His papers identified him; the operator gave him his connection; they switched him to the headquarters of his air squadron, where he made his report. "Shot down?" came the sharp exclamation over the wire. "Yes, sir, about eleven-thirty this morning on the north edge of Nivelle forest." "The machine?" "Done for, sir. They have it." "You?" "A scratch--nothing. I had to run." "What else have you to report?" The airman made his brief report in an unemotional voice. Ending it, he asked permission to volunteer for a special service. And for ten minutes the officer at the other end of the wire listened to a proposition which interested him intensely. When the airman finished, the officer said: "Wait till I relay this matter." For a quarter of an hour the airman waited. Finally the operator half turned on his camp chair and made a gesture for him to resume the receiver. "If you choose to volunteer for such service," came the message, "it is approved. But understand--you are not ordered on such duty." "I understand. I volunteer." "Very well. Munitions go to you immediately by automobile. It is expected that the wind will blow from the west by morning. By morning, also, all reserves will arrive in the west salient. What is to be your signal?" "The carillon from the Nivelle belfry." "What tune?" "’La Brabançonne.’ If not that, then the tocsin on the great bell, Clovis." ------------------ In the tiny café the crippled innkeeper sat, his aged, wistful eyes watching three leather-clad airmen who had been whispering together around a table in the corner all the afternoon. They nodded in silence to the new arrival, and he joined them. Daylight faded in the room; the drum in the Sainte Lesse belfry, set to play before the hour sounded, began to turn aloft; the silvery notes of the carillon seemed to shower down from the sky, filling the twilight world with angelic melody. Then, in resonant beauty, the great bell, Bayard, measured the hour. The airman who had just arrived went to a sink, washed the caked blood from his face and tied it up with a first-aid bandage. Then he began to pace the café, his head bent in thought, his nervous hands clasped behind him. The room was dusky when he came back to the table where his three comrades still sat consulting in whispers. The old innkeeper had fallen asleep on his chair by the window. There was no light in the room except what came from stars. "Well," said one of the airmen in a carefully modulated voice, "what are you going to do, Jim?" "Stay." "What’s the idea?" The bandaged airman rested both hands on the stained table-top: "We quit Nivelle tonight, but our reserves are already coming up and we are to retake Nivelle tomorrow. You flew over the town this morning, didn’t you?" All three said yes. "You took photographs?" "Certainly." "Then you know that our trenches pass under the bell-tower?" "Yes."