And then, as we were congratulating him on having escaped with a whole
skin, and breathing more freely at the thought--he turned slowly and
came straight up towards those guns again.

The Australians holding the trenches were delighted. "My word, he's got
more guts than what I have," said one. Sheaf after sheaf of shells burst
in the air all about him; but he steered straight up the middle of them
till he reached the point he wanted to make, and then wheeled and made
his patrol up and down over the trenches. He was flying higher but still
low, and the crackle of rifles again broke out from the German lines. He
was within the range of the feeblest "Archie" even at his highest. They
were literally just so many big shot-guns, firing at a great bird; only
this bird came up time and again to be shot at, simply trusting to the
chance that they would not hit him.

"The rest may take their luck, but I should be dead sick if they was to
get him," grunted a big Australian as he tugged a pull-through out of
his rifle.

Of course they will get him if he does that often--you only need two
eyes to know that. The communiqués tell of it every week. As you scurry
past the hinterland of the lines in your motor-car you will sometimes
see two or three aeroplanes flying like great herons overhead. They seem
to be in company, keeping station almost, and holding on the same
course, all mates together--until you catch the cough of a machine-gun,
and realise that they are actually engaged in the deadliest sort of duel
which can possibly be fought in these days. In a battle of infantry you
are mostly hit by an unaimed shot, or a shot aimed into a mass of men.
Even if a man fires at you once, it is probably someone else whom he