Listening intently, Derek heard slight, but unmistakable sounds of movement in the Hun trenches. Keenly alive to his chances of being carried off as a prisoner by a raiding-party, the pilot began to climb on hands and knees up the slippery, sliding soil of the crater in the direction of the British lines. It was a dangerous business, for, in the open, he would be exposed to the fire from friend and foe, but that was preferable to being hauled off to a German prison camp. Literally worming his way, Derek slid over the top of the crater and gained the comparatively level ground beyond. Here he lay, inert and silent, his ears strained to catch the faintest sound. He was not mistaken. Even as he was crawling from his place of concealment a number of Huns were, with equal caution, descending into the crater to search for a possible prisoner. "I'll have a say in the matter," thought Derek, as he loosened his automatic-pistol in its holster. "If they wander round this way I'll give them a few rounds and then run for it. There'll be a risk of being strafed by our own people, but that's preferable to being done in by a Boche." Fortunately the necessity of having to use his pistol did not arise, for the Huns, having made a survey of the wreckage of the EG machine and the interior of the two craters, were evidently satisfied. No doubt they were "jumpy", groping about in the darkness, for after a few minutes they cleared off as silently as they came. Waiting for another quarter of an hour Derek resumed his way on all fours towards the British trenches. It was a tedious journey, for wherever, as frequently happened, a star-shell lit up the ground he had to remain immobile, simulating one of the many corpses that littered the ground. The slightest movement would have brought down a hail of machine-gun bullets and possibly a few unpleasantly-accurate rifle-shots from the alert Tommies, and, having gone thus far, Derek was becoming more and more anxious not to receive these attentions. At length he reached a shell-hole within ten yards of the hastily-improvised parapet of sand-bags. Here he lay listening to the men conversing in low tones. Much of their language was lurid, but nevertheless it was like music to hear English voices again after hours of mental and bodily tension. He whistled softly. Then a voice hissed out a challenge. "It's all right," replied Derek. "I'm one of the R.A.F. Can I make a dash for it?" A consultation between several of the men followed, then a voice spoke: "In you come. Take your chance; but Heaven help you if you try any monkey-tricks. We'll riddle you." The pilot waited till the blinding glare of a star-shell gave place to opaque darkness. Then, judging his direction, he made his way to the line of sandbags and crawled over the top. Into the trench he rolled, to find himself confronted by the dull gleam of a bayonet. "Looks all right, Sergeant," reported one of the men.