hting for
the country, well, he's as welcome as the 'flowers that bloom in the
spring, tra-la.' I guess you Australians lick us right there."

[Illustration: "Information had been received of a new type of
Zeppelin."--Chapter VIII.]

CHAPTER VIII.

A Prisoner in Cologne.

A military operation order is crystallised commonsense. It is a
wonderfully concise bunch of phraseology.

Our squadron commander read the latest by lamplight over a spread map of
the theatre of war.

The general situation of the campaign explained that a Zeppelin raid on
the east coast of England had been made on the 19th of January, thirteen
days before.

Information had been received that a new type of Zeppelin had been
constructed, a "mother" type, capable of carrying a number of
aeroplanes.

The intention of the operation order was to destroy all known Zeppelin
sheds; each air squadron supplying special officers for the purpose.

I well remember the particulars of that order. They printed their
details upon my memory because I had been selected to destroy the sheds
at Saarbruck. I was to leave three hours before the following dawn.

I remember Nap's disappointment that I was to go alone. He helped my
machine out without a word. He may have had a premonition that I was not
to return as I watched him silently fixing the compass and map-roller,
testing the spring catch and guide of the bomb-dropper and packing into
it its heavy load of "cough-drops." Then he stood like a dumb figure
waiting for my starting signal.

"Buck up, Nap," I ventured, climbing into the seat. "One would think
this was a funeral. I must get a hustle on as I've got to do 120 miles
before I can get to business, so if everything's right, I'll swoop up."

Nap looked up.

"Fly high, and good luck," was all he said as he gripped my hand. Then I
pressed the starter, the propeller hummed and pulled me into the
star-specked sky.

I steered easterly, leaving on my left the red fire-glow of Rheims and
passing over the sleepy lights of Valny. Within an hour I was over the
great black stretch of the Argonne Forest, and crossing the Meuse, a
long line of fog with Verdun 7000 feet below. The engine was working
well, throwing back the miles at about 60 per hour. A glow of lights to
the right showed Metz next to a streak of grey, the Moselle River; and
as the dawn-light came into the sky, the Saar River came under me,
covered by a fog with a fringe that flapped over i