In about nine hours—including the stop for repairs—the battleplane had covered a distance of nearly a thousand miles, and was within half an hour's run of the opposing forces on the Western Front.
Already the airmen could feel a strange rumbling sensation in the rarefied air. It was not the thunder of the guns in Flanders—it was something far louder than that. The concentrated fire of hundreds of enormous allied guns was literally shaking the firmament.
"I know where we are now," declared Blake. "That town we can see ahead is Peronne. By Jove! we're in time to see the 'Big Push,' lads. Look, our line is different from what it was three weeks ago. It's beyond that village—Fricourt, I think is its name."
In vast circles the battleplane volplaned earthwards, the two lads and O'Rafferty surveying the scene of terrific carnage by means of their binoculars.
There was no doubt about it. Our khaki-clad troops, recking not the stubborn resistance of the grey-coated Huns, were pressing forward with bombs and bayonets. All along the line, as far as the limit of vision permitted it to be seen, the lads could mark the irresistible progress of their brave countrymen and the equally gallant French allies. Overhead, although at a considerably lesser altitude, flew swarms of aeroplanes, all bearing the distinctive marks of red, white and blue. Of the Black Cross machines not one was visible. It was an Allies' day with a vengeance.
Unable to take part in the operations for want of previous instructions, Blake manoeuvred the battleplane up and down the changing line of opposing forces. The spirits of the two lads rose to high water mark. They realised that this was the beginning of the end; the set purpose, which after weeks and months of tedious and seemingly wasteful inactivity, was to justify the waiting tactics of the silent Joffre.
Suddenly Athol noticed an ominous movement in our part of the far-flung line. A village, although the buildings were almost levelled by the accurate gunfire of the British, was still being held with the utmost stubbornness by the Huns.
Evidently the enemy had preserved a number of machine guns intact in spite of the terrific hail of shells. The British, pinned to the earth by the terrific machine-gun fire, were unable to advance; while evading the "barrage" of shells, strong reinforcements of Germans were being rushed forward to convert the British check into a defeat—glorious but none the less a set-back that might adversely influence the concentrated operations.
And, with the exception of Blake's battleplane there was no other British machine to warn the infantry of the approach of the German reserves.
"Now for it!" shouted Blake, the glint of battle in his eye. "Let 'em have bombs and flêches when I give the word. Get ready with the automatic guns."