the laird’s set face.

“You feel it a lot, Alastair, not being out there?” he said.

“Wouldn’t you?” The laird laughed sharply, bitterly. “But what use would I be—a weakling who has been turned down by every medical board I’ve attended. No, all I’m fit for is to stay at home and read the casualty reports in the newspapers!”

He stared into the fire, his long, sensitive fingers nervously entwining.

“Don’t you ever go to our workshop now?” asked the Flying Beetle, watching him curiously. “You never mention it in your letters!”

“No, I never go near it!” said the laird.

“What about that old bus we built and had such fun with?”

“It’s never been out of its shed since the day you went away!”

Rising to his feet, the Flying Beetle gently laid his hand on the laird’s thin shoulder.

“Alastair,” he said quietly, “to have to stay at home here and keep a stiff upper lip whilst we’re out yonder must require a very great courage. You’re not letting it beat you, are you?”

The laird raised his dark eyes to his cousin’s face.

“No, it’s not beating me,” he said.

The Flying Beetle laughed cheerily, and taking the laird by the arm, pulled him to his feet.

“That’s fine!” he exclaimed. “Come on, we’ll have a look at the old workshop, then I’m going to turn in. Are our horses still here, or have the military commandeered them?”

“They’re still here,” replied the laird as his cousin piloted him towards the staircase.

“And are eating their heads off in the stables, I’ll bet,” laughed the Flying Beetle. “Well, we’ll give them a good rousing gallop in the morning. By jove, Alastair, but it’s good to be home again!”

Together the two cousins mounted the dark and gloomy staircase to a wide landing where the laird took a small oil lamp from its bracket on the wall.

“We’ll want this,” he said.

By the feeble illumination of the lamp they passed on along the landing and up a narrow stairway which led to the attics. Opening the door of one of the rooms, the laird stood aside whilst his cousin stepped across the threshold into the room which at one time had been converted into a workshop and which still retained its bench, table, lathe and tool-racks.

Dust and cobwebs were everywhere, and moving to the bench, the Flying Beetle picked up a small, unfinished model of an aeroplane.

“My favourite Farman biplane,” he said as the laird approached with the lamp. “Can you remember the arguments we used to have about the wing stagger? By jove! I wish I’d had the time to finish it. I’d have proved you wrong, Alastair, old chap. I’d have got our record flight out of this bus with decent elastic winding!”

Lovingly he examined the little model, turning it over and over in his hands. Then setting it down, he picked up another.

“Our model of the machine in which Hawker did his flight round Britain,” he commented. “One of our most successful efforts, Alastair. Remember when it got stuck right up in the firs? That was our altitude record, eh? And do you remember the job we had to get it down again? It required a ladder, and three fishing-rods lashed together!”

He put down the model and the laird watched him in silence as he moved about, picking up a partially-completed model here and a blue-print there, and recalling the days when he and Alastair had devoted many long and happy hours to this hobby of theirs.

“But our greatest effort was the real bus we built,” said the Flying Beetle. “And she flew, Alastair. That was the amazing thing. It cost us nearly all the cash we had, but we got her off the ground. D’you know, if this war hadn’t come I believe you and I would be building real aeroplanes and selling ’em!”

“Yes,” said the laird, “and I’d still be flying!”

So bitter was his voice that the Flying Beetle wheeled on him in dismay.

“Please, Alastair, please!” he pleaded, slipping his khaki-clad arm round the laird’s frail shoulders. “Don’t take it like that!”

“How else can one take it when one’s only companion is the casualty reports?” burst out the laird furiously.

He broke off and turned towards the door.

“Come!” he said abruptly. “Let’s get to bed!”

Alone in the privacy of his bedroom the Laird of Clancarde stood long that night by the window staring out across the hushed and moon-bathed countryside.

His hands were clenched, his features drawn and haggard, and in his heart was a fierce and burning resentment against the fate which had cast him as a weakling, useless to his country in her hour of need.

But he was not useless. He knew it. He could fly—could pilot a machine—for before war had come, he and his cousin had been taking flying lessons.

He had been as good a pilot as Harry then. It was in no spirit of boastfulness that the laird told himself that. It was simply a fact. He had a natural flair for flying and there had been magic in his sensitive hands when they had held the old-fashioned leather-bound control stick.

Eagerly, when war had come, he had gone with Harry to join up. Then had come a cruel and staggering blow. He wasn’t wanted; he was medically unfit; a weakling who could never stand the strain of war!

