CHAPTER I

I

John and young Sanderson were half asleep in the orange grove that sheltered the row of tents from the merciless midday sun. All the afternoon they had dozed, just under the oranges that ripened within their reach; but about four o'clock, the noise of a Ford car coming up the boarded track to the aerodrome, from its journey to Jaffa, woke them from their siesta. A party had been down into the port on a day's excursion. It was their last probably, for early at dawn, on the morrow, the great attack was to be made and every one of the aeroplanes now receiving final touches from the mechanics would be soaring in that blue and cloudless heaven whence death would rain upon the trenches below.

"I haven't written those blessed letters after all," said Sanderson yawning. "I must do it to-night."

He stood up, a slim graceful youth in his shorts and khaki shirt. The fierce Eastern sun had browned his legs and arms, though it had not caught him so fiercely as John. He rubbed his fingers through his wavy hair and looked down at his companion.

"Do you know, Dean, I think you must be the re-incarnation of an arab sheik--I never knew a fellow who loved the desert heat like you--you're looking splendidly fit." He laughed and threw an orange at his companion as he lay in the shade. "There's something feline about the way you purr in this devilish climate."

John smiled, stood up and collected the letters he had written.

"Let's hear the news from Jaffa," he said to Sanderson--and strolled across the clearing towards the fringe of tents. They had been together since John's arrival two months back, and this happy-go-lucky lad of twenty reminded him at moments of poor Marsh. He had the same volatile spirits, now very elated or full of apprehension, tireless and restless, and very human and often childlike in certain moods. It was to John that he raved about Mary, the little English girl in faraway Sussex, and so deep became their intimacy that he entrusted her letters to John, for him to co-operate in his intense admiration of her wonderful epistolary style, her unbounded lovableness. John soon knew much about his mother and father, the latter a retired naval officer living in a little house on the Devon Coast; through Sanderson, he could see the gentle little lady who wrote in such a perfect hand with unbroken regularity, chronicling the small events of the domestic round. That Sanderson loved her devotedly, John knew from the light that came into his eyes when he talked of her.

"You must write those letters, Sandy," said John, as they entered the mess-tent. It was a task Sanderson hated, being always unable to find anything to write about. A letter meant much at home, and after to-night they--

"I'll do 'em after dinner," promised Sanderson.

Dinner that evening was a merry affair. The excitement of the morrow was in their blood. John looked round at his comrades, all very young, not one giving any sign of the apprehension he might feel. General Allenby was making a great push with his left flank, stretching from the sandy coast to the Jordan basin and the rising hills of Judæa. The bombing squadron was engaged in the task of cutting off the Turkish army on the line of retreat along the Ferweh-Balata road. The Turk was on the run and this might be a last great opportunity. They were to start before dawn. Early in the day, John had sought and obtained permission to accompany the squadron. Sanderson was to take him in his Bristol fighter. The spirit of victory was in the air. That evening Sanderson twanged his banjo with great spirit and sang "Glorious Devon" and his eyes watered when MacDermott gave "Highland Mary," the heavy sentiment assisted by many highland toasts. Scottish or English, it was Mary, and Sanderson almost broke down just before they retired to snatch a few hours of sleep.

"Have you written those letters?" asked John,--Sanderson stood stripped in the moonlight, shaking out his shirt.

"No."

"Then you're not coming into this tent until you have," said John firmly.

"Well, I can't write like this, can I?"

John laughed, holding Sanderson's shorts firmly.

"You promise to write at once?"

"Yes--Lord, I'm cold."

"Here you are then, and here's my fountain pen; you can see in this moonlight."

Sanderson sat down on a box and put a writing pad on his knees. John walked across the clearing for a final survey before turning in. He climbed a ridge behind the grove, and above the tree tops a vast panorama swept into view. Away to the left in the grey void, the sea lay, the blue Mediterranean sea that glittered by day under the changeless canopy of heaven. In the night air he could hear the far-off roar of the surf, fitfully borne on a wind blowing up the ravine, laden with aromatic night-scents from the orange groves. A full moon hung in the sky, banishing many of the stars. John stood there, with a chill wind intermittently blowing upon him.

