He had seen the faintest possible gleams of ruddy color tingeing the gray gloom to the west.
What was that light? What did it mean?
With joy surging through his heart, Don Hale thought he knew the answer. The light came from flares, lighted on the aviation grounds, to act as a beacon of safety to belated airmen.
“As sure as I live, that’s what it must be!” he cried. “But——” A sudden doubt entered his mind. “Does it come from ‘Germany’ or France?”
The boy felt, however, that to hesitate any longer would be foolhardy in the extreme. He guided his plane toward the faint light, watching it slowly growing stronger with an inexpressible feeling of thankfulness and relief.
Very soon he could faintly trace the lines of a gigantic letter T, formed by a number of fiercely-blazing fires.
There could be no further doubt; it was certainly an aviation field.
Only the knowledge that he must keep all his faculties alert in order to guide the plane prevented the pilot from uttering a series of jubilant shouts.
Now the blazing flares were becoming clear and distinct. He could make out the tongues of flame, and the illumination spreading out on all sides, to cast a faint, delicate glow for a short distance on the water-soaked ground. Then he began to detect the presence of human beings gathered in little knots or running in the direction of the plane.
Steadying his overtaxed nerves, Don Hale skilfully maneuvered his plane, with the rain and the wind still beating fiercely against him.