When at last I walk back alone, under the starlit sky, to my cabin, it seems utterly impossible to believe that I have been actually to Namur—that I have actually travelled over three hundred miles since I last walked along that path a few hours ago. It seems incredible that my soft right hand has actually this night caused damage and brought death to that far, far remote place, which even now is in a state of confusion. Vividly I realise the amazing wonder of flying; vividly I feel the strange fascination of night-bombing, with its long journeys and sense of domination—its sense of being almost divine.
Five weeks later, to the mapping office comes the intelligence report—
"A Rapatrié reports:—On the night of September 29th Allied aircraft successfully attacked the Luxembourg bridge at Namur, which was badly damaged. 17 German civilians were killed."
IX.
TRAGEDY.
"No gold of poetry will deck this tale,
This gloomy record of an awful night;
With pleasant words my fear I will not veil,
Or hide the horrors of the fatal flight.
So all seemed peace to us as we flew on,
When suddenly the hand of heartless fate
Passed lightly over us, and then was gone,
But it had left a legacy of hate."
—The Ordeal.
"To-night an attempt is going to be made to sink blocking vessels, filled with cement, in the harbour mouths at Ostend and Zeebrugge. It is intended, as a distraction, to land specially trained men on the Mole, where they are going to burn down and destroy everything they can.