The two French flying boats sped to the rescue and alighted in the water beside the wrecked British machine. One embarked the observer, who was wounded, and, in spite of redoubled fire from the shore, succeeded in returning safely. The other French flying-boat actually embarked the remaining occupants of the bombing machine, but was hit as it rose from the water and fell disabled. The French pilot, seeing a Boche seaplane approaching, and a bevy of small craft in-shore coming out against them, scribbled a message to say that his venture had failed; he found time to add, however, with true Gallic dauntlessness of spirit, “Vive la France!” This missive he fastened to the leg of his carrier pigeon, and succeeded in releasing it before rescuers and rescued were taken prisoners. From time to time curt official announcements of successful bomb-raids upon German destroyer and submarine bases appear in the press. It may be that the Naval honours or casualties lists are swelled thereby. But no one who has not stood in the wind that blows across the bombers’ aerodrome at night, in those last tense moments before the start, can form any idea of the conditions under which these grim laurels are earned. One by one the leather-clad pilots conclude their final survey and climb up into their machines. They adjust goggles and gloves: there is a warning “Stand clear!” and the darkness fills with roaring sound as No. 1 starts his engine. For a moment longer he sits in the utter isolation of darkness and the deafening noise of his own engine. No further sounds can reach him; not another order nor the valedictory “Good luck!” from those whose lot it is to only stand and wait. He settles himself comfortably and fingers the familiar levers and throttle; then with a jerk the bomber starts along the uneven ground, gathers way, and rising, speeds droning into the darkness like a gigantic cockchafer. A moment later No. 2 follows, then another, and another. The night swallows them, and the sound of their engines dies away. A couple of hours later in one of the grey-painted huts that fringe the aerodrome a telephone bell jangles. The squadron commander picks up the receiver and holds converse with a tiny metallic voice that sounds very far away; the conversation ends, he puts on his cap and goes out into the darkness; a few minutes later a sudden row of lights across the aerodrome makes bright pin-pricks in the darkness. From far away in the air comes the hum of an engine growing momentarily louder. It grows louder and clearer as the homing machine circles overhead and finally comes to earth with a rushing wind and the scramble of men’s feet invisible. The pilot climbs stiffly out of his seat, pushing up his goggles, and puckers his eyes in the light of the lanterns as he fumbles for his cigarette case. “Got ’em,” he says laconically. “Seaplane sheds on the mole. Time for another trip?”