through their fabrics, the attacked light glaring savagely at them
until they swept with a rush and a roar over and past it. Behind them
more of the Flight were arriving, and a fresh series of bomb-bursts
was spouting and splashing on the ground about the enemy machines and
amongst the hangars round the 'drome. A hangar was hit fairly; a lick
of flame ran along its roof, died a moment, rose again in a quivering
banner of fire, and in another moment was a roaring blaze. The whole
'drome was lit with the red glow, and into this and through the rolling
smoke clouds that drifted from the fire machine after machine came
swooping and circling. The fire made a beacon that marked the spot
from miles around, and the Night-Fliers had nothing to do but steer
straight for it to find their target. The Leader's machine, with
ammunition almost expended, climbed high and circled round watching
the performance, Pilot and Observer yelling delighted remarks at each
other as they watched bomb after bomb smash fairly amongst the hangars
or the scattered line of machines standing on the 'drome. It was on
these machines that most of the Night-Fliers concentrated. Huge black
twin-engined "Gotha" machines, something over a dozen of them in a
row, they made a plain and unmistakable target in the red light of
the fire, and an irresistible invitation to any of the Night-Fliers
that came swooping in. One after another they came booming out of the
darkness into the circle of red light, swung ponderously and drove in
along over the line, scattering bombs down its length, raking it from
end to end with machine-gun fire. The whole place was a pandemonium of
smoke, fire, and noise. The search-lights jerked and swept frantically
to and fro, the air shook to the explosion of the bombs, the splitting
crash of the Archie guns and bang of their shell-bursts, the continuous
clatter of machine-guns on the ground and in the air. Several times
machines were caught in the search-lights and swam for the moment
bathed in staring light, while Archies and machine-guns pelted them
with fire. Most of them stunted and dodged clear very quickly, or
had to give in and escape to the outer darkness, circle and wait and
take another chance to edge in clear of the blinding light and the
uprushing streams of tracer bullets. One was turned back time after
time by the defences and by another search-light which clung to him
persistently, and would not be shaken off for more than a moment by
all his dodging and twisting. Suddenly over by the light there sprang
a volcano of flame and smoke--and the light was gone. Up above in the
Leader's machine the two men were yelling laughter and applause, when
they saw another machine swim into the glare of another light. She
made no attempt to dodge or evade it, struck a bee-line for the row of
Hun machines, droned straightly and steadily in and along the line,
her bombs crashing amongst them, a sputter of flashes at her bows
telling of the machine-gun hard at work putting the finishing touches
to the destruction. The light followed her and held her all the way,
and through its beam the streaking smoke of the tracer bullets poured
incessantly, the shell-bursts flamed and flung billowing clouds of
black smoke, the rocket fires reached and clutched at her. Utterly
ignoring them all, she held on to the end of the line, banked and
swung sharply round, and began to retrace her path, still held in the
glaring light, still pelted with storming bullets and Archie shells.
But halfway back she lurched suddenly and violently, recovered herself,
swerved again, reeled, and, in one quick wild swooping plunge, was
down, and crashed. A spurt of flame jumped from the wreckage, and in
two seconds it was furiously ablaze.
Up above Pilot and Observer shouted questions at each other--"Who
was it ... What 'bus ... did you see ...?" And neither could answer
the other. The search-lights rose and began to hunt, apparently, for
them, and Archie shells to bump and blaze about them again. Out to the
west search-lights and sparkling Archie bursts showed where the other
machines were making for home. The Observer waved to his Pilot. "Only
us left," he shouted, and the Pilot nodded, swung the machine round,
and headed for the lines.
Back at their 'drome they found the Squadron Commander beside them
before they had well taxied to a standstill. "I was getting anxious,"
he said; "you were first away, but all the others are back--except
three. And here some of them come," he added, as they caught the hum of
an engine. "One ... two," he counted quickly. "That will be all," said
the Leader. "We saw one crash," and described briefly.
The two climbed out of their machine and walked slowly over with the
C.O. to some of the other Fliers. None of them had seen the crash;
all had dropped their bombs, loosed off all the rounds they could,
and cleared out of the pelting fire as quickly as possible. All were
agreed, most emphatically agreed, that the line of Gothas was a
"complete write-off," and were jubilant over the night's work--until
they heard of the lost machine.
As the two machines dropped to ground and past the light switched on
them a moment all there read their marks and named them. "Bad Girl of
the Family" flounced lightly in, and "That leaves The Bantam's bus
and old 'Latchkey' to come," said the waiting men. "Here she is ...
Latchkey!" There was silence for a moment.
"I might have known," said the Leader slowly--"might have known that
was little Bantam's bus, by the way he barged in, regardless. It was
just like him. Poor little Bantam--and good old Happy! Two more of the
best gone."
The C.O. knew The Bantam's mother and was thinking of her and the
letter he would have to write presently. He roused himself with a jerk.
"Come along," he said; "you've another trip to-night, remember. See you
make it help pay for those two."
"They've gone a goodish way to pay their own score," said the Leader
grimly. "And some others. Anyway, that lot will do no raid on London
to-night."
* * * * *
The Squadron was drowsily swallowing hot cocoa, completing reports and
lurching to bed, when the stout man clambered to his usual corner seat
in the First Smoker and gave his usual morning greeting to the others
there bound for business.
"Well," he said jovially, "no Gothas over after all."
"Never even made a try, apparently," said the little man opposite.
"Seems odd. Such a perfect night."
"Very odd." ... "Wonder why...." "I made sure," said the compartment.
"I don't understand...."
They didn't understand. Neither did a-many thousands in London who had
been equally certain of "Gothas over" on such a perfect night. Neither
even did they understand in the homes of "poor little Bantam" and "good
old Happy," whither telegrams were already wending, addressed to the
next-of-kin.
But the Huns understood. And so did the Raid-Killers.
When you pray and hear them say
Baby prayers to-night,
"Guardian angels keep us safe
Till the morning light,"
Give a word and give a thought,
If you've one to spare,
To your guardian air men
Flying "over there."