They both peered anxiously out round as their Verey light shot out and floated down; but they could see no sign of a flare or an answering light. They fired another signal, and still had no reply; and then, “I’m going down,” yelled the pilot, shutting off his engine and letting the machine glide down in a slow sweeping circle. He could see nothing of the ground when the altimeter showed 500 feet, nor at 300, nor at 200, so opened the throttle and picked up speed again. “Shove her down,” yelled the observer. “More snow coming.”
Another Verey light, shot straight down overboard, showed a glimpse of a grass field, and Reddie swung gently round, and slid downward again. At the same time he fired a landing light fixed out under his lower wing-tip in readiness for just such an occasion as this, and by its glowing vivid white light made a fairly good landing on rough grass land. He shut the engine off at once, because he had no idea how near he was to the edge of the field or what obstacles they might bump if they taxied far, and the machine came quickly to rest. The two men sat still for a minute breathing a sigh of thankfulness that they were safe to ground, then turned and looked at each other in the dying light of the flare. Stiffly they stood up, climbed clumsily out of their places, and down on to the wet ground. Another flurry of snow was falling, but now that they were at rest the snow was floating and drifting gently down instead of beating in their faces with hurricane force as it did when they were flying.
Reddie flapped his arms across his chest and stamped his numbed feet. Walk Jones pulled his gloves off and breathed on his stiff fingers. “I’m fair froze,” he mumbled. “Wonder where we are, and how far from the ‘drome?”
“Lord knows,” returned Reddie. “I don’t know even where the line is—ahead or astern, right hand or left.”
“Snow’s clearing again,” said Jones. “Perhaps we’ll get a bearing then, and I’ll go ’n’ hunt for a camp or a cottage, or anyone that’ll give us a hot drink.”
“Wait a bit,” said Reddie. “Stand where you are and let’s give a yell. Some sentry or someone’s bound to hear us. Snow’s stopping all right; but, Great Scott! isn’t it dark.”
Presently they lifted their voices and yelled an “Ahoy” together at the pitch of their lungs. There was no answer, and after a pause they yelled again, still without audible result.
“Oh, curse!” said Jones, shivering. “I’m not going to hang about here yelping like a lost dog. And we might hunt an hour for a cottage. I’m going to get aboard again and loose off a few rounds from my machine-gun into the ground. That will stir somebody up and bring ’em along.”
“There’s the line,” said Reddie suddenly. “Look!” and he pointed to where a faint glow rose and fell, lit and faded, along the horizon. “And the guns,” he added, as they saw a sheet of light jump somewhere in the distance and heard the bump of the report. Other gun-flashes flickered and beat across the dark sky. “Funny,” said Reddie; “I’d have sworn I turned round as we came down, and I thought the lines were dead the other way.”