More appeared in the air, until the French flyers, outnumbered, turned and flew back over the French lines.
"I believe our flyers got what they wanted," whispered the same French officer to Prescott.
Five minutes later the Frenchman whispered exultingly: "Ah, I was sure of it! Our airmen were spying for the artillery.
Now you shall see things happen." In the air sounded a screech.

Then, less than three hundred yards further down the road a French shell exploded, overturning a motor truck and killing both Germans on its seat.

The truck itself was a wreck.
Crash! Another shell landed in the road, bowling over two officers at the head of a body of oncoming soldiers.

The next shell landed in a mass of marching German infantry, killing and wounding several.
Then, for five minutes a hurricane of shells descended on that road, wrecking trucks, killing and wounding more than a hundred men in German marching detachments, and chasing all troops from the road.
"That does not win the war!" growled the German corporal in charge of the officer-prisoners.

"It is only French mischief!" Hardly had the shell hurricane ceased when some hundred men, under guard, came marching down from the prison camp.