There had come to him in these days, here, in the hard adventure with kindred spirits, in the intoxication of danger and human courage, amid all that was splendid, perhaps the more splendid for its pitiful transience, a contentment with life. He was not maimed in the spirit, though he had been sorely buffeted. His greatest ally was with him, the Future. So much subservience to the omnipotent hand of Fate had this East wrought in him, he would not rebel. If Mrs. Graham could see him now, see the change that had quieted him, instead of recalling the tumult of those days when he had turned to her in his blind agony, she might wonder at the quality of his love, at a love that surrendered and was happy in the act.

"Muriel seems very happy," she wrote; "if I did not know I should think she loved him deeply; they are never apart and she seems unwearied in her service to him." But did she know? Who knew the heart of any woman and who could apportion duty, sympathy and love? Now he looked back, he saw that, tacitly, he and Muriel had loved, without obstacles, without trials. From the first dawn of instinct, from that wintry day by the copse, when unknown temptings of Nature and boyish impulse had made him gather her into his arms, they had followed the natural course of their early affection. For himself, even now, he had never doubted but that the fulfilment of that first impulse lay in his marriage to Muriel. Painfully, but frankly, he followed the remorseless logic of the facts. It had comforted his egotism, the eternal possessive instinct of man, to think that she had married in a mood of pity; what if she also married for love, suddenly awakened and all the stronger and more impetuous now it was really awakened?

He saw now, that throughout he had insisted upon the requital of his love, and perhaps his dominance had won until this stronger instinct awakened in her. He had banished all thought of her unfaithfulness, all reproach for the blow he had suffered. That day, for the first time, he had written to her. It had been a hard thing to do, because he realised how kindness, understanding even, would hurt her. But it was not possible to go through life with a barrier of silence separating lives that had such great memories in common, when the morning hours had been so bright for them. He had even referred to meeting again, feeling in his heart there was nothing to forbid it; and when he had written to Vernley, he had spoken of a "phase." The very word hurt him as he wrote, but it was a surgery he had to perform, and this great distance made it easier.

Rising, he retraced his steps towards the camp. He had just entered the shade of the grove, when something suddenly tensed his whole being into an attitude of listening. His heart beat, and the blood in his veins pulsed through a breathless pause. Yes, he had heard aright. Once again on the still night air it swelled and died, the old, never-to-be-forgotten, age-enduring drone of the _saz_, beaten in the Turkish trenches. Listening there, alert, his face turned to the moon-bathed valley. He was a boy again, the old impulse upon him. As a dream, his years fell from him. This was Amasia and the moon peered into the gorge, silvering the weirs of the old stream. Louder and louder, changeless and potent as ever, the night air pulsated with the immortal music of the East. He turned and went towards it, then halted with a short laugh at the strangeness of it all, a medley of thoughts dancing through his brain to those exotic strains, thoughts of deserted khans, crowded bazaars, a cowering Armenian, the tragic dumb eyes of a Turkish boy, and another boy, in a book-lined room playing a piano.

Then a voice suddenly cut sharply across the whispered suggestion of the night.

"Dean!" it rang.

"Here--coming!" answered John, shivering with a nervous chill. He blundered across the stubble, scratching his bare knees. The figure of Sanderson loomed out of the darkness.

"Good heavens, Dean, I thought you'd been kidnapped--it's twelve o'clock and we're off at four."

Sanderson had come up close now, and John's face shone clear and blanched in the moonlight. Its expression alarmed the younger man.

"I say--what's the matter?--you look hypnotised!"

"Rubbish," John laughed uneasily. "I'm cold, that's all."

They walked back to the tent in silence and turned in.

