"You did jolly well, old man. You'll get something for this--if we land
safely!"
I wonder what his conditional clause will be when we are on the
ground--"if you live to get it"--probably!
Soon the welcome landing T glows far below us. We fire our white light:
at once the white light rises from below. "Charlie," the raid officer,
is faithfully on the watch, as he must have been now for long hours,
awaiting our return.
We glide downwards, and in a moment of exultation the pilot, to my
everlasting regard for him, sweeps a few feet over the aerodrome,
yelling with me in utter excitement--
"_Horray! Horray! Horray! Horray!_"
I lean far over the side screaming out my joy in this mad whirling rush
over the grass. On roar the engines: we sweep swiftly upwards again, and
turn, and land.
As soon as the machine has stopped crowds press round us. A Ford car is
waiting to take us over to the headquarters.
"Oh! Damn good," says the pilot. "We hit it--but I take no credit for
it. It was this child's show--he did it!"
"Bilge! You were great, sir. I never saw such steering!"
In the jolting little car we whirl across a bridge, alongside the canal,
and across a second bridge to my beloved camp, and our beloved C.O.
His words of congratulation at the news would be reward for a hundred
such trips.
"Well!" he says at last, "I suppose you did it by compass!"
"No, sir! By landmarks!"
When at last I walk back alone, under the starlit sky, to my cabin, it
seems utterly impossible to believe that I _have_ been actually to
Namur--that I have actually travelled over three hundred miles since I
last walked along that path a few hours ago. It seems incredible that
my soft right hand has actually this night caused damage and brought
death to that far, far remote place, which even now is in a state of
confusion. Vividly I realise the amazing wonder of flying; vividly I
feel the strange fascination of night-bombing, with its long journeys
and sense of domination--its sense of being almost divine.