The stretcher-party halted. The Corporal turned Von Peilfell's head and placed a finger upon one of his wide-open eyes. Not a muscle on the Hun airman's face quivered.
"He's gone west, sir," said the Corporal. "'Tain't much good carrying a corpse. There's plenty of living who want bearing off."
The bearers set the stretcher on the ground. Deftly the R.A.M.C. man examined the corpse. The cause of the spy's death was soon evidenced. While he was being carried off a chance bullet had struck him, passing through his heart. Without a groan or a struggle, Hertz von Peilfell's career had ended—ignominiously.
"I'll take my men back, sir, if I may," suggested the N.C.O.
"Yes, carry on," replied Derek.
Without ceremony the dead German airman was placed by the trunk of a shattered tree, and the bearers returned to their work of succour; while Derek, who was beginning to feel the effect of his strenuous work, set out in the direction of the still distant air-sheds.
CHAPTER XVI
The Shell-crater
There were many vacant places that evening in the building that served as a mess. Youngsters who, a few hours previously, had left the aerodrome like modern knights of the air, were lying crushed beyond recognition amidst the wreckage of their trusted steeds. The price of victory was a heavy one; the toll of airmen's lives enormous; yet the sacrifice had not been made in vain. The soil of Flanders and Picardy, drenched with British blood, was hourly becoming a wider and stronger barrier between the modern Hun and the shores of Great Britain—shores that, held inviolate from the feet of a would-be invader, had nevertheless felt the effect of German shells and bombs.