"You'll get something for this--if we cross the lines all right!" he says with his usual restrained optimism. Charleroi sparkles on our left. Near it at La Louvière flashes an aerial lighthouse, whose presence I record on my note-book. Having found our way to Namur by map, we seem to return by a curious kind of homing instinct. We know where we are as if by second nature. Indeed so little do I trouble that I mistake Courtrai for Roulers, but it makes but little difference. Such confidence have I in our safety, so lovely is the moon-drenched night, so friendly are the undefended skies, that we fly on and on as in a stupor of utter bliss. We know that if we return we are famous, and we know we will return. Song and laughter, and rich thoughts of far-distant London and its proffered glories when next comes leave, fill my drowsy brain. I hug the pilot's arm affectionately. At twelve o'clock he was at Dover, now scarcely eleven hours after he is coming back from Namur. How wonderful it is--how wonderful he is! Ypres flickers to the left with its ever uneasy artillery fire. In our ease we do not even trouble to cross the lines as soon as possible, but fly on parallel to them, some five miles on the German side. At last we turn and cross slowly over the white blossoms of the ever-rising, ever-drooping star-shells. Back towards Dunkerque we fly, and the pilot says over again to me-- "You did jolly well, old man. You'll get something for this--if we land safely!" I wonder what his conditional clause will be when we are on the ground--"if you live to get it"--probably! Soon the welcome landing T glows far below us. We fire our white light: at once the white light rises from below. "Charlie," the raid officer, is faithfully on the watch, as he must have been now for long hours, awaiting our return. We glide downwards, and in a moment of exultation the pilot, to my everlasting regard for him, sweeps a few feet over the aerodrome, yelling with me in utter excitement-- "_Horray! Horray! Horray! Horray!_" I lean far over the side screaming out my joy in this mad whirling rush over the grass. On roar the engines: we sweep swiftly upwards again, and turn, and land. As soon as the machine has stopped crowds press round us. A Ford car is waiting to take us over to the headquarters. "Oh! Damn good," says the pilot. "We hit it--but I take no credit for it. It was this child's show--he did it!" "Bilge! You were great, sir. I never saw such steering!" In the jolting little car we whirl across a bridge, alongside the canal, and across a second bridge to my beloved camp, and our beloved C.O. His words of congratulation at the news would be reward for a hundred such trips. "Well!" he says at last, "I suppose you did it by compass!" "No, sir! By landmarks!"