Burton of the Flying Corps

Borrowed Plumes

I

The tramp steamer Elpinike, bound from the Peiræus to the island of Tenedos with supplies for the Allied forces, was thrashing its way northwards through the blue waters of the Ægean Sea. It was a warm, sunny day; the Levantine crew lolled on the bulwarks, and a mixed group of passengers was gathered on the after-deck. Three or four French officers, smoking cigarettes, basked on deck-chairs; several men, whose nationality it were hard to determine, leant in picturesque attitudes against the wall of the deck-house; and a couple of Englishmen, wearing overalls and low cloth caps, and with blackened briar pipes between their lips, sat side by side on the third of the steps leading to the bridge. They eyed with faint amusement the centre of the group, a very fat man sucking a very fat cigar, who lay back in his creaking deck-chair and discoursed at large.

Mr. Achilles Christopoulos, as he had announced himself to his fellow-passengers, was the agent of the charterers of the vessel. He was, he assured them, a very busy man. He had broad, bulging, swarthy cheeks, a multiple chin, and a heavier moustache than is common among his compatriots; for Mr. Christopoulos was, by his own account, a Greek of Greeks. His English was fluent, with little oddities of accent and pronunciation; and after every few words he drew deep, audible gasps for breath.

“Yes, zhentlemen,” said Mr. Christopoulos, waving his cigar towards the Englishmen and Frenchmen, “my country will remain neutral. Of war we have had enough; it is time we had a rest. And tell me, why should we pull your chestnuts out of ze fire? Tell me zat? What did you do to help us against ze Turks twenty years ago? Nozink. And two years ago? Nozink. We are nozink to you. We wait; zat is our policy; and when ze time comes, why, zen we show ze world we do not forget our history.”

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed one of the Frenchmen, flinging a half-smoked cigarette into the sea. “You are egoist, monsieur. Your history—vat? I zink of Pericles; I zink of your patriots since a hundred years. Ah! zat vas not zeir policy.”

“But ze time has changed, monsieur. Pericles, he is dead. Ze German Emperor, he is alive.”

“Conspuez-le!” said the Frenchman.

Mr. Christopoulos smiled.

“Consider with calmness, zhentlemen,” he said, as though appealing from the excitable Frenchmen to the more stolid English. “Ze Turk, with ze German Emperor at ze back, is to-day a new man. Ze King of ze Hellenes knows ze power of Germany. He runs no risks. We have men who are ignorant, who do not zink. Zey make a fuss, cry for war; ze king knows it is foolish, and holds tight ze reins. Greece owes much to Germany, and shall owe more.”

The French officers burst into angry declamation. The Englishmen, who had taken no part in the conversation, listened for a few minutes longer, then got up and strolled along the deck.

“Talks too much, Teddy,” said one of them.

“Let ’em talk,” replied the other.

Edward Burton, of the Flying Corps, after several months’ exhausting service in France, had been invalided home. On reporting himself at headquarters after his convalescence, he was ordered to the Dardanelles. Taking a P. and O. steamer for Alexandria, he had met on board an old friend, Dick Hunter, who had recently come into the corps from a line regiment, as observer. The supply ship in which they took passage at Alexandria had put into Athens with a broken shaft, and to save time they had joined the Elpinike at the moment of her leaving port.

The Elpinike was very old, very dirty, very smelly, and very slow, plodding along at seven or eight knots. The two airmen, accustomed to easy and rapid flights, were thoroughly weary of the voyage by the time the vessel reached harbour. They found themselves there in the midst of intense activity, reminding Burton of the bustle and orderly confusion at the bases in France. They reported themselves at headquarters, only to learn that, pending the arrival of new machines from England, there was no seaplane ready for them, and they had to resign themselves to kicking their heels for a time. There was, however, plenty to interest them. Troops—British, French, and Colonial—were continually arriving from Egypt and departing on transports for the Dardanelles. Warships came and went; airmen were present who had reconnoitred for the fleet in the attacks on the forts, and to discover the strength of the Turks on both sides of the strait. These retailed their experiences for the benefit of their comrades newly arrived, who grew more and more eager to set to work.

