The five of us took our posts on the same balcony, where we had a superb view. Way to the left was the Eiffel Tower, invisible at that distance, but certainly one of the goals of any air attack on account of being the greatest wireless station. To the north lay the Place de la Concorde, with the heads of the Inter-Allied Conference resting, perhaps uneasily, in the Hôtel Crillon. All the way to the Place d'Italie, in the extreme east, we had the panorama of the sky, and you may believe there were five pairs of eyes that never missed a flash or a light. We counted as many as fifteen aeroplanes at once, flying in groups of threes or fours or widely separated. How thrilling to think that every little light meant a warm living, thinking, human being straining to the utmost--some for defense--some for destruction. We made wild speculations--were they French or Boche? Why should any have lights? The Boches must certainly want to come unobserved, and the French must certainly want to chase them without being seen. How can either side tell which is friend and which is enemy, lights or no lights? How can even an anti-aircraft gun hope to hit a tiny moving plane way up in the air? How can a moving plane hit another in the dark? Which of the deep booms were guns and which bombs? [Illustration: The Air Raid on Paris on the Night of January 30, 1918] This thought was dreadful. Bombs actually being dropped in the suburbs of Paris on buildings, on our friends, on the refugees, on anybody. Suddenly a flash lit up the Place--the trees stood silhouetted against a red glare and an explosion thundered out. It seemed just across the Place. I never shall forget it. We thought of the garage with the three Fords sleeping peacefully in it--but the flash was certainly farther to the left than Boulevard Saint-Jacques. We were speculating as to how far away in feet and inches it had hit, when bang! bang!--more bombs: funniest thing--we all took a backward step into Hannah's room. We saw a plane with a red light on it--certainly a Boche--fire his mitrailleuse and then down fell another bomb. It was fascinating to see him so plainly, but as the sound of his engine became louder and we could see him flying towards us, one charge of fear went through me. To feel that an enemy is flying right over you, ready any second to drop a bomb that will blow you and Marje and people you love and the house and the street and everything to flinders; to know that you can't do anything--that not even pulling the bedclothes up over your head is sure protection; to have to wait, wait, wait while you hear that throbbing motor, and then wait again to see whether he'll let go that instant or not--well, as Marje says, "It may be all right for the soldiers, but I feel distinctly like 'women and children.'"