Thus, while von Kluck's Advance was opposed at Mons by the stubborn thrust of the British Forces, the Buzzard earned his nickname by his tireless quest for Death. It eased his grudge against mankind to hunt men—and he hunted; hovering and observing, wirelessing and spotting, utilising one machine for many purposes,—in those days when War Flying was as yet in its infancy—sniped at by the sharpshooters of four out of seven British Divisions—often waging, with automatic pistol and Krupp machine-gun, fierce battles with other Paladins of the Wing, on the boundless lists of air.
How many times the boy's heart had cried for pity when some brave bird crippled by a spout of lead, or fired by an explosive bullet, had gone spinning earthwards, showing the Three Crosses of the Union Jack, or the blue-white-red circles of France's tricolour—or the red-black-yellow of the Belgian Flag upon its upper and under-wings as it fell.
They had bombed Paris two days before, and bombed Ypres that morning, starting from a Flying Base near the city of Bruges. Bawne knew the place was Ypres because it was marked in red on the roller-map. The British General Headquarters were supposed to be there. All the bombs had been used except two, and the Enemy must have forgotten to get rid of these before he landed. He was generally careful, but not so when he drank much. And lately he had drunk a good deal, there was so much wine in the country. He had come down and gone into the restaurant to quest for food and champagne. If he found, he would eat hugely and drink heavily, and then sleep himself sober. He always slept after a bout before taking to the air again. But sometimes when he had mixed drinks he got savage instead of sleepy, and then——
"Do you mean that he thrashes you?" Franky interjected here.
"Rather! Just look!"
There were bright red, newly-made weals and brown and purplish old ones on the little muscular, boyish arm from which the speaker stripped the sleeve.
"My back and legs are lots worse," he volunteered with the air of a showman. "I sometimes think he'd like to kill me. But he won't"—the blue eyes were shrewd under the white-streaked forelock—"because of what the Emperor said."
"'Take the boy with you and make of him a decent German.' For fear of your being sent for, he— Yes, I understand! ... My Christmas!" Franky whispered, opening his haggard eyes, and the fire that burned in them scorched up the water, "If I only had the use of this bashed-up body I'd jolly soon put the fear of God into the howling brute!" His uncertain hand fumbled about the butt of his Webley and Scott revolver. "Shoot him—and make tracks for Headquarters with you in his Taube. Can't fly for monkey-nuts though. Can you?"
"A little." There was a lightening of pleasure in the sombre depths of the blue eyes. "He lets me do plain, straight flying when he's sending Wireless, or photographing or observing. I've never started from the ground yet, or done a landing, though I'm sure I could if I tried. He has shown me lots and lots. And I do what he tells me." The forehead knitted under the ragged piebald forelock. "He bluffs about shooting me if I don't obey. But before I drink brandy or do other things that are blackguardly—or throw bombs on the British and the Allies, he shall kill me! I've told him—and he knows I'll keep my word."
"I pipe. And can't you manage to do a flip on your own," came back in the nearly extinguished voice from the sunken chest of the helpless figure on the blood-soaked stretcher. "One o' these fine days when von Thingamy isn't wide? What's to hinder your getting away now and pushing South to meet the British Advance-guard? We blew up the bridge when we left the town, but it's up to you to swim the river. Or cross with a barrel or a plank."