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. "Hallo, Daventry!" shouted the wounded airman. "Don't you know me?" Derek, astonished at hearing his name, looked intently at the man on the stretcher. "Hanged if I do," he replied. "Ungrateful old bean!" chortled the other. "What on earth are you doing with a tin hat? Doubly ungrateful, considering I taught you all you know about a 'bus." "You're not Rippondene?" enquired Derek incredulously. "What's left of me," was the nonchalant reply. "I think I'm right in supposing that I'm half a leg short, although I can swear that I can feel the missing toes tingling like billy-ho. There's one thing to be thankful for: that leg was a source of trouble since I crashed at Armentières in March, '15. It won't worry me again, and with a cork leg I'll be able to wangle a rudder-bar. Hope the war isn't over by the time I'm pushed out of hospital." Rippondene, now a Flight-Commander, had had many adventures since relinquishing the post of instructor at Torringham. In spite of certain physical disabilities he had gained well-earned promotion, and was "down" for participation in the elaborately-perfected scheme for bombing Berlin. Then, owing to exigencies on the Western Front, he had been ordered to France, and had performed excellent work in the operations during the great German offensive and the greater German retreat. [Illustration: IN A COUPLE OF STRIDES HE OVERTOOK THE MAJOR, AND BORE HIM BACKWARDS TO THE EARTH]