II

It seemed only a few minutes later that the batman awakened them in the dark tent. Outside there was a movement of feet and voices coming from the darkness. Hastily John and Sanderson dressed, in warm things this time, for the morning air was very cold. All the machines were out of the canvas hangars, lined up for the flight. There were muffled figures and voices. The mechanics stood by; there was an intermittent roar of an engine as it started up and died down again.

Sanderson climbs into his seat, John following. This first five minutes is trying to the nerves, his fingers are cold and he shivers slightly. They have said good-bye to the Wing Commander who has wished them good luck. Some will not return again, but their thoughts do not dwell on the fact.

Sanderson turns his head and smiles.

"All right, Dean?" he calls.

"Yes."

The propeller in front moves round slowly and the engine fires and begins with a roaring noise. Now the propeller has vanished as it gathers speed and they can see ahead, across the clearing, to the orange groves and the blue ridge of moonlit mountains. The mechanics are wheeling the machine round for the run down the field, the engine is tested with them hanging on to the wings, Sanderson waves his hands, they let go. They are off. Imperceptibly they lift from the ground up into the cold air of the moonlit night. The grey-blue country spreads around them. The stars have vanished with a paling moon; to the east the silver of the dawn creeps over a black ridge. The low flat roofs of Jaffa are dimly visible, here and there they catch a glimpse of moonlight rippling on the sea. They are facing the wind, but the roar of the engine is no longer audible, lulled by the perpetuity of the sound. The coast line grows more distant as their eyes become accustomed to the light. But dawn is breaking rapidly. They are flying, for the present, until the enemy lines are reached, in close formation; to the left and right, like grey birds, soar the other aeroplanes. In a few minutes they will cross the enemy's lines, over which they will have to deploy and run the gauntlet of anti-aircraft fire. Their crossing is well-timed, for dawn is advancing.

"We're over--do you hear?" cried Sanderson.

Far below came on the wind a familiar sound.

_Ratatatattatatatatat!_

It was machine gun fire trying to find them in the darkness above. They were flying down wind now and had lost their companions. The altimeter registered 8,000 feet. And then suddenly the world was transformed. From a cloud-bank the sun emerged with a triumphant blaze of yellow light. John saw the light, like a live thing, go streaming over the hills and valleys below, flooding in a thousand hues the objects of day. Behind them now, to the left, Jaffa, with its white houses, sparkled on the edge of a blue expanse of sea, wind-furrowed. Back on the left like a dull mirror, lay the ghostly outline of the Dead Sea, with the barren hills of Judæa. The coloured contours leapt up below them, the brown face of the grain-land, the grey villages, the green patches of woodland. A silver spear shot athwart a green-gold valley, where the Jordan twisted southwards to the Dead Sea. From the sand dunes of the coast to the Jordan basin a series of brown scars cut the earth's face.

"That's the last enemy line!" called Sanderson, pointing down. "They will be about, somewhere, now," and obedient to his wish, the machine lifted her nose and climbed to 12,000 feet. Already the change in temperature was noticeable. John had discarded his hat and tunic and sat in shirt sleeves, the wind blowing through his hair. They were traversing the desolate hill-region of Lower Samaria with Nazareth, highly situated to the West, and were now nearing the wild ravines where they would find the Ferweh-Balata road. John's heart beat quicker at the approach of the desperate moment. Far off, to the north, a bright light flashed. John noticed it twice before he called Sanderson's attention to it.

"What is it?" asked Sanderson. "A helio?"

"I don't know."

Again it flashed.

"I've got it!" cried John, putting his finger on the map. "It's the Sea of Galilee."

The next moment there floated up to them the sound of a dull report.

"That's a bomb--we've found 'em! Look out, I'm going to sweep--they're in one of these ravines. We ought to pick up the road here."

The wind sang down the planes as they banked and dropped, the country-side slowly revolved as if on a disc.

"There!" cried John, pointing to a white, ribbon-like road threading a deep gorge. "Look--it's choked with transport!"

An aeroplane ahead hovered like a hawk, then, as if inert, fell to within two hundred feet of the road, dropping its bombs.

