I Spy | Page 4

Hargraves' voice was noticeably weaker, as he
dictated:
DEAR KATHLEEN:
I saw Karl in London at Victoria Station. I swear it was he ... warn
Uncle ... Kathleen ... Kathleen ...
There was a long silence; then Seymour laid aside the unneeded brandy
flask and slowly rose to his feet. He mechanically folded the scrap of
paper, but before slipping it inside his pocket, the blank side arrested
his attention.
"Heavens! John never gave me her address or last name. Who is
Kathleen?" he exclaimed.
More shaken than he was willing to confess even to himself, by the loss
of his pal, he stared bitterly across the battlefield toward the enemy's
lines. How cheerily Hargraves had greeted him that morning on his
return from a week's furlough in England! How glad he had been to
rejoin the unit and be once again with his comrades on the firing line!
A gallant spirit had passed to the Great Beyond.
Back in his observation station Major Seymour an hour later viewed
the gathering darkness with satisfaction. Two hours more and it would
be difficult to see a hand before one's face. Undoubtedly the sorely
needed ammunition and reserves would reach the trenches in time, and
the wounded could be safely transferred to the base hospital. The
Allies' line had held, and in spite of their desperate assaults the
Germans had been unable to find a vulnerable spot.

Seymour passed his hand over his eyes. Against the darkness his
fevered imagination pictured advancing "gray phantoms." "They come
like demons from the hell they have created," he muttered. "I hope to
God they don't use 'starlights' over our trenches tonight. Flesh and
blood can stand no more."
The darkness grew denser and more dense. In the long battle front of
the Allies no sentinel saw a powerful Aviatik biplane glide over the
trenches and fly onward toward its goal. Several times the airman
inspected his phosphorescent compass and map, each time thereafter
altering his course. Finally, making a sign to his observer, he planed to
a lower level and, satisfied that he had reached the proper distance, a
bomb was released.
Down through the black void the infernal machine sped. A sickening
pause--then a deafening detonation, followed by another and another,
cut the stillness, and the earth beneath was aflame with light as the high
explosives and shells stored in the concealed ammunition depot were
set off. Nothing escaped destruction; flesh and blood, mortar and brick
went skyward together, and a great gash in the earth was all that was
left to tell the story of the enemy's successful raid.
From a safe height the German airman and his observer watched their
handiwork. Suddenly the latter caught sight of an aeroplane winging its
way toward them.
"Bauerschreck!" he shouted, and the airman followed his pointed finger.
Instantly under his skillful manipulation their biplane climbed into the
air in long graceful spirals until they were six thousand feet above
ground. But as fast as they went, their heavier Aviatik was no match in
speed for the swift French aeroplane, and the bullets from the latter's
machine gun were soon uncomfortably near.
The German airman's face was set in grim lines as he maneuvered his
biplane close to his pursuer and, dodging and twisting in sharp dips and
curves, spoiled the aim of the Frenchman at the machine gun, while his
own revolver and that of his observer kept up a continuous fusillade.

For twenty minutes the unequal fight continued. It could not last much
longer. Despair pulled at the German's heartstrings as he saw his
observer topple for a moment in his seat, then pitch forward into space.
The biplane tipped dangerously, righted itself and sped like a homing
pigeon in the direction of the German lines. There was nothing left but
to fly for it. The German dared not look behind; only by the mercy of
God were the Frenchman's shots going wild. It could not last; he must
get the range. Surely, surely they were past the last of the Allies'
trenches?
The German turned and fired his revolver desperately at his pursuers.
Glory to God! one of his bullets punctured the latter's gasoline tank. It
must be so--the French aeroplane was apparently making a forced
landing. The shout on the German's lips was checked by a stinging
sensation in his right side. The Frenchman had his range at last.
Almost simultaneously his machine turned completely over. With
groping, desperate fingers the German strove to gain control over the
levels and right himself. In vain--and as he started in the downward
rush, the hurrying wind carried the frenzied whisper:
"The cross, dear God, the cross!"


CHAPTER III
POWERS THAT PREY
Not far as the crow flies from the scene of the German airman's