The targets were about a yard square and, as I watched, an aeroplane rose wheeling high above them. All at once the hum of the engine was lost in the sharp, fierce rattle of a machine gun; and ever as the biplane banked and wheeled the machine gun crackled. From every angle and from every point of the compass these bullets were aimed, and examining the targets afterwards I was amazed to see how many hits had been registered. After this they brought me to the workshops where many mechanics were busied; they showed me, among other grim relics, C.'s broken machine gun and perforated cartridge-tray. They told me many stories of daring deeds performed by other members of the squadron, but when I asked them to describe their own experiences, I found them diffident and monosyllabic. "Hallo!" exclaimed C., as we stepped out into the air, "here comes the Major. He's in that cloud--know the sound of his engine." Sure enough, out from a low-lying cloud-bank he came, wheeling in short spirals, plunging earthward. Down sank the aeroplane, the roaring engine fell silent, roared again, and she sped towards us, her wheels within a foot or so of earth. Finally they touched, the engine stopped, and the witch-lamb pulled up within a few feet of us. Hereupon the Major waved a gauntleted hand to us. "Must stop to lunch," he cried, "I've ordered soup, you know." But this being impossible, we perforce said good-bye to these warm-hearted, simple-souled fighting men, a truly regrettable farewell so far as I was concerned. They escorted us to the car, and there parted from us with many frank expressions of regard and stood side by side to watch us out of sight. "Yesterday there was much aerial activity on our front. "Depôts were successfully bombed and five enemy machines were forced to descend, three of them in flames. Four of ours did not return." I shall never read these oft recurring lines in the communiqués without thinking of those three youthful figures, so full of life and the joy of life, who watched us depart that dull and cloudy morning. Here is just one other story dealing with three seasoned air-fighters, veterans of many deadly combats high above the clouds, each of whom has more than one victory to his credit, and whose combined ages total up to sixty or thereabouts. We will call them X., Y. and Z. Now X. is an American, Y. is an Englishman, whose peach-like countenance yet bears the newly healed scar of a bullet wound, and Z. is an Afrikander. Here begins the story:--