It was a lucky hit. What are the odds when the Flak is so sporadic, so scattered? Nevertheless, it was a hit. Sergent Reille’s machine arched toward the ground on its side like a wounded beast keeling over. The anti-aircraft fire started as they were crossing the lines. Gaston was leading Reille on a bombing run to a troop camp near Mars-la-Tour aerodrome. He always regarded the black puffs of smoke as harmless. More to scare the adversary rather than to hurt. He was proven wrong this morning when he saw the young pilot dive trailing smoke. He still had a job to do. His hands were shaking and he insisted it was because of the engine vibrations. He scanned the sky around him again. Sergent Levy in A flight was trailing him at a higher altitude. Gaston concentrated. The troop camp was coming up ahead. The numerous tents were casting long shadows, making them much more visible. There were only a few small clouds nearby and none over the target. Voscadeaux’s bombs impacted in the middle of the encampment. He didn’t linger and could only imagine the mayhem below. Gaston was already heading back south when he saw Levy drop his bombs and turn back as well. These bombs also found the camp below. There was more Flak on the way and Gaston made sure he would not be an easy target. The weaving disturbed Adjutant Becquerel in the front seat. He gave Gaston the look, but the pilot decided to ignore him. Gaston didn’t want to end up like Reille. Voscadeaux and Levy both returned to base safely, but there was no sign of his wingman. The news came just before noon. The bodies of Reille and his gunner, de Neufville, were being brought back to the aerodrome.
"Take the cylinder out of my kidneys, The connecting rod out of my brain, my brain, From out of my arse take the camshaft, And assemble the engine again."