Archie only takes a few seconds to make up his mind about our height and range. He is not far wrong either, as witness the ugly black bursts slightly ahead, creeping nearer and nearer. Now there are two bursts uncomfortably close to the leader's machine, and its pilot and observer hear that ominous wouff! The pilot dips and swerves. Another wouff! and he is watching a burst that might have got him, had he kept a straight course.
Again the Archies try for the leader. This time their shells are well away, in fact so far back that they are near our bus. The German battery notices this, and we are forthwith bracketed in front and behind. We swoop away in a second, and escape with nothing worse than a violent stagger, and we are thrown upward as a shell bursts close underneath.
But we soon shake off the Archie group immediately behind the lines. Freed from the immediate necessity of shell-dodging, the flight-commander leads his covey around the particular hostile preserve marked out for his attention. Each pilot and each observer twists his neck as if it were made of rubber, looking above, below, and all around. Only thus can one guard against surprise and yet surprise strangers, and avoid being surprised oneself. An airman new to active service often finds difficulty in acquiring the necessary intuitive vision which attracts his eyes instinctively to hostile craft. If his machine straggles, and he has not this sixth sense, he will sometimes hear the rattle of a mysterious machine-gun, or even the phut of a bullet, before he sees the swift scout that has swooped down from nowhere.
There is a moment of excitement when the flight-commander spots three machines two thousand feet below. Are they Huns? His observer uses field-glasses, and sees black crosses on the wings. The signal to attack is fired, and we follow the leader into a steep dive.
With nerves taut and every faculty concentrated on getting near enough to shoot, and then shooting quickly but calmly, we have no time to analyse the sensations of that dive. We may feel the tremendous pressure hemming us in when we try to lean over the side, but otherwise all we realise is that the wind is whistling past the strained wires, that our guns must be ready for instant use, and that down below are some enemies.
The flight-commander, his machine aimed dead at the leading German, follows the enemy trio down, down, as they apparently seek to escape by going ever lower. He is almost near enough for some shooting, when the Huns dive steeply, with the evident intention of landing on a near-by aerodrome. One of them fires a light as he goes, and—enter the villain Archibald to loud music. A ter-rap!
Our old friend Archie has been lying in wait with guns set for a certain height, to which his three decoy birds have led us. There crashes a discord of shell-bursts as we pull our machines out of the dive and swerve away. The last machine to leave the unhealthy patch of air is pursued for some seconds by flaming rockets.
The patrol re-forms, and we climb to our original height. One machine has left for home, with part of a control wire dangling helplessly beneath it, and a chunk of tail-plane left as a tribute to Archie.
We complete the course and go over it again, with nothing more exciting than further anti-aircraft fire, a few Huns too low for another dive, and a sick observer.
Even intrepid birdmen (war correspondentese for flying officers) tire of trying to be offensive on a patrol, and by now we are varying our rubber-neck searchings with furtive glances at the time, in the hopes that the watch-hands may be in the home-to-roost position. At length the leader heads for the lines, and the lords of the air (more war correspondentese) forget their high estate and think of tea.