One after one now the twin-engined machines come roaring up the coast. One after one they lay across the docks their deadly line of bombs. Fire after fire is started, and in many places beyond the roofs can be seen the red glow of the flames. Each attacker in turn is greeted with the useless activity of the searchlights and the erratic flashes of scattered shells. "Mournful Mary" wails and wails in miserable and unavailing fear. One after one the great bombers, lightened of their loads, sail lightly homewards to rest in the distant aerodromes of Ghistelles or Mariaalter, followed, to be frank, with our congratulations on their success, for we have too much a fellow-feeling with them to wish them ill on their dangerous journeys. It may seem strange, but if it was reported that eight Gothas had been lost on a raid in England, the instinctive feeling was-- "Rotten! Poor devils! This job is getting dangerous!" If all returned safely, however, we felt-- "Good! Good! Things are not so bad after all! The job looks like staying pretty safe!" Now some one reports that he can see the lights of a machine far away near the coast. A renewed activity moves through the quiet band of watchers. "White light, sir!" chants the look-out. Through the silver skies falls slowly a ball of glittering white fire. There is a short report, and from the upturned pistol of the raid officer a white light shoots upwards and falls in a graceful curve. Louder and louder grows the sound of the motors of the returning Handley-Page. The red and green lights on its wings can be clearly seen. Then the throbbing sound dies, the lights turn and vanish, and for a time the sky is silent and empty. A faint hissing is heard, the lights reappear, and then a dazzling glare breaks out in the sky, lighting up the underside of the Wing to which it is attached. Lower and lower floats the machine. Every eye is fixed intently on it as it draws nearer and nearer the aerodrome. An excited officer, whose invariable habit it is to land mentally each machine, begins to utter his hurried words of advice. "Now then, Andy!" he says, "shove your engines on, boy! Shove your engines on! That's right! Pull her back! Hold her! Over the telegraph wires! Throttle! Throttle...! _Throttle!_ That's right! Hold her back! Hold ... her ... back! Gently! Gently! You're really on the ground, boy! Take care--you're all right! Gently! On the ground! Thank God you're safe!" With a triumphant roar from the engines, the machine sweeps round and rolls up to the hangar. We crowd round the nose and greet the furred and helmeted airmen as they climb down from the bottom of the great machine. "Yes! Dropped on Zeebrugge! Hell of a time! Caught three times! Yes! Lots of Archie! Green balls nearly hit my tail! Yes! Ten on the mole! Coming into the mess, Bill?"