The car was a wreck. As to the condition of the driver the air service boys at first knew little, as they could only catch a fleeting glimpse of him as they shot past. But he seemed to be doubled up in the wreckage as though more or less severely injured.
Tom had seen the very place he needed for making his landing. It was an open field, and pasture land at that, so he hoped to find it fairly level.
Being accomplished at landing, Tom succeeded in bringing the big Caudron down without the slightest accident. Then both young aviators jumped out, though Jack immediately fell forward on his face, his cramped limbs doubling up under him.
“We must hurry!” Tom cried, even while running back toward the stalled car. “Someone may come along the road, perhaps troops in the bargain, and then we would be in a fine pickle.”
“Do you think he was killed, Tom?” gasped Jack, a bit awed by the tragic result of his gunfire.
“Hardly as bad as that! He’s slowed down a lot before the crash came, you noticed. But I certainly do hope he’s got a couple of gallons of stuff in that tank of his.”
“And as for me,” mumbled the other tagging just behind his leader, “I’m praying that I didn’t puncture the tank, with all my shooting. I kept the fire low on purpose.”
“We’ll soon know, for here’s the car close at hand!” snapped Tom.
It gave both of them a strange feeling to see the wrecked car at the side of the road, and realize that they were wholly responsible for it. But since coming to the front they had been in contact with so many things associated with war’s horrors that the young American aviators had by degrees come to steel their hearts against any display of weakness.
Jack hurried around to the rear. His one thought was to learn whether his fears could be well grounded. If by any ill luck he had managed to hit the tank containing the liquid of which they stood in such need, of what avail would all this chase be?