News of the destruction of the raider and the victor's crash into the reservoir had been promptly telephoned to Torringham aerodrome, and in reply came the curtly-official message:—
"From O.W. to Second-Lieutenant D. Daventry, R.A.F.—Await arrival of salvage-party. Forward report forthwith—Ack, ack, ack."
The last three words, be it understood, do not bear any relationship to the Teutonic "Hoch, hoch, hoch", but are the usual official way of indicating that a telegraphic or telephonic message is ended.
Generally speaking, the smaller the mess the more hospitably strangers are treated, and at Sisternbury there was no exception to the rule. Although the mess was composed of a captain, a lieutenant, and two subalterns only, the officers did everything they could for the comfort of the crashed pilot.
In spite of the fact that it was early morning and Derek had had very little sleep during the last twenty hours, the young officer tossed restlessly on his bed. The events of the midnight pursuit and its startling finish were photographed so vividly on his brain that he could not banish the mental vision of the Gotha streaming earthwards in flames. Then, just as Daventry was falling into a fitful slumber, he was awakened by a batman bringing him a large cup of hot, sugarless tea, with the announcement that it was eight o'clock and that the salvage-party had arrived.
The salvage-party consisted of a dozen air-mechanics and a couple of corporals and a sergeant, who had come from Torringham on a large R.A.F. lorry, but with them came an unofficial party made up of almost every officer not on duty and as many on duty who could furnish even the flimsiest pretext for joining the "joy-riders".
Having submitted to the many and varied congratulations and caustic remarks of his brother officers, Derek was taken to the spot where the Gotha crashed. Already sentries had been posted and a wire fence erected around the calcined debris of the huge aeroplane, for it was imperative that nothing should be disturbed until scientific and technical examinations had been made by qualified experts.
The motors had fallen with such force that they had made a hole five feet in depth. Thirty yards away were the battered remains of a machine-gun, while other debris had been discovered half a mile from the main wreckage. The Gotha had had a crew of five men, their corpses, horribly burnt and battered, being found at widely different distances. These had already been removed to be given a military funeral, for, notwithstanding the undoubtedly cowardly methods adopted by Hun raiders, the German airmen were acting under orders, and had met their fate in much the same way as soldiers on the field of battle.
As for the poor old Dromedary, it looked a pitiable object when removed from the reservoir. Never again would the battered object soar proudly through the air. As a fighting-machine its days were ended. Its fate, after the more important parts had been removed, was to be burnt.
"I think I can claim the old prop.," remarked Derek to a brother officer. "I'll get a clock fitted to it and send it home to my people. It will look all right in a hall, won't it?"