In less than twelve minutes Athol arrived upon the scene. The monoplane was apparently undamaged save for a buckled landing-wheel, until closer inspection revealed the fact that the 'plane was honeycombed with bullet-holes. Jagged holes, too, were visible in the fuselage, as well as the splaying marks of bullets that had failed to penetrate the light steel armour.
The pilot, a boyish-looking lieutenant, was behaving in a most eccentric fashion. He had alighted and had discarded his yellow leather coat and helmet. Across his forehead was a dark streak of dried blood. With one hand in his trousers pocket he was walking rapidly round and round the stranded monoplane, wildly waving his disengaged hand and shouting in unmistakable and forcible English for someone to oblige him with a match.
As he walked he tottered slightly. More than once he collided with the tips of the wings and brushed awkwardly against the rudder. The crowd, keeping a discreet distance, watched with amazement; giving back whenever a collision with the eccentric Englishman appeared imminent.
"Come on, you fellows!" he appealed. "Who'll oblige with a match? Quickly, before those strafed Bosches come on the scene! A match. Does no one understand?"
To his intense satisfaction Athol saw that there were no soldiers or civil guards amongst the throng, although at any moment the Dutch military officials might appear upon the scene. The spectators were for the most part men and women of the agricultural class.
"Can I bear a hand?" asked the lad, elbowing his way through the crowd.
"Thank God, a British voice!" exclaimed the airman, coming to an abrupt halt, and holding out his hand—not towards Athol but towards a man some feet to his left.
In a flash Athol understood. The luckless pilot of the monoplane was almost blind. He grasped the airman's hand, and drew him back from the crowd.
"You are in Holland," he said. "I saw you descend, and I guessed something was wrong. You've been hit pretty badly, I fear?"
"Got it properly in the neck this time," declared the lieutenant grimly. "Across the forehead—one eye gone, worse luck, and the other almost bunged up. Much as I could do to see the land. Couldn't do it now, by Jove! I've a chunk of one of their strafed Iron Crosses in my thigh, too. It's not much, but mighty unpleasant. Wanted to burn the machine, but found my matches had gone. Pocket of my coat shot clean away. But who are you?"