One by one the machines, which ordinarily came back before daybreak, landed, and the pilot and the observer of each climbed clumsily down from their cramped seats. They were stiff with cold, in spite of the fur-lined garments they wore—garments that turned them, for the moment, into animated Teddy bears, or the likeness of Eskimos.
Their faces were worn and haggard, for the strain of an airship bombing raid is terrific. But they were quiet and self-possessed as they walked stiffly across the field to make a report.
"Any luck?" asked Tom, of one he knew; a Frenchman noted for his skill and daring.
"The best, mon ami," he replied with a smile—a weary smile. "We gave Fritz a dose of bitter medicine last night."
"And he gave us a little in return," sadly added his companion. "Quarre and Blas—" he shrugged his shoulders, and Tom and Jack knew what it meant.
They were the men in the missing machine, the Caudron that had not come back.
"Did you see what happened?" asked Jack.
Picard, to whom Tom had first spoken, answered briefly.
"They caught them full in the glare of a searchlight and let them have it. We saw them fall. There didn't seem to be any hope."
"But the battery that did the firing—it is no more," added De Porry, the companion of Picard. "The bombs that Quarre and Blas carried went down like lead, right on top of the Hun guns. They are no more, those guns and those who served."