A big German plane swooped down upon him as these thoughts took shape. He saw the gunner jerking his weapon into range. A bare second quicker than his enemy, Bob began pumping his port machine gun. A jet of flame burst out, and the next moment the German machine quivered, its planes twisted to one side, and like a shot bird it fell from sight.
Through the tube Bob faintly heard Jourdin shout, “To the left—look out! I’ll put you in range!” He had no time to take breath after his recent victory, before two more of the enemy were upon him. The privilege of flying with the famous French ace had its perils, too. Every Boche who could manage to do so made for Jourdin, hoping to down the hero who, once already disposed of, had returned by some miracle to active service. Jourdin brought his machine around in a climbing turn to avoid one aggressor, while Bob pressed the handle of his starboard gun, hoping to rid himself of his right-hand opponent. Instead of the burst of flame which should have resulted, the gun remained silent—jammed.
Bob frantically maneuvered his other gun into position, but the Boche had opened a deadly fire upon him. Bullets spattered through the wings and whizzed around him. At the same instant a third enemy descended from above. Suddenly a machine gun began firing from the other side. Bob saw Larry Eaton’s face behind it, and the next moment his newest antagonist wavered, tilted, and the wreck hurtled down six thousand feet to earth. Bob could catch only a glimpse of this, for Jourdin had grasped the need of a momentary retreat. He made a tail-spin, fell a thousand feet, then, having thrown off his enemy, rose in a climbing circle while Bob remedied the jam in his gun and looked around for further developments.
He had not long to wait. Close beside him a German plane was getting into range, and now it began a heavy fire in the midst of a series of plunging dives which did not allow Bob to return the fire with any effect. Jourdin made another tail-spin, hoping to come up beneath the enemy, but the German was too quick for him. He dived again and came up in a swift turn beside the Frenchman, pouring out a hail of bullets. Bob was at a white heat of rage. “Once more, Jourdin!” he shouted.
The pilot dived again, simultaneously with the German, and this time the enemy was caught at his own game. Jourdin slowed up and let the other plane sweep past. As the Boche shot upward he followed close in his wake, and for the first time Bob poured shot after shot from a range of a few feet. The big German machine continued swiftly upward, then it lost speed, fell tail foremost, recovered, and finally nose-dived to the ground.
Bob drew a long hard breath and glanced below him. The Allies were holding their own, but two of them were missing. Of the German planes three were gone. He saw no more than this before another airman made for him in a climbing turn. The two planes were in easy range and each gunner began to pour a deadly fire on his opponent. The bullets spattered around Bob over the big plane and lost themselves in space, and still both machines remained uninjured. Jourdin maneuvered with all his skill for an advantage, but his antagonist matched him at every turn. Bob had not even to snatch a look at the enemy pilot to know whose hand was on the throttle. Von Arnheim, pale and shining-eyed, sat behind his gunner as though calmly awaiting victory. But it would not be quite so easy as that, Bob thought. His mind was wildly excited, so that the sudden burning pain in his left shoulder seemed to be only a part of his mad eagerness. Jourdin dipped and rose with incredible skill. The fire from the enemy was growing haphazard as the target dodged in every direction, and Bob’s steady hand on the trigger grew steadier as his brain grew hot and throbbing. Suddenly Jourdin gave a shout. The gunner of the enemy plane fell forward across his starboard gun. Von Arnheim snatched at the weapon beside him, but in that second Bob had sent a burst of fire through his right plane. The German gave one flashing glance at the torn, bullet-riddled wing, and pushed upon his stick. His big machine pointed swiftly downward. The next instant Jourdin followed, but this time Bob’s fire was less accurate in that dizzy descent. At three thousand feet Jourdin stopped in his downward flight and hovered, for Von Arnheim, useless wing and all, had guided his plane to a safe landing inside the German lines.
For a second Bob’s disappointment outweighed all his victories, as his eyes followed his enemy’s retreat. He had risked death to go down inside his own lines, and Bob understood that feeling. He thought Von Arnheim would have it in much stronger measure if he had ever endured the German sort of captivity. Bob knew that never again could he let himself be taken prisoner. From the French trenches over which they floated came a faint sound of voices. He peered over the side of the cockpit and saw hands and helmets waved in the air. They were cheering! His heart leaped with a sudden exultation. Then he glanced upward. The Allies were four to two—victory there, at any rate.
“Jourdin, do you hear them cheering?” he asked through the tube, and as he spoke a strange and painful weakness overpowered him until he clutched at the hot barrel of the gun at his right. Cautiously he felt of his aching shoulder and drew away a hand wet with blood. “So that’s it,” he murmured. “I’ll have to go back, Jourdin—I’m sorry,” he said, unsteadily.
The pilot’s quick eyes had already seen the red stain oozing through Bob’s torn leather sleeve. With a swift touch he sent the plane speeding through the air at ninety miles an hour, its nose pointed, above the silver ribbon of the Avre, back toward the safe shelter of Cantigny.