Now the vague, indefinite blurs of color were becoming definite forms and shapes, and the meaningless patches of light and dark houses and trees.
Sick at heart, feeling that everything was lost, with the direst fear of an impending tragedy uppermost in his mind, the boy at length sat back in his seat, and, for the first time, paid close attention to the ground that seemed to be rapidly rising to meet him.
He had concluded that in the all-pervading gloom the Germans had not discovered his presence, but almost immediately the anti-aircraft batteries got into action and the surrounding air became suddenly filled with exploding shrapnel shells.
Now he could hear their viciously-sounding detonations, and the steady crackling of the guns which had sent them aloft.
Though faint and weak, the instinct of self-preservation asserted itself, enabling him to turn the machine this way and that, in an effort to dodge the hail of missiles. The Nieuport was wildly careening from side to side or dropping short distances at lightning speed; and, to add to his dismay, streams of “flaming onions,” like rockets of a greenish hue, darted toward the helpless airplane, sparkling brightly in the darkened atmosphere.
Yet, despite the terrible reality of the situation, it seemed to Don that he was going through some strange, weird dream. Dumbly, he wondered how soon the end would come. Only a miracle, it seemed, had saved him thus far. He could not expect such good-fortune to continue. He seemed to stand on the dividing line between life and eternity.
And when a strange, inexplicable calmness had taken possession of him and he felt resigned to the impending fate, the resounding din of the batteries below and the ear-splitting, appalling detonations of the shells suddenly ceased, and he was gliding through the smoke-filled air as unmolested as though on his own side of the line.
What did it mean?
The explanation was simple. The Germans below had at last realized the truth. They were merely waiting for the machine to drop into their midst. It was a galling thought. Not three hundred feet below he could see them. And that picture of men gathering together in groups, of men running and gesticulating, made a curious impression upon his overwrought brain.
Many a time he had heard the boys jocosely referring to the words “Kamerad, kamerad,” and for the first time he was in a position to realize fully what that cry must have meant to some of those who uttered it. And after the glorious, boundless freedom of the air—of the vast spaces—how could he stand the horrors of a detention camp, where men, penned in like sheep, were guarded and fed almost as if they were so many captured animals!