So whilst Harry had gone through the training school and then to France with one of the earliest expeditionary squadrons of the glorious Royal Flying Corps, the laird had returned alone to Clancarde, there to brood over and foster in his heart the bitter resentment which he felt at being rejected for service because of his physique.

That resentment, directed at first only against the fate which had given him so poor a body, had slowly but steadily deepened into a fierce jealousy of his cousin whose stirring deeds high above the battle-smoke had thrilled the country and earned for him an honoured name.

In the glorious fighting career of the Flying Beetle, the Laird of Clancarde saw what his own might have been had he not been cheated of it because of his frail and puny body.

It was not that he wanted medals, honours or decorations. All he asked was to be allowed to fight for Britain against the field-grey hordes of Germany in what was the most devastating war the world had ever known.

But he was not wanted. The struggle could go on without him, and that night as he had sat with the Flying Beetle the latter’s worn and oil-stained khaki with its strip of medal ribbons had rendered hideously and unmistakably plain to the laird the knowledge that he was a weakling and an outcast who had no place in the world of men.

For uniform and ribbons were the stamp of manhood these days—a stamp which he would never bear.

Standing there by the window, the laird bowed his head.

“O God,” he whispered brokenly, “give me one chance ... just one chance——”

.....

Leave, in those grey days of war, had a habit of passing all too quickly, and, almost before the Flying Beetle and his cousin realized it, seven days of the fourteen had sped.

“Just one more week, Alastair!” exclaimed the Flying Beetle as they sat at breakfast one morning. “So we’ll have to make the most of it. If it slips past as quickly as this week’s done, I’d better start packing now. Coming riding this morning?”

“Yes,” answered the laird.

Breakfast over, they made their way to the stables and were soon riding out across the brown bracken and heather which covered the moors around Clancarde.

“Come on!” cried the Flying Beetle, pointing to the placid grey waters of Loch Krane, half a mile away. “I’ll race you to the boathouse, yonder!”

“Right!” exclaimed the laird.

They broke into a gallop, their mounts racing neck and neck until, as they neared the low stone wall which had once marked a boundary of Clancarde, the Flying Beetle commenced to draw ahead.

Gathering his reins and taking his horse well by the head, the Flying Beetle put him at the jump. But in taking off, the animal pecked and stumbled. Gallantly it attempted to recover, but its forelegs struck the wall and it fell heavily, sending the Flying Beetle hurtling from the saddle to crash to the ground where he lay a limp and huddled heap.

Leaping the wall, the laird flung himself from his own saddle and ran to where the Flying Beetle was lying. Turning him over, the laird gently raised the unconscious lad’s head. The Flying Beetle’s face was deathly pale and his left arm was hanging in a queerly twisted manner. Slowly his eyes flickered open and with dawning consciousness, a moan of agony came from his livid lips.

“Steady, old chap!” said the laird. “I’ll have to get help!”

The Flying Beetle tried to grin, his lips twisted bravely, then his head fell limply back and he relapsed into unconsciousness again.

For a moment the laird knelt there irresolute. Then gently he lowered his cousin to the ground, and getting to his feet, whipped off his jacket. Rolling it up he placed it beneath the Flying Beetle’s head to act as a makeshift pillow. Then catching his horse he leapt into the saddle and set off for Clancarde at a breakneck gallop.

He had to get help to have the Flying Beetle brought home and someone despatched to Glenmuir for Doctor Fraser. How badly the Flying Beetle was injured he did not know, but he did know there was little he could have done by remaining with him and every moment so spent might prove to have been a dangerous waste of time.

Reaching Clancarde the laird sent Alec, the gardener’s lad, post-haste for Doctor Fraser, then returned to the scene of the accident with Williams and old Angus.

The Flying Beetle was still unconscious when they reached him, and after forcing a little brandy between his bloodless lips, they bore him gently back to Clancarde on a stretcher improvised from a hurdle, and got him to bed.

“His left arm and three ribs are broken,” said Doctor Fraser after he had made his examination. “He is in no danger if we can avoid complications setting in, but he will have to have constant care and attention. I will send a nurse here. When does his leave expire?”

“At the end of the week,” replied the laird.

“He’ll not see France again for some weeks,” said the doctor. “I suppose you will acquaint the Air Ministry with what has happened?”

“Yes,” assented the laird. “They’ll want a doctor’s certificate, I expect, so if you’ll write me one out I’ll enclose it in my letter!”

He walked with Doctor Fraser to the latter’s car, and having seen him off, returned thoughtfully to the house. Making his way to the library he commenced to pace up and down, his hands in his pockets, his head sunk on his chest.

