At a mean altitude of five thousand feet Athol steered the monoplane on a compass course. The wounded pilot had changed places with the lad, and was resting one hand lightly on the latter's shoulder. Beyond the few sentences he had spoken on relinquishing the steering-wheel the lieutenant maintained silence.
The monoplane proved a veritable flier, for in a little more than half the time Athol had estimated it was over the lines of the opposing armies.
Far beneath them a squadron of British aeroplanes was actively engaged, for the British guns were strafing the Huns with terrible violence. Not a single German aircraft appeared to join in combat with the intruders over their lines, for the British machines were doing good work by registering the results of the heavy shells.
"The flying ground is in sight," reported Athol. "Will you take her now?"
"Right-o," replied the lieutenant. "Tell me when to flatten out."
He depressed the aerilons. The monoplane's tail rose as it swept landwards at terrific speed. Athol, holding the pilot's binoculars, brought the glasses to bear upon the landscape.
"Wind's dead against us," he announced.
"That's good," rejoined the wounded man. "It will save us making a turn. Say when."
The ground seemed to be rising to meet them. Objects, a few seconds before hardly discernible, resolved themselves into buildings of various sizes, most of them roofless owing to the effects of repeated bombardments. Little mud-coloured specks developed into khaki-clad figures. And—a cheering sight indeed—there was the secret battleplane just folding her wings before returning to her hangar. In his imagination Athol felt certain that he could distinguish Blake and Dick superintending the labours of half a dozen men as they guided the huge bird into its nest.
There was no time to use the binoculars. The ground seemed perilously close.