The commanding officer did not disapprove the idea, but passed it above him for approval from headquarters.  The boys had worked out the details carefully, and were keen on their project.  At last permission came.  Booth, one of the most experienced aviators on the western front, was to pilot one of the two triplanes of the new type that had been allotted to the airdrome, and Joe Little the other.  The four other big bombing machines that were to go on this mission were to be sent from another air station nearby.  Joe was pleased to be able to take Harry Corwin as his companion, and none of the twelve men who had been selected for the expedition worked harder over the plans and the maps than these two Brighton boys.

At last the night selected for the raid came.  It was a study to see Joe Little inspect a machine before a flight, but on this occasion he went over the big plane with extra care.  He stood by the right side of the tail for a minute chatting to Harry and then the two boys went over every detail of the machine.  While one fingered the tail skid bolt the other examined the safety cable on the tail skid.  Stabilizer, elevator, and rudder were gone over carefully.  Control wires were gone over for their full lengths and their pulleys tried.  Brace wires were felt for slackness, from the tail to the inside of the fuselage.  The control wires to the ailerons, the pulleys and the hinges, nothing escaped the eyes of Joe Little.

Each blade of the propeller he searched for a minute crack.  Every nut and bolt on the propeller he tried.

When in the machine and safely buckled to their seats, Joe ran his engine a bit, to satisfy himself that she was producing just the right music.  The other five triplanes had been waiting.  When Joe had satisfied himself that his machine was in perfect condition the word was given for the start.  A series of staccato pops announced that the whole fleet was getting under way and they were soon circling the hangars and climbing off in the direction of the trenches.  The long journey had begun.

The night was moonlit and the stars were bright.  Not a cloud was to be seen.  A fog obscured some of the low ground over which the squadron had to pass, but they steered by compass, keeping perfect formation.  Finally the silver Rhine wound below them.  Turning, they followed the river until Coblenz was reached, then turned north again.  Germany’s great manufacturing centers were passing below the squadron now, one after another.  The countless fires of monster furnaces and factories, thousand upon thousand, glared into the night.  The tall chimneys and furnace stacks belched forth red, yellow, and white flame as the munition works were pressed to their utmost to produce the sinews of war for the guns along the line over which the squadron had come.