Now I press a brass key inside the machine which operates our big headlight. R-o-c-k-e-t-s, I flash piteously; and again, Rockets. Another Very's light I fire, and then click and clatter the key, "Please fire rockets"; and again, "Rockets—we are lost!"
"What shall we do?" asks the pilot in a hopeless voice. "Shall we land on the beach? I am getting fed up!"
"Just a second—I'll ask Wade."
I climb into the back and flash my torch through the bomb-racks. I see the face of the gunlayer in the ray of light. Pushing my head and shoulders into the maze of framework, I shout out at the top of my voice. The gunlayer shakes his head. I go forward and ask the pilot to throttle down a little.
The noise of the engine dies away. I hurry back and shout out again.
"Can you make out where we are, Wade? I'm quite lost. Have we got to Dunkerque?"
"Don't know, sir. I don't think so! I can't make out at all!"
I climb back into my seat, and say—
"Put the engines on again! It's no good. He doesn't know either! I don't know what to do!"
The key taps once more the vain appeal. Again and again I fire a white light. The floor round my feet is strewn with the empty cartridge cases of brown cardboard. I feel depressed and tired and irritable. What a silly end to a raid, it seems, to lose yourself right over your own aerodrome! It is undignified. I am ashamed to have had to ask the gunlayer where we are. I feel a pretty poor observer.