"Keep throttled, Finkelbaum! Jolly good shooting. You push off to dinner at Ghistelles; you've done your bit to-night," comments the wit.
Bavoom—bavoom—suddenly sounds the engine right above us, as the machine opens out its engines as it escapes southwards from the Dunkerque defences. Some of us stroll over towards the edge of the canal. Of course there is no danger—he has dropped all his bombs—yet there may be a "hang-up," and the back gunlayer may only just now be finding it out.
Crack, crack—crack, crack, crack, clamours the machine-gun over by our mess. Up rush the red sparks of the tracer-bullets.
"There he is—there—there—to the left of those two searchlights. Open fire!" calls the C.O.
With a flash and a roar the little three-inch gun speaks out, and the clatter of the falling shell-case can be heard above the scream of the whining projectile. More machine-guns start their staccato tumult. Tracer-bullets rush upward from a dozen places. The gun roars again. The aerodrome is now thoroughly enjoying itself. Pale in the moonlight a little bird-like shape on the dim blue tapestry of the night sky, I can see the German machine moving swiftly eastwards to the lines. The guns and machine-guns in a radius of five miles fire frantically and erratically towards it, and in the midst of this discord is heard a fast whistle which quickly develops into a scream. I slide down the side of the canal in a cloud of pebbles and dust. The sound of a very near explosion crashes on to my ear. I crawl up the canal and see a cloud of black smoke not many yards away in the ploughed field beyond the canal. The "hang-up" has been dropped. "Finkelbaum" has had his subtle revenge.
One after one now the twin-engined machines come roaring up the coast. One after one they lay across the docks their deadly line of bombs. Fire after fire is started, and in many places beyond the roofs can be seen the red glow of the flames. Each attacker in turn is greeted with the useless activity of the searchlights and the erratic flashes of scattered shells. "Mournful Mary" wails and wails in miserable and unavailing fear. One after one the great bombers, lightened of their loads, sail lightly homewards to rest in the distant aerodromes of Ghistelles or Mariaalter, followed, to be frank, with our congratulations on their success, for we have too much a fellow-feeling with them to wish them ill on their dangerous journeys.
It may seem strange, but if it was reported that eight Gothas had been lost on a raid in England, the instinctive feeling was—
"Rotten! Poor devils! This job is getting dangerous!"
If all returned safely, however, we felt—
"Good! Good! Things are not so bad after all! The job looks like staying pretty safe!"