Now and then they ran up against Mr. Christopoulos, who was quartered near them, and found it a little difficult to shake off that garrulous man of business. He showed a disposition, they thought, to presume on the acquaintance made during the voyage from the Peiræus. As a rule they gave only perfunctory acknowledgments of his greetings; sometimes they were unable to escape him.

“You are still idle, zhentlemen?” he said one day. “Zere is a shortage of aircraft, I hear. How provoking!”

“It gives us time to get acclimatised,” said Burton.

“Zat is true. It is very fine air. You like ze wine of ze country? It is very fine. You know, of course, zat here came ze fleet from my country for ze siege of Troy. Ah! we Greeks were ten years taking Troy, and I zink you will be ten years taking Constantinople.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Burton. “Your ancestors hadn’t aeroplanes, you see. Our planes will be even more useful than the Wooden Horse.”

“Perhaps. And when do you expect to get to work?”

“All in good time.”

“You will go to Enos, perhaps?”

“We shall go wherever we are sent. You’ll go back to Athens in the Elpinike to-morrow, I suppose?”

“No. My business keeps me here. I am a very busy man.”

He went on to describe some of his activities, and the Englishmen, breaking away at last, made but a cool response to his genial “Au revoir, zhentlemen.”

It was ten days before their seaplane arrived. The engine required very little tuning up. They made a few trial trips, to accustom themselves to the atmospheric conditions of the Ægean Sea, and looked forward to an early call to action.

On returning to their quarters one night, they were surprised to see a British sentry at the door of the house where Mr. Christopoulos lodged.

“What’s up?” asked Hunter, stopping.

“Got orders to guard this house, sir,” replied the man.

“What for?”

“A party of us was sent to arrest the chap that lives here, sir—the fat Greek Christopoulos. Don’t know what he’s been doing; swindling somebody, perhaps.”

“Did you get him?”

“No, sir. He can’t be found.”

They passed on, and, after changing, went to the restaurant for their evening meal. There they learnt that Mr. Christopoulos was suspected of spying. It appeared that he must have got wind of the order for his arrest, and had decamped; but his disappearance was a mystery, for no vessel had left the island since the morning, with the exception of a small country sailing-boat. It was conjectured that he had left on one of the small craft engaged in bringing provisions to the base; but though several of these had been overhauled at sea by fast despatch boats, no trace of the fugitive was discovered.

Two days later the airmen were summoned to headquarters.

“Your machine is in order?” asked the staff-officer.

“Yes, sir—ready for anything,” Burton replied.

“Then you’ll ship on board the ——.” He named a cruiser lying in the harbour. “There are rumours of a large Turkish concentration at Keshan. You’ll find out if they are true. The cruiser will take you up to the Gulf of Saros, and you will start your flight from the neighbourhood of the coast somewhere south of Enos. The cruiser will await your return.”

They hurried down to the harbour. The seaplane was slung on board the cruiser, which steamed away northward, through the huge armada of British and French war-vessels, transports, and supply ships that thronged the sea. It was an open secret that the preparations for a combined attack by land and sea were far advanced. They heard the distant boom of heavy guns, which grew louder and more continuous as they neared the mouth of the strait. When they opened up the headland of Suvla Burun the course was altered a few points to the east, and another hour’s steaming across the Gulf of Saros found them some five miles from the coast, off Kurukli. Here the cruiser hove-to, and the seaplane was slung out.

The captain had already given the airmen their bearings. North-west lay Enos and the river Maritza, with the Bulgarian port of Dedeagatch beyond. Keshan, their objective, was to the north-east, about thirty miles distant from the coast.

“I will cruise about for four or five hours,” said the captain, “keeping well out to sea, out of range of the batteries in the Bulair lines yonder.” He pointed due east to the neck of the Gallipoli peninsula. “You have plenty of petrol?”

“Enough for the job,” replied Burton.

“Well, good luck to you. ‘Ware shrapnel.”

They slipped over the side into their places. Burton started the engine, and, after skimming the surface for a few moments, the seaplane rose like a bird and soared away, ever higher, towards the coast northward.

