By a certain point of identification all of the fliers knew Dusseldorf when that large factory center was reached.  So far they had not seen an enemy plane.  Essen was not far ahead now.  Searchlights had been semaphoring over more than one town they had passed, but not until they had come over Dusseldorf did any of the Hun eyes from below see them.  At Dusseldorf they were spotted and a veritable hail of anti-aircraft shell was hurled skyward.  The signal to climb higher was given and they were soon out of reach of the “Archies.”

As they approached Essen the fires from thousands of furnaces lit up the whole country round.  Below them was the very heart of shell-production and gun-making.  The sight was an awe-inspiring and magnificent one.  The lights were so bright that the pilots and observers could hardly distinguish the flashes of the guns which were firing hundreds of shells at the menacing squadron.

Hovering but a few seconds above the scene of so much activity, guided by the flaring furnaces and the blazing chimney stacks far beneath, the signal was given to release the bombs, and down through the night air, into the fire and smoke, dropped bomb after bomb.

As they fell and exploded their flashes could be seen distinctly in spite of the blaze all about them.  Great tongues of flame licked up heavenward as if trying to reach the aircraft that had hurled the destruction down upon the seething hives.  A dull boom told of an explosion, and the air rocked with the disturbance.

Hundreds of pounds of high explosive fell on Essen that night.  Great fires started here and there, visible to the Americans long after they had started for home, which they did as soon as their loads of bombs were loosed on the factories and munition plants beneath.  Enemy planes had begun to climb up to engage the daring raiders, but the triplanes were well away before the German fliers reached anything like their altitude.  Not one of the six bombers had been hit.  Back they flew, satisfied that damage had been wrought to the enemy plants, back by the Rhine and the Moselle, back safely to their aviation base.

At last, ahead, the pilots could see the flares lit to guide their return.  Each flier switched on his little light to see his instruments, and gracefully dropped nearer the ground.  A night landing is always interesting.  The familiar points near the airdrome have a strangely different appearance at night.  Everything is vague in outline—–­indistinct.  Down the six machines dropped to the rows of lights, flickering in the night breeze.  A last moment, then the instant for raising the elevator, then the gentle, resilient bump as the wheels touch the level floor of the airdrome, and the fleet is home.