His commander had been quite frank. The mission meant his
probable death. He was to wear a German uniform; to land inside the
lines of the kaiser, to conceal his plane, if luck favored him, among
the trees in the grounds of the old chateau of Ranceville; to get what
knowledge and sketch what plans he could of defenses against which the
French attacks had hitherto broken vainly, and to bring them home.
All had gone well at first. His gallant little plane had winged its way
into the unknown like a darting swallow; he had landed safely; and after
he had walked for hours with the Germans about him and death beside him,
he had gained his spoils. It was as he rose for the return flight that
the alarm was given. He got away; but he had five hostile aircraft after
him. Could he hope to elude them and to land safely at the French lines?
It was in that hour, while the night lingered and the stars still shone
and the cannon of the two armies challenged each other steadily, that
the Firefly of France fought his greatest battle in the air. Since his
whole aim was escape, it was bloodless; he had to trust to skill and
cunning; he dared manoeuvers that appalled others, dropped plummet-like,
looped dizzily, soared to the sheerest heights.
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