The whole flight, therefore, had fallen into position for return, with Dastral leading, for he had signalled his men to keep together, as far as possible, till they were about to cross the lines. Suddenly, however, when they had proceeded some eight or nine miles on their way, Jock, who had been scanning the north-western horizon, called out:
"A Zeppelin! A Zeppelin!"
"Good heavens, where?" shouted Dastral.
"Away over there on the right, low down on the horizon."
"Phew! So it is. One of their lame ducks coming home to roost, after raiding some English village, I expect."
"The devils. I say, Dastral?"
"Yes?"
"Let's strafe the baby-killer!" shouted Jock.
Dastral turned round once more to look at his battered flight. Could he do it? Where were the German Fokkers? he asked himself. And for once he hesitated. It was only for a moment, however, and it was not for any thought of himself that he hesitated, but the knowledge that he would be attacked shortly by enemy 'planes, and that some of his machines would be lost, for they were not in any fit state at present to engage with enemy warplanes. Jock, always an eager fighter, was edging him on, however.
"What say you, Flight-Commander? The others seems eager to fight. We've plenty of bombs left yet, and haven't touched the drums. Let's bring the blighter down, so that it can't kill any more babies in their cots."