between the beams of lights, which reached away to the south, almost parallel, and which swung back and forth slightly
Except for those lights, all was black now; and Gerry knew how those searchlight beams must tempt some German cadet making his first night flight under the clouds. Gerry had been a cadet flying at night in the darkness with clouds closing overhead. He knew how strange and terrifying was the blackness of the ground; how welcome was any light giving view of a landing place. The airdrome, with its true landing lights, was two miles to the south; but what was direction, and what was a difference of two miles to a cadet coming down through the clouds, and "feeling" in the darkness for the ground? Gerry himself only a few months before, when caught by closing clouds, had come down in a field six miles from the one he sought. Indeed, French airmen flying at night had come down in German airdromes by mistake, as Germans had come down in French.
So Gerry lay in the blackness between the searchlight beams, accusing himself for dullness in not having known. If he had seen an escape before, and seen these searchlights shooting out over the fields, he might have realized how they imitated landing lights; but he had not; and O'Malley—if he lived—would be waiting for him by the flying field. No, not O'Malley. For the Irishman's voice whispered to him gently. O'Malley dragged himself up.
"Bye, you're hit, too?"
"No; I'm all right. You?"
"'Twas bad planned, all." The Irishman took blame
