Midnight. Blackness pressing in against five trim fighting ships going up on an emergency order. Five trim fighting ships in the hands of five trusted pilots... pilots eating their hearts out for a chance at action... five cogs in a mighty machine of war.
Dorman’s ears rang with the hum of his motor and for the first time in a month he was conscious of his part in the scheme of things. Major Carew had been right; there wasn’t anything to be gained by beefing. Well, from now on he’d do the best he could and trust to luck... and on and on he flew in that sea of darkness. It seemed as if he were motionless in a great void.
It wouldn’t be long, he reflected, before he’d get his chance. Every squadron in the lines was feeling the sting of the enemy. Every day some crack pilot got knocked down and it stood to reason that soon the depot at Orly would be minus several ferrymen...
Sometime later he noticed he was alone. The yellow rings from the other exhausts had disappeared, and for a moment he was chilled. He checked his compass and looked out again, and as he settled back he had a queer feeling that all was not well. But his bearings were true, so he didn’t worry.
Ahead of him there presently flared the magnesium light of the landing field. It flared only for a moment and then died; and Dorman smiled and put his nose down. Toul. The jump-off place for the squadrons.
As he cut his gun he heard a sullen thump and a great explosion of white far out in front caught his eye. In the closing glare he saw a geyser of dirt and his eyes went up.
Two great black planes hovered above—Gothas.
They had figured the arrival of the replacements perfectly; the hum of the Hispanos had drowned out the roar of their own motors, and they had marked the field by the brief magnesium flare.
With a start Dorman realized the Gothas were closing in and were just about over the neighborhood of headquarters.
There was another bath of light from below as one of the bombers dropped another, and with a shout Dorman snatched at his stick and squared his feet on the rudder bars. He leaned forward in his seat and strained his eyes through the darkness; his motor whined on a rising note and the ship leaped away into the night.
Off to the right there was a dull red puff and the village lighted grotesquely like a toy town in a Christmas window. That would be the Archies.
Dorman climbed until the drone of his motor told him he was nearing a stall, and then he leveled off and picked out the flashes from the exhaust of the Gotha. The big ship was banking wide to evade the Archie fire, but Dorman nosed over and tried his guns.
The crimson and yellow flashes spurted over his hood; he took his finger off the trigger and picked out the Gotha. The gunners of the Boche had located him and he could tell from their fire they were slowly getting him into their range. He banked wide and in a moment the huge black moth was in his nose. His finger raced forward to the trigger and his guns chattered.
Whether he had hit or not he couldn’t tell. The flashes from his guns half-blinded him, so after the first burst he pulled his stick and zoomed. Down below a battery of Archies began their bombardment and bursting shells filled the air.
“You damn fools!” Dorman shouted. “Lay off!”
Both Gothas were below Dorman now, and one of them turned loose with his swivel gun and Dorman saw he was out in front and evidently was headed for home. He came down again in the darkness, figured the speed of the Gotha and his own bus and fired when he thought he should have the bomber centered. He was firing from dead reckoning, but in a moment there was a flame from the big ship. It fanned out and reached along the fuselage hungrily; and made a perfect target out of the enemy.
The Gotha crew evidently realized it was their last stand, for two men could be seen in the front nacelle wrestling with a mounted gun. It spit fire up at him, but he rolled over and got altitude.
The fellow was doomed. Dorman wanted the other one.
He went up to two thousand meters and looked out. The Gotha was blazing through the middle and around its edges he could see the outskirts of Toul. There were many white spots against the black ground; they would be faces.
But where was the other Gotha?
The Gotha itself answered the question. From the left came another blinding white glare as it dropped its bombs, impervious to the fate of its sister ship.
Dorman grinned and kicked his rudder around and was off like a streak for the second bomber. The wind screamed through his wires and tore at his eyeballs. Through his little windshield he could see the tips of his propeller dyed in a dull red circle from the burning Gotha that slowly settled behind.
HE WAS aware too, that on the ground below there was some confusion. Men were swarming around in the darkness, pocket flashes glowed beside a great brown monster that was the hangar. Then he saw a smudge of light as the door opened and a little moth came rolling out; behind it was a second.
Dorman swore aloud into the wind.
Two of the squadron were coming up. They were going to give him a hand. Like hell they were!
Then, in a second, the flashes from the exhaust of the two ships below spat out as they got away. The lumbering Gotha was making straight for the hangar.
It was not difficult to divine their motive. They were racing to destroy the hangar before the American bullets ended their career, and Dorman’s brain leaped under the inspiration and he banged his throttle ahead and nosed down.
He had to get the bomber before it got the hangar.
Already the men below had sensed the same thing, for the lights went out and there was blackness. But the Gotha bombing crew already had the hangar spotted.
Dorman didn’t know exactly his range, but he marked the light exhaust of the Boche machine and opened his guns at four hundred yards. He held them open and slowly nosed down, certain that in that broad sweep he would find his target.
Then before he knew it he was directly over the big machine. It seemed that all hell had caught fire below him; two tourelle guns got into action and he felt the whine of the German lead ripping and tearing through his plane. In half a dozen places in his legs it felt as though someone had jammed hot needles into his skin; and he swore at himself again and circled back to get his victim before the two men from the ground could maneuver into advantageous position.
He came around fast and saw the Boche gunners firing wildly at the point he had disappeared over at the right, and then he dived and fired again. He was so close now he could see a twin stream of fire pouring into the heart of the big fellow; and he zoomed just in time to save his undercarriage.
He climbed on off, his legs stinging like the devil. He could feel something warm inside his pants’ leg trickling down... and he swung over in a quick Immelman and got ready to come back. He caught sight of the black form below him and went down after it like a hawk.
He had no idea he was close to the ground. Then there was a terrific explosion and a white sheet of flame that seemed to cover the earth. His Spad was caught in the midst of it; it seemed to balloon upward and then he was conscious that both his wings had snapped off.
He threw up his hands to protect his face as his eyes closed.