Suddenly he halted and squared his shoulders as though he had come to some decision. For a moment he stood there, then stepping briskly to the door, he went upstairs to his cousin’s room.

During the next few days the laird spent every available moment with his cousin and under expert care and attention the Flying Beetle commenced slowly to mend.

“And to think,” he said wistfully one evening, “that to-morrow I was to have returned to France. You’ve written to the Air Ministry, Alastair?”

“Yes,” answered the laird. He hesitated a moment, then went on: “I—I hope you won’t mind, but I’ve got to leave you for a few days. I’m leaving for London to-night!”

“Why, whatever for?” exclaimed the Flying Beetle, looking at him in surprise.

“Oh, it’s just some business connected with the estate,” replied the laird. “I don’t want to go into details otherwise I’ll have nurse down on me for boring you. I had a letter from Dagleish, the family lawyer, this morning. He wants to see me!”

“The poor old bird’s always fussing over something,” smiled the Flying Beetle. “Well, don’t let him keep you in town too long, old chap. It’ll be lonely here without you!”

The laird turned away towards the door.

“Yes,” he said in a low, queer voice, “I found it lonely without you.”

Dusk had deepened into night, the curtains had been drawn and the lamp lighted when next he returned to the Flying Beetle’s room. He was overcoated and ready for his journey.

“Good-bye, Harry!” he said, crossing to the bed. “Get fit whilst I’m away!”

“I shall certainly do my best,” smiled the Flying Beetle.

To his inward astonishment his cousin suddenly bent and kissed him on the brow before turning abruptly on his heel and quitting the room.

Never, even when they had been quite small kids, had the quiet and reserved Alastair been guilty of such a demonstration of affection. And long after he had heard the laird’s car purr down the avenue on its way to Glenmuir station, the Flying Beetle lay wondering what had caused his cousin to bid him so strange a farewell.

But the Laird of Clancarde knew why he had bidden the Flying Beetle that farewell. It was because he would never see him again. For the night express which was bearing the laird Londonwards through the darkness was bearing him also to his death.

.....

In the laird’s carefully packed bag was the strip of medal ribbons cut from the Flying Beetle’s tunic. And in the laird’s pocket were the Flying Beetle’s papers. Furthermore, there had been delivered at a certain London hotel a new khaki uniform which was to be collected and donned by the laird on his arrival in town.

How ridiculously simple it all was. He had not reported the Flying Beetle’s accident to the Air Ministry and consequently the Flying Beetle was expected back from leave. And the Flying Beetle was to report to a new squadron at Ouchy where—as the laird had discovered by means of adroit questioning—he was personally unknown even if his reputation wasn’t.

Well, the laird intended to turn up at Ouchy and report as Captain Harry Davies, the Flying Beetle. It was an impersonation which would require no tedious keeping up, for on his first flight over the German lines he would be shot down and killed.

The laird had no illusions about that. To go over without experience and without ever having fired a synchronized gun in his life was simply asking for a death which was certain to come.

But the laird didn’t mind. He would die game and before he went earthwards in the death plunge it wouldn’t be his fault if an enemy pilot hadn’t preceded him.

In any case he would have struck a blow for his country and would have died like a man on the battlefront instead of skulking at home, an object of pity and contempt.

So thinking, the laird settled himself more comfortably in the corner seat of his compartment, and lulled by the clickety-click of the racing wheels, drifted off into peaceful slumber.

.....

The squadron at Ouchy received him without suspicion, and because he firmly declined to talk about himself, or, indeed, about anything very much, he got through his first evening there more comfortably and smoothly than he had dared to hope.

He intended turning in fairly early in order to be as fit as possible for the eventful morrow, and he was on the point of seeking his hut when Major Grant, the Squadron Leader, sent for him.

“Oh, Davies,” said the major. “A telephone message has just come through from French Brigade Headquarters at Rambervilliers. A German kite balloon opposite their sector is worrying them. It ascended at dawn this morning for an hour and will, presumably, go up at dawn again in the morning. You might destroy it for them, will you?”

“Yes, certainly, sir!” replied the laird.

Destroy a German kite balloon, he thought, as he made his way to his quarters. Well, that shouldn’t be a very hard job. A sitting target, unless it was one of those decoy balloons of which the Flying Beetle had sometimes spoken. But it could scarcely be a decoy, for a decoy wouldn’t be put up for an hour only.

Really, reflected the laird as he undressed and turned in, it was astonishing how much he knew about France and the fighting front from the airman’s side of it. Yet it was understandable, for apart from the talks he had had with the Flying Beetle, he had always read and re-read the latter’s letters until he could almost have quoted them by heart.

