Too late. We hit the edge of a cliff; bounce back several feet into the air, then sink down on to the beach below. Another crash, again we are bundled and bounced about in the confined space of the car. The sand gets in our ears and eyes and mouths. The balloon lies along the sand a woebegotten shape, as flat as a pancake. When we eventually sort ourselves out, we find luckily, that there is but one casualty: a broken wrist, sustained by the foolish idiot that ripped! Just retribution! And to end the adventure, a stolid British policeman, ponderous official-looking note-book in hand, approaches and demands our names and addresses, and asks if we are of British nationality! CHAPTER XIV THE BATTLE OF THE WOOD _Flanders, Wednesday._ Somewhere in the north of France there is a little wood. It is about half a mile square in area, and stands immediately south of a fine, broad highroad, along which there daily pass large bodies of reinforcements, infantry and cavalry, and convoys bringing up ammunition and supplies. The tall trees offer a welcome shade in the hot weather, and it was the custom for passing troops to halt there for a short time; and just at the spot the roadside was always well littered with broken bottles. Needless to state, it was in German territory. However, had it not been for that road, and for the fact that on this certain day, when the road had been closed to all traffic, there were certain mysterious movements of ponderous great wagons, suspiciously like ammunition wagons, which halted in the shade of the wood, this story would never have been written. The day was hot, and the work was heavy, and _mein herr captain_ paused for a moment to curse his uncongenial task, and take a long draught from his water bottle, of some liquor that certainly was not water. In the midst thereof he let it fall with a curse of rage and surprise, for there overhead, as if it had suddenly appeared from the clouds, was the form of a British aeroplane. “Himmel,” he exclaimed, “all our trouble wasted, they have our hiding spot discovered, and to-morrow morning they bomb us--ach!” The worthy gentleman was not far out in his deduction, for the lynx-eye of the observer in the aeroplane had carefully noted the exact geographical position of that new ammunition park, before the machine sped off homewards. But he was wrong to a certain extent; our Flying Corps are no fools, and they realized that Mr. Bosche would soon expect a return visit, and would be fully prepared therefor. This course was, therefore, useless to them; it was essential that that ammunition park must be destroyed, but in a manner and at a time the Germans least expected, and this is how it was accomplished.