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“Philip’s gun was in action. I saw two bursts. One was away to the right and the other seemed close beside his port wing-tip. It was quite impossible to say which was ours. Confoundedly lucky shot anyway.”
    At that moment the troop van drew up at the gun pit and Tiny Trevors got out, a big grin on his face. “Congratulations, Johnnie,” he said. “Damn good shooting.”
    “There, I told you so,” said Micky.
    “It was our shot, was it?” asked Langdon.
    “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. Though, of course, Site One are quite convinced they brought it down. But Philip’s first shot was definitely to the right. He was firing fuse twelve, and he never had time to alter it. Your first shot was definitely short. You didn’t change your fuse, did you?”
    “No. We fired three at fuse nine.”
    “Then it must have been yours. The Jerry ran right into it.” He looked round the pit. “Your second detachment are due to take over, aren’t they?All right then, the others can pile into the van and we’ll go and have a look at the good work.”
    We needed no second invitation. We were as excited as a bunch of school kids. We scrambled over the parapet of sandbags and into the back of the van, all talking at once. When we got to the north end of the ’drome, the wreck was still burning. Several bushes had caught, adding to the blaze. Ground defence guards had already arrived, but it was impossible to get nearer than fifty yards owing to the intense heat. It hit one in the face as though one were standing in front of the open door of a blast furnace. Every one stood about helplessly, their faces ruddy in the glow and their eyes fascinated by the flames. The ’plane was just a twisted mass of steel framework that stood out black against the flames, except here and there where the steel was white with heat and dissolving into molten metal.
    It seemed incredible that a few minutes ago this mass of writhing steel had had power and a will of its own, and had been proudly flying through the night sky. I couldn’t believe that the transformation from a beautiful deadly weapon of modern warfare to this ugly mess was entirely due to the six of us—six ordinary men manning a gun.
    There was a sudden shout and every one’s gaze lifted skywards. Almost directly above us a parachute showed a dull orange in the glare. Slowly it descended, drifting silently through the still air. We watched it in silence. The only sound was the roar and crackling of the flames. Soon it was low enough for us to see the face of the man who dangled from it, swinging gently to and fro on the thin cords. His face was without expression. It was like a mask. It seemed a symbol of mass-production, and I immediately thought of the hordes that were pouring over Europe. Had all those men who had goose-stepped down the Champs-Elyséesthe same expressionless features? Was this the face of the new Germany—Hitler’s Germany?
    It was surprising how long it took for him to reach the ground. Yet when he hit the tarmac on the edge of the ’drome he seemed to be falling horribly fast. He managed to land with his feet first, and attempted to break his fall by rolling over. But at a distance of nearly a hundred yards the thud of his body striking the tarmac was sickeningly loud.
    We all ran towards the spot where he had fallen. I was one of the first to reach him as he staggered to his feet, his face white and set with pain. He did not attempt to reach for the revolver in his belt or to raise his hands in surrender. He did nothing. There was nothing he could do. One arm hung limp from the shoulder and he swayed unsteadily as though at any moment he must fall. But he kept on his feet and his face was no longer expressionless. Hate and mortification struggled for mastery of his features.
    A guardsman seized the revolver from his belt. The German forced himself to attention. “
Wo ist ein Offizier
?” he snapped. There was bitterness and contempt in his