The two-seater dived steeply into a big cloud for cover. Georges guessed at the Hun’s intention and decided to fly across the cumulus to catch up with him on the other side. Those unfortunate chaps wouldn’t have enough time to say their last, quick prayer. One instant before entering the cloud’s halo, Georges saw Lieutenant Bozon-Verduraz skirmishing with three or four enemy scouts. For a second, he hesitated, wondering if he should fly to his rescue. But his wingman was a good, experienced pilot. Thus, Georges put down the nose of his SPAD and disappeared into the mist.

The cloud seemed endless. The altimeter marked 900, dropping. He had lost 3,500 metres already. Finally, he came out beneath the cumulus and scanned the sky for the Hun, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“Not today!” he thought with a grin.

Now he could re-join Bozon-Verduraz and fly towards Bergues. However, as he flew back gaining altitude, the sky was empty in all directions. “How strange,” he thought, for the land beneath him didn’t look familiar. The dark strip of the no-man’s-land had disappeared! He had lost all sense of orientation and feared that he had come out of the cloud far beyond the enemy lines. The countryside looked odd. Not only was it well-harvested, but it was also interspersed with buildings, warehouses and factories. Even more puzzling was the network of roads crisscrossing the countryside, all grey and striped with white lines. Georges shook his head. His nerves were really collapsing. Sleep had avoided him for days. Two years of service and seven forced landings were exacting their toll…

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