Although the members of the Royal Air Force are the least given to exaggeration, there have been instances in which observers have unintentionally overrated the damage done by their bombs. Objects seen through dust and smoke are apt to appear different from what they actually are, while in the tension and excitement of a raid a casual glance might convey an erroneous impression on the mind, upon which inaccurate reports are based. But the camera, emotionless and strictly impartial, records the scene with absolute fidelity; hence the importance of photography as a necessary adjunct to the airman's panoply of war.
Suddenly a cloud of white smoke mushroomed a few hundred feet below the "Avenger." Another leapt seemingly from nothingness at an unpleasantly short distance on her quarter. The anti-aircraft guns were getting into action at last, and the strafe no longer promised to be a one-sided business.
Soon the "air was stiff" with flying shrapnel, while shells of a hitherto unknown type added to the flying-boats' peril. These missiles, on bursting, liberated long tentacles of the lightness of silk that floated in strings of fire in the air.
A burst of shrapnel, seemingly close under the "Avenger's" nose, caused the flying-boat to pitch and roll like a tramp in ballast in a heavy seaway. Before Barcroft could get her under control the uppermost of the triplanes was foul of one of the burning tentacles.
The bight of the flaming tendril engaged against the forward knife-edge of the plane, while the ends, swept backwards by the rush of the flying-boat through the air, swung together like a gigantic streamer of flame in the "Avenger's" wake.
No manoeuvre could possibly extricate the flying-boat from the fiery embrace. A tail-spin, instead of enabling the plane to back away from the tentacle, would result in the streaming ends winding themselves round the spread of canvas; while in addition the falling aircraft would lose all advantage of altitude ere she recovered from the "spin."
Although the fabric of the planes was supposed to be of fire-resisting material the prepared canvas was already smoking and charring. Like a flash Farrar realised the danger. The time had come for him to act, and with characteristic alacrity he seized upon the chance.
Swarming aloft, with a knife between his teeth, he gained the upper plane. The windage was terrific, smoke and embers were swept into his face, the heat scorched his hair. Hanging on like grim death with one hand he slashed at the fiercely-burning tow, through the centre of which a fine flexible wire maintained cohesion of the deadly firebrand. Hacking fiercely at the wire, regardless of the flames that ate into his hand, his efforts were rewarded by the sight of the severed tentacle disappearing like a streak of lightning in the wake of the swiftly moving planes.
Then, and only then, did the burning pain assert itself. All power to move seemed to have vanished from his arm. Muscles and sinews were completely numbed, while the tightly contracted flesh throbbed and plunged with the excruciating torture of the livid burns.
"I'm in the cart this time," he muttered, wincing with the agony of the fire. "Hanged if I can climb back again, and the plane's still smouldering."