II

The sky was clear, the air calm—an ideal day for airmen. In a few minutes they passed over the rocky and precipitous line of the coast and pursued their flight inland. Hunter, closely scanning the country beneath through his glasses, presently exclaimed, “A gun!” and shortly afterwards, “A battery!” The guns were cleverly concealed from observation from the sea, behind a cliff, marked by a clump of the dense brushwood that flourishes on the shores of the Gulf of Saros. Hunter expected a shot or two from the gunners, but they made no sign, probably unwilling to reveal their position to the warships in the bay. They were saving their shot for more serious work than firing at seaplanes.

Northward they saw a river flowing east and west. Passing over a village—Kiskapan, according to the map—they crossed the river almost at right angles with its course, and beyond a range of low hills discovered their objective about five miles away. They had travelled some thirty-five miles by dead reckoning, which corresponded with the estimated distance from the cruiser.

Before they obtained a full view of Keshan itself they perceived evidences of a considerable concentration of troops. At several points around the town there were extensive encampments. Clouds of dust to the north, east, and north-east betrayed the movements of troops or convoys. And when they were still about two miles from the town they heard the familiar rattle of machine-guns and the long crackle of rifle fire. But they were too high up to feel any anxiety, and while Burton wheeled round and round in an extensive circle, Hunter busily plotted out on his map the positions of the camps, and made notes of the directions of the movements, the estimated number of the battalions, and the nature of their arms.

After a while Burton began gradually to drop, in order to give Hunter a chance of recognising gun emplacements. At about two thousand feet the enemy opened fire. White and creamy puffs of shrapnel floated and spread in the air. A shell burst some distance beneath them, another above them, and soon the machine was cleaving its way through a thin cloud of pungent smoke. It appeared that at least six guns were at work.

“Better get out of this,” shouted Hunter. “I’ve got about enough information.”

“We’ll go a little farther north,” replied Burton, “to see if any reinforcements are coming up towards Keshan.”

“All right, but go a bit higher; I heard two or three smacks on the planes just now.”

Rising a little higher, Burton swept round to the north. In a minute or two Hunter was able to see that the hill track from Rodosto was choked with transport of all kinds. Right and left, every possible route from Constantinople and Adrianople was equally congested. It was clear that a vast army was being concentrated within striking distance of Gallipoli, and on the flank of any force moving eastward from Enos or any other point of disembarkation.

Burton then headed west towards the Maritza, intending to return by way of Enos and discover, if possible, what force the Turks had available for the defence of that place. They were passing somewhat to the north of Keshan, to keep out of the way of the batteries, when Hunter suddenly caught sight of an object like a large bird low down in the sky on their left hand. A few moments’ scrutiny through his glasses confirmed the suspicions which had seized him on the instant.

“An aviatik, coming our way,” he called.

“Won’t catch us,” responded Burton with a smile.

“Stay and fight it?”

“It’s tempting, but we mustn’t. It won’t do to run risks when our job’s to collect information.”

Hunter acquiesced with a sigh. Burton shifted his course a point or two to the west, so as to run nearly parallel with the enemy’s aeroplane.

A moment or two later he gave a start of alarm.

“What’s the matter?” asked Hunter.

“Afraid there’s a leak. The petrol gauge is falling faster than it ought. They must have knocked a hole in the tank. See if you can find it.”

Hunter twisted in his seat, bent over, and began to examine the tank.

“Can’t find any leak,” he said presently. “If there’s one, it’s out of reach. How’s the gauge?”

“At this rate we shall be done in another ten minutes.”

“Whew! How much farther to go?”

“At least twenty miles, perhaps more. I wish we had come straight. There’s absolutely no chance of getting back before the petrol gives out. Where’s the enemy?”

“Still on our port side, going strong. It looks as if she means to chase us, thinking we’re running away. We shall have to fight now, shan’t we?”

“Yes. We’re bound to come down in a few minutes, and if we don’t tackle her at once it’s all up with us. How far is she off?”

“About a couple of miles, I think, and about the same height. Her course is between us and Enos, worse luck!”

