"Set to, chums!" he exclaimed. "Here's another of 'em."
The bearers had been hard at work for five hours and under shell-fire the whole time. The straps of their equipment were cutting into their shoulders; their boots were galling their feet owing to the incessant pull of the tenacious mud. Men of low category, and deemed unfit to handle a rifle, they were sharing the hardships and dangers of their comrades in the firing-line, without being able to experience the thrill of "going over the top" shoulder to shoulder behind a line of glittering bayonets. Yet their work was of a noble and enduring nature, often performed under highly-dangerous conditions, without an opportunity of striking a blow in self-defence.
"Stretcher here!" exclaimed Derek. "Get this man back. I'll come with you."
The Corporal betrayed no outward sign of surprise at finding a supposed British major insensible and with his hands lashed behind his back. At Derek's suggestion the lanyard was unlashed and Von Peilfell's hands bound to his sides. Then, lifted on a stretcher, the spy was carried off.
It was a hazardous, uninspiring journey. The heat of the advance over, the grim aftermath of battle lay revealed in all its stark, hideous brutality. It was yet early morning. Mist still hung over the marshy ground. As far as the eye could reach the soil was cut up with the distinctive tractor-marks of the tanks. Barbed wire, crushed deeply into the earth wherever a tank had passed, was still in evidence, snake-like coils clinging tenaciously to posts still rising slantwise from the stiff clay. And sometimes half buried, sometimes still held up by the horrible barbs were khaki and field-grey uniforms still covering what were but a few short hours ago human beings capable of reasoning. Derelict tanks, some still glowing red and emitting clouds of smoke, dotted the landscape, cheek by jowl with crashed aeroplanes. Shell-craters, old and new, abounded, while already light railways were being laid with a rapidity that is hardly conceivable. The while there were constant streams of motor traffic to and fro; heavy guns being brought up to prepare for a fresh advance. Everywhere there were abundant indications that this was "some" advance and that the ground gained was to be held.
Mile after mile Derek trudged with his captive. He was determined that on this occasion the airman-spy should not escape. Von Peilfell was too dangerous a man to be allowed to get away a second time.
Several times Derek glanced at the man on the stretcher. Von Peilfell was lying on his right side, his face almost hidden against the canvas. His manacled hands were resting on the edge of the stretcher. His features, or rather that portion of them visible, were sallow and wore a bored, apathetic expression. He seemed quite unconcerned at his position, not even showing the faintest trepidation when shells burst within a hundred yards of him or bullets kicked up little cascades of mud almost at the feet of the stretcher-bearers.
"Guess he knows the game's up this time," thought Derek. "Poor devil! Pity he hadn't been brought down in fair fight."
Then, recollecting that he had previously given expression to similar sentiments, Daventry found himself wondering whether Von Peilfell was under the special protection of fate, and whether he would again cheat the firing-squad.
Just then another stretcher, moving on a converging route, came level with Derek's party. On it was a man still wearing an airman's flying-coat. One hand encased in a leather fur-lined gauntlet trailed limply. Blood was welling from an unseen wound and staining the white fur. A blanket had been thrown over the wounded man's lower limbs. His flying-helmet had been removed and was serving as a pillow. He was smoking a cigarette and apparently taking a lively interest in the journey to the dressing-station.