Then, rearing, the fuselage toppled completely over, and the next instant Derek found himself being dragged down through icy-cold water. CHAPTER V The Next Day Rendered well-nigh breathless by the shock of the water following the crash, Derek struggled feverishly to unbuckle the stiff leather belt that held him to the seat. Swallowing mouthfuls of water, until his lungs felt on the point of bursting under the asphyxiating strain, he at length succeeded in unfastening the buckle. Then, scrambling blindly, he endeavoured to extricate himself from the tangle of wreckage that, in his heated imagination, was encompassing him on every side. A severed tension-wire coiled itself round his left ankle. At the expense of his fleece-lined boot he succeeded in disengaging the sinuous embrace of the spring-like metal. Then, almost at his last gasp, the young officer resisted the temptation to struggle to the surface, but, diving under the upturned fuselage, he swam half a dozen strokes before attempting to rise. Then, hardly able to withstand the numbing coldness of the water, he allowed himself to float to the surface. Taking in copious draughts of the pure night-air, Derek floated impassively until the instinct of self-preservation urged him to make for the bank. Silhouetted against the glare of the concealed searchlights were the figures of a score or more of men. Towards them the crashed pilot struck out feebly, until, to his unbounded relief, he saw two men plunging into the water to his assistance. "Sorry, chum!" shouted a voice, as a pair of hands grasped him under the shoulders. "We thought you were a bloomin' Boche. You'll be all right in 'arf a mo'." Derek could not reply. He was temporarily speechless, but he was heartily glad of the assistance of the men who had swum out to his aid. Then he was dimly conscious of his feet coming in contact with the muddy bottom and willing hands helping him up the steeply-rising bank. His senses returning, Daventry was able to take a fairly-comprehensive view of the situation. He was standing on the edge of a large reservoir. In the centre, looming up in the reflected glare of the still fiercely-burning Gotha, was the tail of his trusty Dromedary, resembling an obelisk to commemorate the aerial encounter. A short distance away was a searchlight, its beams slowly sweeping the sky, while, standing out against the rays, was the gaunt muzzle of a heaven-directed anti-aircraft gun, ready for instant action. Round the weapon were the gunners, seemingly oblivious to the British pilot's presence, their whole attention centred upon the patch of luminosity that swung slowly to and fro across the murky sky. Other searchlights were also trained upwards in the hope of spotting yet other undesirable aerial visitors from Hunland.