“No, couldn’t understand,” said Jones in some surprise at the other’s agitation. “They’re French, I suppose; farm people, most like.”
“It was _German_,” said Reddie hurriedly. “There again, hear that? _We’ve dropped in Hunland._”
“Hu-Hunland!” stammered Jones; then desperately, “It can’t be. You sure it isn’t French—Flemish, perhaps?”
“Flemish—here,” said Reddie, dismissing the idea, as Jones admitted he might well do, so far south in the line. “I know little enough German, but I know French well enough; and that’s not French. We’re done in, Walk.”
“Couldn’t we bolt for it,” said Walk, looking hurriedly round. “It’s dark, and we know where the lines are.”
“What hope of getting through them?” said Reddie, speaking in quick whispers. “But we’ve got a better way. We’ll make a try. Here, quickly, and quiet as you can—get to the prop and swing it when I’m ready. We’ll chance a dash for it.”
Both knew the chances against them, knew that in front of the machine might lie a ditch, a tree, a hedge, a score of things that would trip them as they taxied to get speed to rise; they knew too that the Germans were coming closer every moment, that they might be on them before they could get the engine started, that they would probably start shooting at the first sound of her start. All these things and a dozen others raced through their minds in an instant; but neither hesitated, both moved promptly and swiftly. Reddie clambered up and into his seat; Walk Jones jumped to the propeller, and began to wind it backwards to “suck in” the petrol to the cylinders. “When she starts, jump to the wing-tip and try ’n’ swing her round,” called Reddie in quick low tones. “It’ll check her way. Then you must jump for it, and hang on and climb in as we go. Yell when you’re aboard. All ready now.”
A shout came out of the darkness—a shout and an obvious question in German. “Contact,” said Walk Jones, and swung the propeller his hardest. He heard the whirr of the starter as Reddie twirled it rapidly. “Off,” called Jones as he saw the engine was not giving sign of life, and “Off” answered Reddie, cutting off the starting current.
Another shout came, and with it this time what sounded like an imperative command. Reddie cursed his lack of knowledge of German. He could have held them in play a minute if—— “Contact,” came Walk’s voice again. “Contact,” he answered, and whirled the starter madly again. There was still no movement, no spark of life from the engine. Reddie groaned, and Walk Jones, sweating despite the cold over his exertions on the propeller, wound it back again and swung it forward with all his weight. His thick leather coat hampered him. He tore it off and flung it to the ground, and tried again.