“Wish we had a machine-gun! I’ll come round; take a shot when we’re within range, and for goodness’ sake cripple her.”

He brought the seaplane round in an easy curve, at the same time climbing to get above the enemy. His eye was all the time on the rapidly falling gauge. The aviatik held on its course for a little, then wheeled to the south-west, as if to cut the seaplane off. It was clear that the enemy airmen had no wish to avoid a fight.

Burton’s wheeling movement had now made his course almost due east, so that the two machines were rushing obliquely towards each other at the rate of about a hundred miles an hour. When they crossed, Burton was slightly ahead of the enemy, and, to his surprise, somewhat lower. At almost the same moment Hunter and the enemy’s observer opened fire with their rifles, but each was handicapped by the fact that he was firing from right to left, and no damage seemed to have been done on either side. As soon as Burton had passed the enemy, he banked his machine and wheeled to the left, climbing as rapidly as possible to make good the deficiency in height. The aviatik also made a spiral movement to the left, with the result that in a few seconds the machines were once more converging on each other. This time, however, Burton was slightly to the rear of the enemy, and when their tracks crossed, he shot up behind it on its left. The aviatik, a second or two too late, made a desperate effort to edge away eastward, but the movement only brought the two planes closer together.

“We can’t stick it another minute,” gasped Burton.

Hunter did not reply. He had dropped his rifle and seized his automatic pistol. The machines were at point-blank range. Hunter fired. The enemy’s observer screwed himself round in his seat to reply. Aiming at the pilot, Hunter sent a stream of bullets from his pistol. The pilot fell forward. For a moment the aeroplane rocked and seemed on the point of capsizing. Then the observer seized the controls, and, with a recklessness that bespoke inexperience or want of skill, began a perilously steep volplané.

Hunter looked down. The machine was rapidly dropping towards the edge of the lake a little to the east of the Maritza River. Suddenly, while yet some distance from the ground, the aviatik’s descent was averted, possibly by an air pocket over the lake. For a moment it seemed poised without motion, then it turned a somersault. The observer fell out, and dropped into the lake at the same instant as the machine crashed on to the bank.

Meanwhile Burton had circled round. His tank was nearly empty. He must either come down or fall down. There was no sign of life in the wrecked aeroplane; the observer had disappeared in the water; no one was in sight. Swinging round again Burton adjusted his elevator so as to descend on the lake, and in a few seconds the seaplane was resting on the surface within thirty yards of the spot where the aviatik lay, a mangled heap, on the bank.

III

“We can wade ashore,” said Burton. “I can see the bottom.”

“Hadn’t we better mend the leak?” Hunter suggested.

“But I want to see if the German has any spare petrol. We’ve lost a lot.”

They waded through a foot or two of water, and examined the wreck. One of the wings was crumpled up; otherwise the machine had suffered little injury. The pilot, a fair-haired German of Saxon type, was dead. There was plenty of petrol in the tank, and Hunter drew this off into a tin can while Burton returned to the seaplane, pulled it ashore, and set about discovering the leak. It turned out to be a long thin crack on the underside of the tank.

“How on earth are we to mend this?” said Burton, looking at it ruefully.

“Why not stuff it up with mud?” said Hunter. “This stuff at the edge of the lake seems to be clayey, and it will harden in no time.”

“Good! It may last for the few miles we have still to cover. Just keep a lookout while I work at it.”

Hunter went up the bank. A rough bridle-track skirted the lake and disappeared in a plantation that came down to within about a hundred yards of the water. To the south the view was shut in by a wooded knoll. There was neither man nor house in sight.

Burton had just kneaded some clay for stopping up the crack when they heard shouts in the distance, apparently from a southward direction. He ran up and joined Hunter, and they went together to the knoll some hundred and twenty yards away, from which they expected to get a view of the southern shore and perhaps of the men from whom the cries came. They were careful to keep under cover, and, on arriving at the knoll, lay flat on the ground. As they had hoped, they could now see a large portion of the lake which had previously been hidden from them, and caught glimpses, on the western side, of the bridle-track here and there among the trees. At intervals it disappeared behind slight hillocks or denser stretches of the plantation.

