She elected to do the former and climbed quickly above us. Her pilot opened fire with his machine-gun. The bullets whizzed past our ears, dangerously near.
We climb in turn and lose sight of her for a moment or so. It is a complicated game of blind-man’s buff. We got up with her at last and both let off simultaneously. There is a language spoken in that act, a language that has neither stops, commas, letters, characters, notes, nor images. It is the language of unbounded hate. Hate to the death. We got above her and “down-wind” this time. Luck is on our side. Another tray of cartridges for the gun quickly! That’s got her. She drops sharply. Her pilot must have been hit and lost control of his “joy-stick.” We are right on top of her now and let the whole tray of munitions off into her back.
Suddenly down goes her nose. She rushes earthwards with a very fair speed to waft her pilot to paradise. Faster and faster she travels. Fainter, fainter does our view of her become!
Down below the hundreds are waiting anxiously, already glorying in the prize. She’s down at last!
Most thankfully we turn home.
[CHAPTER XVII]
A GREAT RAID
Somewhere in the North of France,
Monday.