Boom! Boom!

There were two clouds of dust high over which the swerving aeroplane swept.

_Ratatatatatatatatat!_--whirred its machine gun, ere the bird of death leapt skywards again.

Below on the blocked road, pandemonium broke loose. The mules reared amid a debris of destroyed wagons; some of the drivers deserted their seats and ran up the steep hillsides looking for shelter. The transport in front backed, the transport behind pressed forward, the line swayed, bulged and writhed in confusion and noise. A second aeroplane swooped and increased the panic. The road was now heaped with dead and dying men and horses, abandoned lorries, guns, carts and motor cars. There was no place of refuge in that pitiless gorge.

"Are you ready?" called Sanderson.

John's hand sought the bomb release lever.

"Yes."

The next moment they had nose-dived; at the bottom of the dive, Sanderson would pull out John waited for the moment, his eye on the bomb-sight through which the road seemed leaping up to meet them. Suddenly, the wind caught the rigid planes as the machine pulled out of the dive. Now!

John saw the two bombs go, turn over, fall in the distance; then a pause, with the air singing in their ears and--

Boom! Boom!

They were now climbing joyously. Their companion, for some strange reason, had turned to the west and was circling wide.

"What's he doing?" asked Sanderson, but the question was answered a moment later when three enemy aircraft, their wings black-crossed, emerged suddenly from a cloud-bank.

_Ratatatatatatatatat! ratatatat! ratatatatat!_ went several machine guns.

Sanderson turned and climbed towards the trio swooping down upon the lonely prey. But his man[oe]uvre was seen. Two of the enemy planes detached themselves and turned to meet the aggressor.

"Phillips can look after himself," called Sanderson, but his optimism changed when a fourth enemy machine came out of the clouds. It was four to two now. Still Sanderson climbed. His machine was faster than theirs. John saw his intention--to make an Immelmann turn and get underneath the enemy and rake him with machine gun fire.

At the top of the climb there was a sudden _ratatata!_ which sounded in their ears, ominously near. It came from above them, a fifth machine emerging from a cloud-bank, at a distance of eighty yards. John felt a sudden buffet, as though the wind had struck him, Sanderson's hand shot out to his gun, and there was an answering burst of firing, full into the belly of the machine above. It fell swiftly out of control with a wounded or dead pilot.

"Oh, good! Good!" yelled John.

Sanderson turned with a swift smile of triumph, ere tackling the machine below, but his smile changed to a look of concern.

"Dean--you're hit!"

"Hit?" echoed John, and looked down. His shirt was wet with blood. He plunged his hand into the open neck. A thin stream welled out from the left breast. Yet he had felt nothing. He was about to reassure Sanderson, when a sudden burst of firing broke on his ears. The next moment, with a fearful roar, a machine swept over them, the sparks from the exhaust trailing behind like a comet's tail. They swerved, climbed, and then fell. Down they went, leaving the enemy above; down, with an increasing roar of the wind, as they gathered momentum. Ten thousand, nine thousand, eight thousand, louder roared the wind, and John caught a glimpse of the country below as it leapt to meet them. It seemed incredible that the planes could stand this strain. Every moment he expected the machine to open up, but Sanderson knew his work; he was safe in his hands. They were falling still. Surely only three thousand feet now? Wasn't Sanderson cutting it rather fine. He could see his head in front, familiar and reassuring. Two thousand!

"Sanderson!" John called. He had no right to, of course, but something impelled him. The roar of the wind carried his voice away.

"Sanderson!"

Loud, this time, yet the head of the pilot did not move.

"Sanderson!" screamed John.

A sudden swerve, and the machine shuddered from wing tip to tail. He Was pulling out at last. No! they falling again. John stretched forward, dizzy now with loss of blood.

"Sander--"

The cry was unfinished. Sanderson lay with his head inert on the side of the fuselage. They were out of control! Faint, John fell back; the wind screamed in his ears as they swept to earth.