He lay long awake that night—for, to the best of his knowledge, it would be his last on earth. And, in spite of himself, he found it a disturbing thought. Eventually, however, he drifted off into restless slumber from which he awoke to find his batman standing over him, saying:

“It’s five o’clock, sir!”

“Oh, is it?” said the laird. “All right!”

He rose, dressed, and crossed to the mess where he gulped down a cup of scalding black coffee.

Returning to his hut, he took down his new flying kit from its peg and made his way to the hangars where a little white-winged Sopwith Pup was being wheeled out on to the tarmac.

It was strange how calm he felt, he reflected, as he watched a sergeant mechanic clamber up into the cockpit and switch on whilst another mechanic stood by to swing the propeller.

“Contact!” called the sergeant.

“Contact!” repeated the mechanic and next instant the engine burst into life with a reverberating roar.

Running the engine up to full revolutions on brief but searching test, the sergeant throttled down, and leaving the propeller ticking over, dropped to the ground.

“She’s all right, sir,” he reported. “Giving her revs!”

“Thanks!” nodded the laird. “D’you mind showing me the controls. I don’t know much about Sopwith Pups. I’m expecting my own bus from Duville to-day. Somebody’ll ferry it along here for me!”

A few minutes later he was fully conversant with the controls, and, settling himself more comfortably in his seat, he studied his map. Then stowing the map away, he pulled on his gloves and his fingers closed on the throttle.

The drone of the quietly-running engine deepened to a roar and as the little machine quivered against the chocks, the laird’s gloved hand shot up.

In response to the signal the waiting mechanics whipped away the chocks from in front of the tyred wheels of the undercarriage and the scout shot forward to take the air in a lifting, clumsy climb.

“And that,” said the sergeant staring after it, “is the famous Flying Beetle, is it?”

“Yes,” grunted the mechanic. “Seems a bit heavy-handed on the controls to me!”

“I don’t know about being heavy-handed,” responded the sergeant, “but them questions what he asked me about the controls was the sort of questions a cadet would ask you—not a blinkin’ fighting pilot.”

“Perhaps he was pulling your leg?” suggested the mechanic.

“Ah!” said the sergeant darkly. “A larky cove, eh? I’ve met ’em before!”

Meanwhile the laird, feeling anything but a larky cove, had swung southwards towards Rambervilliers, climbing as he went. Dawn had already come and as he crossed the line at a height of ten thousand feet above the French sector, he suddenly stiffened in his seat.

Far below him, a dark blob against the background of mud and trench, was a kite balloon lazily ascending.

The laird lost no time in debating the best method of his attack. Yonder was his quarry and he intended to get it. So forward went his control stick and with engine thundering at full revolutions, he tore down towards the kite balloon.

The fact that the sky about him was now a screaming inferno of exploding shrapnel from German anti-aircraft guns on the ground below, daunted him not at all. Grimly he held on, thundering down through the barrage with wind shrieking madly through flying wires and struts.

His gloved finger closed on the trigger of his synchronized gun and as the crackle of exploding cartridges sounded above the thunder of his engine, hot flame from the belching muzzle licked back past the cockpit windshield.

Eight hundred feet—five hundred feet—one hundred feet separated him from the kite balloon. Already the observer was clambering frenziedly out of the basket. Suddenly a tongue of blood-red flame licked along the envelope, spread with amazing rapidity, and as the balloon went plunging earthwards in flames, the laird yanked back his control stick and went soaring skywards in a stalling zoom.

Well, that was that job done. The thing now was to get away from the shrapnel and find a German pilot.

.....

So eastwards flew this madman of a laird—eastwards into Germany, heading into the rising sun of morning. Time and again he peered down with close interest at the ground far below where long grey columns of marching men were moving forward to the line, accompanied by ammunition wagons, ambulances, heavy tractor-drawn guns and all the grim appurtenances of war.

It was on one of these occasions when he was staring earthwards that his hand suddenly tightened convulsively on the control and his eyes glittered exultantly.

For there, a full thousand feet and more below him, was a double-seater German Fokker, the black Iron Crosses plainly visible on wings and fuselage.

The laird didn’t hesitate. Forward went his control stick and with engine thundering under open throttle, he tore down on the German in a screaming dive, his gloved finger pressed steadily on the trigger of his synchronized gun.

But the German pilot saw him coming and refused to fight. He swung away towards the east, and as the laird’s foot moved on the rudder bar in order to follow, he felt a sudden numbing pain in his shoulder and the dashboard in front of him was riven as though by an invisible axe.