For a minute or two they saw no human beings. The sounds had ceased. But presently, about a third of a mile away to the south, they caught sight of a party of half a dozen horsemen searching the shore of the lake, now trotting into the wood, now riding at the edge of the water, now cantering along the bridle-track in the direction of the Englishmen.

“Turks!” murmured Burton.

“They must have seen the machines fall,” said Hunter. “This is awkward, Teddy.”

“It is, by Jove! and there are more of them. Look at that lot behind there. They’ll be here in three or four minutes—no time to plaster the crack and get away.”

“We had better scuttle our plane and dive into the woods. There’s just a chance of our getting across the Maritza into Bulgaria.”

“That means internment. Besides, it would be simply rotten to destroy the machine if we can help it. Perhaps there’s some other way. In any case we must get back. Put on a sprint.”

They raced back to the spot where they had landed, the knoll concealing them from the Turkish search-party. The sight of the body of the German pilot suggested an idea to Burton.

“Look here, we must trick them,” he said rapidly. “There’s a bare chance of saving our machine, and I doubt whether we’ve time enough even to destroy it. For the next quarter of an hour I’m a German, and you’re my English prisoner. We are done if there’s a German among them, but that’s our chance.”

Removing his own cap, he replaced it with that of the German pilot, borrowing at the same time one or two small articles of his equipment. Then he bound Hunter’s hands and feet.

“Slip-knots, old man,” he said. “You can free yourself in a jiffy. But don’t do it too soon. Just in time! I hear them coming. Here goes!”

He uttered a loud shout. In a few moments the horsemen appeared on the crest of the knoll. Burton waved his left hand, with his right holding a pistol pointed at Hunter’s head. The horsemen, led by an elderly Turkish officer in grey uniform and fez, galloped down towards them. While the officer was still several paces distant, Burton saluted and addressed him.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch, mein Herr?”

No one would have guessed with what anxious trepidation he awaited the answer. He had used almost all the German he knew. His heart leapt when the Turk shook his head.

“Vous parlez Français, monsieur?” said Burton.

“Oui, certainement. Qu’est-ce que c’est que ça?”

“You have come in good time, monsieur le capitaine,” said Burton in French. “I regret that I do not speak Turkish, and that our conversation must proceed in a language which, no doubt, you cordially detest. Our good Kaiser will soon forbid the use of it in Europe; German and Turkish are the languages of the future. Meanwhile!... You see, monsieur le capitaine, there has been a duel in the air. My pilot was, unhappily, shot by the enemy. We both had to descend; the enemy, no doubt, had difficulties with his engine. No doubt he expected to find both the pilot and myself dead or disabled. But a true German, like a true Turk, is a hard man to kill. Single-handed I attacked the enemy as they landed. Imagine their consternation and fear! One of them, using the long legs which serve the cowardly English so well, fled into the wood. The other lies here.”

The Turkish captain bent over his saddle to inspect the captured Englishman. For his benefit Hunter assumed an expression of sullen ferocity.

“It was well done,” said the Turk in French. “He looks a terrible fellow. I make you my compliments, monsieur. It was a brave deed to attack two men single-handed.”

“Oh, that’s nothing to us Germans,” said Burton airily. “We never think of odds. We are like that; the greater the adverse odds, the better pleased we are.”

“That is indeed the characteristic of your noble nation,” said the Turk politely.

“Still, it is as well to reduce the odds when we can,” Burton went on. “Half the enemy’s force has escaped. Could you spare a few men, monsieur le capitaine, to scour the woods?”

“Certainly, though I have little time to spare. I am engaged, you will be glad to know, in escorting a fellow-countryman of yours, monsieur—a German in the secret service, who has just landed at Enos—with important information for headquarters at Keshan.”

He broke off to give his troopers orders to hunt about in the woods for the escaped English airman. They were to return, even if unsuccessful, at the sound of his whistle. Meanwhile, Burton and Hunter had exchanged uneasy glances. The German could not be far away. No doubt he was coming up with other members of the escort. The sight of the falling aeroplanes had drawn the officer in advance.

