Again were they subjected to a bombardment when they sailed over the German front lines; but this time, taking a lesson from their previous experience, they maintained such an altitude that no shrapnel was able to reach them.

Shortly afterward, and one by one, the battered Yankee planes dropped on the open field where the hangars lay, like huge buzzards alighting to satisfy their hunger in an orgy.

The first thing Tom did when he and Jack found themselves again on their feet and the waiting mechanics and hostlers looking after their plane, was to reach out and seize upon his chum’s hand.

“We’ve got good reason to congratulate ourselves on coming through that nasty business so well, Jack,” he said earnestly.  “If you look at our machine you’ll see how near we came a dozen times to cashing in our checks.  They knocked us up pretty well, for a fact.”

“I should say they did,” admitted Jack, as he examined the various marks showing where the Hun bullets had punctured different parts of the wings, or struck the fuselage, narrowly missing both the motor and the partly protected petrol supply tank.

They lingered around for a full hour, there was so much to talk about as they gathered in groups and compared experiences, as well as commented on the possible fate of their fellow aviators who had failed to return.

In spite of the loss incurred, the achievement accomplished was of such a character as to fill them with pardonable pride.  No member of that historical night raid, whereby the retreat of the Germans was so badly handicapped by the loss of the big bridge, would ever have cause to blush for his part in the bold undertaking.

Finally the two chums, finding themselves exhausted and in need of sleep, broke away from the chattering throng and sought their bunks in the former Hun dugout.  All was now silence around them, the enemy batteries having ceased sending over even occasional shells; and they were able to enjoy a few hours of rest undisturbed by having the roof of their shelter damaged by a chance explosion.

On the following morning the advance was resumed, the same tactics being employed that had met with such success all through the Argonne.  Wherever they discovered that machine-gun nests had been placed these were “mopped-up” by surrounding them, and then attacking from the rear, while the attention of the defenders of the stone house, or it might be a windmill foundation, was gripped by a pretense at frontal assault.

Those who had participated in the air raid on the bridge were given a day off, so as to recuperate.  They felt that they deserved it, for the destruction of that bridge was apt to be a serious stumbling-block in the path of the retreating Huns, one that might cost them dearly in the way of prisoners and lost artillery.

Jack utilized this opportunity by striving to learn important facts in connection with the matter that was weighing so heavily on his mind.  He absented himself from the dugout which the air pilots continued to occupy and which they disliked giving up until assured of some other half-way decent billet in a village that might be abandoned by Fritz when falling back.