“A fine target for an aeroplane!”
This exclamation had hardly been uttered when the well-known roar of a Boche aeroplane was heard over our heads.
“Zut! there’s one.... We ought to have expected it in such weather and started earlier. Look out, if he spots us. Don’t worry, there’s no danger, he’s too high.... At least three thousand.”
A “75” was already weaving around this scarcely visible, extremely mobile target the white tufts of its shrapnel, and threw around the machine a murderous circle which followed it in its evolutions. But the aeroplane in the air seemed to care little and it continued on its way.
We all followed the vicissitudes of the fight as we went along, heads in the air. When a shell seemed to burst very near, an exclamation came from every mouth.
“Oh!... that didn’t miss much.”
“A little more to the left; that would get him.”
“Oh, that missed.... He’s too far.”
“This is outrageous ... he’s gone ... he’s getting away.”