"What was it? Did you hear?" he said. "Not nice, was it?"
He was evidently delighted to see somebody. He wanted the moral support of a companion—another terrified human being. I felt the same, and was glad to see him. He looked so terrified that it made me feel I must not appear to be in the same condition.
So I replied airily—
"Oh! Not at all nice! But not very near. Not dangerous, you know!" (My heart had hardly then left my throat.) "I'm going back to the hangars!"
He walked with me. Maybe he felt that I would be some sort of cover if any more bombs were dropped. I felt the same.
Thereafter the whole night was full of hidden mysteries. In the direction of Calais, tracer shells, like curving hot coals, moved through the sky continuously. The air was full of the hum of engines. There was a talk of Zeppelins. Everything was uncertain.
Then one by one the machines returned and landed with dazzling flares blazing away beneath their wing-tips.
Before dawn we drove back to our own aerodrome, and went to bed.
Our machine was ready for the next raid, and we were detailed to go to Ghent.
In order to save repetition I will describe the first raid, and include in it other incidents which happened during subsequent night trips.