"Didn't you see our Very lights?" I asked almost rudely. "Didn't you see us flashing signals? I signalled Rockets--rockets--rockets--till my hand ached! We got lost. We were going to land on the beach. Why didn't you help us?" "We _wondered_ what you were doing. We saw you firing lights on the other side of Dunkerque! But, I say, things have been humming here since you left!" I can find no admiring audience for the experiences of the raid. Every one is eager to describe the German attack. "By Jove! you were lucky to be away to-night!" says one. "They've been bombing us ever since you left. They must have dropped a couple of hundred during the night. No damage was done. The C.O. nearly got hit. He lay flat and one burst on either side of him. All the time you were bombing them they were bombing us!" No one wants to hear our adventures. It is human nature all over again. They want to tell us what happened to them. "Off Ostend we saw one of their patrols. It had a whacking big----" "But you should have heard them whistling. Bob and I were talking outside the mess, when suddenly we heard----" "We got over the clouds coming back. You ought to have seen the----" "You've _missed_ something, ... and I reckon you're lucky! The noise was terrible!" And so on, and so on goes the one-sided conversation of the two self-centred groups! So ended a raid which is to my mind very unsatisfactory. I realise that we have to learn by experience, and I feel that to-night I have been taught a great deal. I am determined to have the bomb-sight and bomb-handle fitted in the front cockpit, so that with a splendid field of vision I can steer the pilot by the direct wave of my hand, by means of which I will be able to show emphasis or the reverse. The personal touch is essential. I will also be able to watch the enemy's defences and to counter them as much as possible. In my next chapter I hope to show how this worked out in practice, and what it was like to attack a volcano such as Bruges. VI. BRUGES. "Sleep on, pale Bruges, beneath the waning moon, For I must desecrate your silence soon, And with my bombs' fierce roar and fiercer fire Grim terror in your tired heart inspire; For I must wake your children in their beds And send the sparrows fluttering on the leads." --_The Bombing of Bruges._ Overhead sounds the beating of many engines, and here and there across the stars I can see moving lights. The first two or three machines are already up. The carry-on signal has been given. A machine which has just left the aerodrome passes a few hundred feet overhead with a roar and a rush. Its dark shape blots out the stars, and I can see the long blue flames pouring back from the exhaust-pipes of the engines. I walk along the dim path and a shadowy figure meets me. "Is that you, Dowsing?" I ask, recognising my servant. "Yes, sir!"