On the left the line of the sand-dunes edges the misty sweep of the sea. In the north a strange sign is in the skies. Great streaks of white vapour, resembling moonlit clouds, stream from the horizon towards the zenith, spreading like the ribs of a fan. This beautiful vision of vast scarves of light, motionless and majestic, hangs over the sea with a splendid nobility, and, as we discover later, it is the sublime Aurora Borealis. Following up the stretch of sand-dunes I see near the lines the twinkling lights in the hutments near Coxyde, and at the Nieuport piers the occasional flash of a gun and the red burst of a shell. Here and there along the floods rise and fall the tremulous star-shells. To the right Ypres flickers and flashes, stabbing the horizon with incessant daggers of flame. When we are about seven miles from the trenches I crawl into the back and press hard forward the fusing lever, which draws the safety-pins from the bombs hanging in rows behind us. I tie up the lever with string to make sure that it will not slip, and resume my seat beside the pilot. We approach Furnes, and, as we expect, we see a pale white beam of light leaping upwards in front of us, and vanish, and leap up again and again--as it flashes the challenging letter of the night. "All right! I'll give them a green!" I say to the pilot as I load the Very's light pistol and fire it over the side. A green light drops, and dies. Again the thin beam of light flashes its anxious challenge towards us. "Curse! I'm not going to fire another! Surely they can see us!" I say irritably, having been rather worried by these searchlights before. "Go on, Bewsh! You'd better fire another--they'll start shelling us!" comments the pilot. Meanwhile the searchlight, having received no satisfactory answer to its inquiry, apparently, remains in the sky, where it is joined by its two watery brothers who move querulously to and fro within half a mile of us. "Go on! Fire a light!" says the pilot. "Oh, I'm fed up with these fools! It will only give warning to the Germans. They won't find us! It's a waste of lights!" "Fire a light--and don't talk!" orders the pilot. I do so with an ill grace, muttering under my breath. The searchlights do not go out, and, assisted by our green light, sweep on to the machine. The pilot begins to get really angry. "Hell to them! What is the matter? Look at them--right on the machine. Fire a green, and keep on firing them! They are giving away our course and position. I'll get some devil shot for this when I land ... give them another ... that's right! What is the matter with them?" So he storms on, ablaze with a natural anger. The searchlights lose us. We are now about three miles from the lines, so the pilot presses a switch on the dashboard, which extinguishes the wing and tail navigation lamps.