The troopers galloped off. The officer turned once more towards Burton, whose expression of countenance gave no sign of the agitation within.

“It will be interesting to meet a fellow-countryman in this lonely spot,” he said calmly. “May I offer you a cigarette, monsieur?”

The Turk took one from the opened case, thanked Burton, and turned the cigarette over in his fingers.

“Made in Cairo, monsieur?” he said.

“Yes, it is a privilege of us airmen to levy upon the enemy. Refugees have no need to smoke. With the airman it is a necessity—it steadies the nerves.”

“True. And they make good cigarettes in Cairo.” He lit the cigarette from an automatic lighter. “The Englishman looks frightened.”

“He expects to be killed, I suppose, not knowing our German humanity. But you will excuse me, monsieur, if I examine the English aeroplane. It will come in useful.”

Burton returned to the machine, and, after feigning to examine it, proceeded to plaster the crack with nervous haste. The Turk had followed him, and, remaining in the saddle, watched his operations with much interest.

“It was this injury that caused the Englishmen to descend,” Burton explained. “German bullets never fail.”

“An English bullet was more successful, however,” said the officer, glancing at the dead pilot.

“Not more successful, surely, monsieur. We have scores of good pilots, we can replace every man that falls; but the English cannot afford to lose a single machine. And do not our German newspapers tell us that they have hardly any left? The earth is the Kaiser’s; the sea is his; the air is his also. Turkey will flourish again in German air.”

Having filled up the crack, Burton proceeded to pour petrol into the tank.

“This fellow-countryman of mine?” he said.

“He will be here soon, no doubt. He is a trifle stout, and a poor horseman. Consequently he travels slowly. When he saw the aeroplanes descending he insisted on our pushing on to render assistance to his fellow-countrymen. He cannot miss the track, there is only one. But he should be in sight.”

The Turk looked backward over the track, then saying, “Excuse me,” he wheeled his horse and began to trot towards the knoll. Burton had by no means completed the replenishment of the tank. He felt that something must be done.

“Monsieur le capitaine!” he shouted.

The Turk pulled up. Burton went towards him with an air of mystery.

“Your men are at fault, monsieur,” he said. “It would be a pity to let the Englishman escape, and you have no time to waste. Perhaps if I show the way!”

He walked on up the knoll, the Turk riding by his side.

“There, monsieur, you see that big tree on the far side of the bay? If you do not find the fugitive thereabout you won’t find him anywhere.”

The Turk hesitated. Perhaps he was considering whether it comported with an elderly captain’s dignity to take a personal part in the search. Burton eyed him anxiously, hoping that he would go, meet the approaching German, and take him with him. The pause was brief. The temptation to catch a live Englishman overbore all considerations of dignity. With a word of thanks to Burton the Turk cantered on towards the big tree.

Burton breathed again. He hurried back to the seaplane.

“Slip the knots, Dick,” he said, “but don’t get up. I’ll give you the word. I hope I’ve got rid of the Turk for a while.”

He was in the act of pouring petrol into the tank when a figure appeared from round the western base of the knoll. It was a big Sancho-Panza-like person, mounted on a mule.

“Great Scott!” murmured Burton.

Dropping the empty tin, he hastened to the aviatik for another.

“I say, Dick, do you recognise that fellow?” he asked.

“Christopoulos!” Hunter whispered.

“As large as life! What on earth are we to do? He will recognise us directly, even if he hasn’t done so already.”

“Shoot him and scoot!”

“I haven’t enough petrol yet. The tank still leaks, though not so badly, and if we shoot, the Turks will swarm up before I can fill up and get away. I think I had better go on with the job, let him come up, and trust to luck.”

Keeping his back to the pseudo-Greek, Burton carried another tin to the seaplane. Before he had emptied it into the tank the spy came within hailing distance and let out a jovial greeting in German. No doubt he had recognised the German airman’s cap, and, without misgiving, hailed his supposed compatriot.

“Good-morning, my friend,” he shouted. “I congratulate you. Another German victory!”

Burton, his back still towards the spy, finished pouring out the petrol, and placed the tin on the ground. As he straightened himself he discreetly drew his revolver and suddenly turned round. The spy was now within half a dozen paces of him.

