A hundred yards further it dashed through a gap in a
tall hedge, and as the line of trucks followed it, they emerged upon
a great flying field.
There, ahead, were still the captive balloons, straining at their
leashes probably, but too far away to show anything but the general
outline of their odd sausage shapes. Ahead, too, was the boom of
the guns. No mistaking that. Their aeroplanes were to be the eyes
of those very guns. They knew that well. The front line was up
there, somewhere. Their own soldiers, their comrades, were in that
line. Perhaps some of them were being shelled by the Boche guns at
that very moment.
"Beyond our lines," they thought, "come the enemy lines. Soon, now,
very soon, some of us will be flying over those lines, and far back
of them, perhaps."
To the credit of the Brighton boys, every one of the six of them felt
a real keenness to get to work and take his part in the great game.
They had waited long and worked hard to perfect themselves for the
tasks that lay ahead of them, up there with the guns and beyond.
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