Swiftly turning his head the laird looked behind him. As he did so his heart missed a beat. For thundering down on his tail from out of the sun was a squadron of ten German scouts.

Trapped!

Fool that he was not to have realized that the two-seater pottering about was a decoy to lure him to attack and leave his tail exposed to the swift and deadly hawks wheeling up there in the cover of the sun.

Well, the laird had expected death and here was death at hand!

But he wasn’t going under without a struggle, so yanking back his control stick he went soaring up and up in an almost perpendicular zoom.

He had never looped a machine in his life, but he knew exactly how to do it, and he threw the Sopwith Pup over in a whirlwind loop which nearly knocked all the breath out of him.

But his nose was pointing earthwards again—and that was all that mattered. Yanking open the throttle to full and with gun ablaze, he went hurtling down on the German formation, went right through it, then zoomed and dived again.

The amazing ferocity, the almost insane savagery of the attack, threw the German scouts into temporary confusion. But the pilots were veterans with nerves of steel, men who had won their spurs in many a hard-fought fight above the battle-smoke.

Breaking formation, they banked to port and starboard. Then control sticks were whipped forward and the Germans roared earthwards, gathering in a few seconds the necessary speed to take them soaring up in a zoom which would bring them out above this suicidal maniac.

One plane failed to pull out of that dive, however, and it went plunging earthwards with the pilot lying a limp and huddled heap over the controls, his spine shattered by a burst of bullets.

But the Germans had gained height by now and with gloved fingers curled round the triggers of their snarling guns they drove in on this madman who had attacked them single-handed.

Frantically the laird twisted and swerved, striving desperately to stave off Death until he had sent at least another Boche to his doom—and as his feet slid backwards and forwards on the rudder bar he found time to be astonished at the amazing manner in which the gallant little Sopwith responded to the controls.

But the end was near and the laird knew it. The scout was beginning to reel beneath him, he was deathly sick with the agony of a shattered shoulder, and his right arm was hanging numb and useless.

At any instant now the last fatal burst of bullets must come whanging into him, sending him and his machine earthwards in the death plunge.

If only he could get height. It was height he wanted. But something had happened to his rear controls and the Sopwith would not climb.

Queer, he thought, why that final burst of bullets had not got him yet. Passing shaking hand across his spattered goggles, he peered outboards. There was nothing there. Weakly he turned his head.

He had pulled out of the fight and a mile or more behind him the remaining nine Fokkers were engaged in a desperate and defensive battle against ten white-winged British Camels which had apparently been out on dawn patrol.

Turning to his controls again, the laird pressed weakly on the rudder bar. He would go back and help these newcomers. But what was the use? He had neither the cartridges, nor the strength, for he was almost fainting now with pain and loss of blood.

Confound it!—he had fainted, he believed. Certainly he had not seen the approach of the white-winged Camels which were now flying to port and starboard of him and keeping height and pace with him as they escorted him back to the line.

Feebly he waved to them, then turned and looked behind again. The sky was clear. So the fight was over and the victors were seeing him home.

Yes, home, for yonder were the trenches and here was the bursting shrapnel of the German anti-aircraft guns. The laird grinned foolishly. What at, he did not know, unless it was at the utter futility of the shrapnel. For, see, the barrage was passed and yonder were the hangars of Ouchy.

Mechanically the laird pushed forward his control stick and mechanically he throttled down. But how he landed he never knew. He had a jumbled recollection of a blur which was the ground, of a somewhat beastly bump, of confused voices which grew fainter and fainter until they died completely away in the wave of utter blackness which engulfed him.

.....

When the Laird of Clancarde next opened his eyes it was to find himself in hospital far behind the line. He had been badly wounded, they told him, and it would be a long time before he would be well again.

So the days passed and he lay and wondered what would happen to him for having impersonated the famous Flying Beetle. The whole affair was bound to have come out by now.

Then one day two Brass Hats entered the ward and crossed to his bed.

“The Laird of Clancarde, I believe?” said one of them.

“Yes,” admitted that young gentleman.

“Your conduct,” said the officer sternly, “might have earned for you severe punishment had there not been exceptional circumstances in the case which have been successfully pleaded on your behalf by your cousin, Captain Davies!”

He paused, smiled, and went on in a different tone of voice altogether.

“It will probably hasten your recovery to know that although you will never be fit enough to fly again, His Majesty the King has been pleased to confer on you the rank of Lieutenant in the Royal Air Force and to invest you with the Distinguished Flying Cross for most conspicuous bravery in attacking, single-handed, a squadron of enemy Fokkers!”