“Thank you, Mr. Christopoulos,” he said. “Another victory—but not a German victory. We shall presently see who is to be congratulated. Meanwhile, you will dismount.”

The German, who had reined up at the first glance at Burton’s face, turned a sickly colour and half-opened his mouth as if to shout.

“Silence!” cried Burton peremptorily. “If you make the slightest sound I will shoot you on the spot.”

He held his revolver carelessly in his left hand, not pointing it at the German lest any of the Turks should come within view. The spy showed more alacrity than skill in dismounting. He clumsily clambered from his saddle, without daring to turn his head in the direction of the Turks, who could now be heard calling to one another beyond the knoll. Burton went up to him.

“Hand over your revolver,” he said.

“I haven’t got——” the spy was beginning. Burton cut him short.

“No nonsense! Hand it over. Quick. At the word ‘three’ I fire. One—two——”

With an agonised look the German made a dive for his revolver. Burton took it with his right hand before it was released from the spy’s tight pocket. From a distance they might have appeared to be shaking hands.

Burton had been rapidly casting about for a means of disposing of the German. He could not shoot him in cold blood; there might perhaps be time to tie him up, but he would then still be able to convey to the Turkish headquarters the information he had gathered at Tenedos. That must certainly be prevented. There was only one thing to be done: they must take him with them.

Just as Burton had reached this conclusion, a Turk appeared on the knoll.

“Come with me,” said Burton sternly.

The German accompanied him to the seaplane. He might be supposed to be indulging his curiosity. Standing between him and the knoll, Burton said—

“You are interested in aviation. Seat yourself on the right-hand float.”

The spy made as if to turn round. Burton lifted his revolver.

“Don’t waste time,” he said.

With a groan the spy sat on the spot indicated.

Burton seized the strap that bound him to his seat, and rapidly tied the German to the upright connecting the float with the body of the seaplane, calling to Hunter—who, still lying on the ground, had watched these proceedings with excitement—to cover the spy with his revolver.

The prisoner had hardly been secured when the Turkish captain cantered over the knoll, followed by two or three men.

“Now, Dick!” cried Burton.

Hunter sprang up and rushed to his place.

“Not there!” said Burton. “Get on to the left-hand float to balance the machine.”

Meanwhile he had started the engine, in desperate anxiety lest it should not have gathered momentum before the Turks came up. The spy had heard the thudding of their horses’ hoofs as they, seeing the supposed English prisoner spring up, galloped down the knoll. Turning his head, he let out a frenzied shout. But it was too late. Burton had vaulted into his seat, and, just three seconds before the amazed and furious Turks reached the brink of the water, the seaplane was skimming the surface.

The spy was now filling the air with his frantic cries. Burton afterwards said it was like the booming of a buzzard. The Turks dismounted, and from the edge of the lake fired at the fast-receding machine. One or two shots pierced the planes, and from a shrill cry of terror from the German, Burton supposed that he had been hit. But he was too busy to think of him. Forcing the engine to the utmost he was already manipulating the elevator. The machine rose steadily. At the first possible moment Burton swung it round to the west. In a minute or two he crossed the Maritza. Climbing ever higher, he shifted his course a point or two to the south, and within twenty minutes the machine swooped down beside the cruiser, a few miles out in the bay, and a number of laughing bluejackets hastened to assist two dripping objects to climb on board.

IV

The cruiser made all speed back to Tenedos. There the spy, a forlorn, chapfallen individual, was taken ashore under an escort of marines. Within a short time a drum-head court-martial was constituted. Papers found on the prisoner left no doubt of his occupation; his protest that he was a subject of King Constantine availed him nothing. When the sentence had been pronounced, he recovered his courage and confessed himself a German, and it was as a German soldier that he paid the final penalty.

Burton’s exploit was reported to the Admiralty, and some weeks later, when he returned one evening from reconnoitring the Turkish trenches after the landing on the Gallipoli peninsula had been so magnificently accomplished, he was welcomed with the news that he had been awarded the Distinguished Service Medal by the King.