Vol-planing spirally, Derek kept a sharp look-out for signs of enemy occupation. He saw none. No Boches sent their obnoxious shrapnel-shells screeching through the air; no field-grey patrols opened fire with their rifles and machine-guns upon the now low-flying biplane. There were no signs of the civilian population. Thirty miles behind the battle-line Derek had struck a desolate and deserted patch of what had been, and was soon to be again, the soil of La Belle France. The British and German machines had crashed within four hundred yards of each other. Which was which Daventry could not determine, for already the huge triplane and its small antagonist were little more than heaps of fiercely-burning debris. CHAPTER XI The Jammed Machine-guns An irresistible impulse prompted Derek to make a landing. It was something more than morbid curiosity or sentiment that made him do so. Why he knew not, but land he did, pancaking faultlessly in an untitled field covered with long, rank grass. Scanning the immediate vicinity, and finding nothing of a suspicious character, Derek descended from his 'bus, and, automatic-pistol ready for instant action, made his way towards the nearest pyre. Fifteen yards away was a battered corpse, lying in a hole three feet deep made by the terrific impact. By the colour of the flying-coat, in spite of its being badly burnt, Dick knew that it was not his chum's body. A short distance away, and almost hidden in the grass, were two more bodies, those of the Hun pilot and one of the machine-gunners. While Derek was contemplating the wreckage, he saw someone approaching--a figure literally crawling on hands and knees. It was Kaye. In spite of the blistered face, burned and battered coat--which was still smouldering--Derek recognized him. At full speed he ran towards him, thankful to find his comrade alive, and still more so to find that Kaye could both see and speak. There was no time for questions. The sharp whine of a bullet, quickly followed by others, gave stern warning that a Hun patrol had arrived upon the scene. Derek could discern several field-grey figures advancing rapidly across the untilled fields, the nearmost being only eight hundred yards away. Grasping Kaye's arm, Derek ran. It was a case of discretion being the better part of valour. With bullets whizzing past their heads, the two pilots succeeded in reaching EG 19, through the planes of which the German missiles were cutting furrows in the doped canvas. Assisting Kaye to mount the fuselage, and telling him to throw himself at full length in the wake of the pilot's seat, Derek swung the prop. The motor fired, faltered, and stopped. Advancing the spark at the risk of a back-fire, he made a second attempt--this time successfully.