Both knew the chances against them, knew that in front of the machine might lie a ditch, a tree, a hedge, a score of things that would trip them as they taxied to get speed to rise; they knew too that the Germans were coming closer every moment, that they might be on them before they could get the engine started, that they would probably start shooting at the first sound of her start. All these things and a dozen others raced through their minds in an instant; but neither hesitated, both moved promptly and swiftly. Reddie clambered up and into his seat; Walk Jones jumped to the propeller, and began to wind it backwards to “suck in” the petrol to the cylinders. “When she starts, jump to the wing-tip and try ’n’ swing her round,” called Reddie in quick low tones. “It’ll check her way. Then you must jump for it, and hang on and climb in as we go. Yell when you’re aboard. All ready now.”
A shout came out of the darkness—a shout and an obvious question in German. “Contact,” said Walk Jones, and swung the propeller his hardest. He heard the whirr of the starter as Reddie twirled it rapidly. “Off,” called Jones as he saw the engine was not giving sign of life, and “Off” answered Reddie, cutting off the starting current.
Another shout came, and with it this time what sounded like an imperative command. Reddie cursed his lack of knowledge of German. He could have held them in play a minute if—— “Contact,” came Walk’s voice again. “Contact,” he answered, and whirled the starter madly again. There was still no movement, no spark of life from the engine. Reddie groaned, and Walk Jones, sweating despite the cold over his exertions on the propeller, wound it back again and swung it forward with all his weight. His thick leather coat hampered him. He tore it off and flung it to the ground, and tried again.
So they tried and failed, tried and failed, time and again, while all the time the shouts were coming louder and from different points, as if a party had split up and was searching the field. A couple of electric torches threw dancing patches of light on the ground, lifted occasionally and flashed round. One was coming straight towards them, and Reddie with set teeth waited the shout of discovery he knew must come presently, and cursed Walk’s slowness at the “prop.”
Again on the word he whirled the starter, and this time “Whur-r-r-rum,” answered the engine, suddenly leaping to life; “Whur-r-r-ROO-OO-OO-OOM-ur-r-r-umph,” as Reddie eased and opened the throttle. He heard a babel of shouts and yells, and saw the light-patches come dancing on the run towards them. A sudden recollection of the only two German words he knew came to him. “Ja wohl,” he yelled at the pitch of his voice, “Ja wohl”; then in lower hurried tones, “Swing her, Walk; quick, swing her,” and opened the engine out again. The running lights stopped for a minute at his yell, and Walk Jones jumped to the wing-tip, shouted “Right!” and hung on while Reddie started to taxi the machine forward. His weight and leverage brought her lumbering round, the roar of engine and propeller rising and sinking as Reddie manipulated the throttle, and Reddie yelling his “Ja wohl,” every time the noise died down.
“Get in, Walk; get aboard,” he shouted, when the nose was round and pointing back over the short stretch they had taxied on landing, and which he therefore knew was clear running for at least a start. He heard another order screamed in German, and next instant the bang of a rifle, not more apparently than a score of yards away. He kept the machine lumbering forward, restraining himself from opening his engine out, waiting in an agony of apprehension for Walk’s shout. He felt the machine lurch and sway, and the kicking scramble his observer made to board her, heard next instant his yelling “Right-oh!” and opened the throttle full as another couple of rifles bang-banged.
The rifles had little terror either for him or the observer, because both knew there were bigger and deadlier risks to run in the next few seconds. There were still desperately long odds against their attempt succeeding. In the routine method of starting a machine, chocks are placed in front of the wheels and the engine is given a short full-power run and a longer easier one to warm the engine and be sure all is well; then the chocks are pulled away and she rolls off, gathering speed as she goes, until she has enough for her pilot to lift her into the air. Here, their engine was stone cold, they knew nothing of what lay in front of them, might crash into something before they left the ground, might rise, and even then catch some house or tree-top, and travelling at the speed they would by then have attained—well, the Lord help them!
Reddie had to chance everything, and yet throw away no shadow of a chance. He opened the throttle wide, felt the machine gather speed, bumping and jolting horribly over the rough field, tried to peer down at the ground to see how fast they moved, could see nothing, utterly black nothing, almost panicked for one heart-stilling instant as he looked ahead again and thought he saw the blacker shadow of something solid in front of him, clenched his teeth and held straight on until he felt by the rush of wind on his face he had way enough, and pulled the joy-stick in to him. With a sigh of relief he felt the jolting change to a smooth swift rush, held his breath, and with a pull on the stick zoomed her up, levelled her out again (should clear anything but a tall tree now), zoomed her up again. He felt a hand thumping on his shoulder, heard Walk’s wild exultant yell—“‘Ra-a-ay!” and, still lifting her steadily, swung his machine’s nose for the jumping lights that marked the trenches.
They landed safe on their own ’drome ground half an hour after. The officer whose duty it was for the night to look after the landing-ground and light the flares in answer to the returning pilots’ signals, walked over to them as they came to rest.
“Hullo, you two,” he said. “Where th’ blazes you been till this time! We’d just about put you down as missing.”