And as a matter of fact the aeroplane gets away ... outside the “75’s” field of fire. It guides itself no doubt by the white ribbon of the road which shows clearly against the rich green of the pastures.
He has seen us now. He has seen us crawling, winding and unrolling on the ribbon. He heads straight for us, circling around in circles of which we are without a doubt the center, and gradually comes lower.
“Look out for the bombs.”
“No ... he’s half turned ... he’s going back.”
“Going back.... You’ll see.”
He’s lower now and we can see distinctly the great black crosses under his wings.
All our men are looking. The horses seem to scent the danger, for they prick up their ears and paw the ground, while the mules neigh.
Suddenly from on high something begins to glide along some aerial rail and shatters the air above us. That lasts a second, a flash. As we listen and wait one would have said that it falls slowly and for hours. We look in the direction of the noise as if to see something, as if to see where the bombardment is going to fall. It seems like a linked chain which rolls out, clashing its links against each other.
A tremendous boom, and black smoke, greenish and red as well, blacker, denser, thicker than that from the great shells, rises in the middle of the field a hundred and fifty yards on our right.
And there is another. It bursts on our left at the same distance. He is certainly searching for the range. Will the next strike in the middle and right on the mark? We’re a fine mark, to be sure, a fine target,—one hundred and fifty horses in Indian file. If he doesn’t make a good shot he’s a duffer.