great speed. A number of anti-aircraft guns opened fire simultaneously,
and all around the shining fugitive innumerable stars of pale, liquid
gold flashed out and melted away again.

"I bet they're puttin' 'is bloody wind up! Rotten bastard, bombin' a lot
o' wounded! If I get 'old of a Fritz up the line, I'll murder 'im. Yer
won't catch me takin' no more pris'ners, I tell yer."

A flashing star suddenly seemed to envelop the aeroplane.

"Got 'im that time--bloody good shot--'e's comin' down, look, look, 'e's
comin' down! Look, 'e's all in flames!"

But the aeroplane sped on, growing smaller and smaller. Then the white
beam swung back and was extinguished, while the guns ceased firing.

"Fine lot o' gunners we got--couldn't 'it a Zep 'alf a yard orf! They
ain't worth the grub they get!"

We returned to our marquee and sat down on our kits. My friend Private
Black came in after us, smiling ruefully. I asked him what was the
matter.

"I was playing the piano in the Sergeants' Mess when the first one
dropped. We all jumped up together and rushed out. Then the second one
burst and I lost my head and didn't know where I was going. I darted to
and fro, tripping over tent-ropes and dashing up against revetments. I
never had the wind up so much in all my life. I couldn't get my breath,
there was a kind of weight on my stomach and a tightness round my chest
and throat, and my knees kept on giving way all the time. The third one