CHAPTER XX.
CAUGHT IN A SNOW SQUALL.
“Oh! they did it after all!” Pudge cried out as they saw the reckless British birdmen in the seaplane start to run the gantlet of gunfire preparatory to rising once more to a safe height.
That was about the feeling of relief that seized upon them all. The deed had been so wonderfully daring that Frank and his two chums would have cheered its successful culmination no matter whether a Frenchman, a Britisher or a German had piloted the aircraft that carried it out—it was the men they applauded, not their nationality.
“How long is this terrible bombardment going to keep up, do you think, Frank?” asked Billy, for it seemed to him he had been gazing on the astounding picture for an hour, so many things had followed fast on each other’s heels.
“I expect that was the crowning stroke,” replied Frank, making himself heard only with some difficulty, owing to the clamor all around them from bursting shrapnel, accompanied by the duller sounds coming up from the distant earth.
“Then the aviators are getting low in their stock of ammunition,” affirmed the observant Billy, “because I can see lots of things they’d still like to smash.”
“Most of them have already stopped throwing bombs,” Pudge declared. “That looks as if they’d reached the end of their resources.”
“Yes,” added Frank, “there goes a signal from the chief, and it must mean the time has come to start on the return journey.”
Even the seaplane that had undertaken the perilous task of dropping down so as to make a sure job of blowing up the magazine had by now managed to climb to the level of the other fliers. A general movement was noticed, heading toward the south, and which must have been observed with great satisfaction by the sadly harassed defenders of Zeebrugge, who could now proceed to count up damages.