Von Rheinhoff might have unloaded his bombs and got away, but he showed deplorable judgment. To insure an absolutely successful outcome to the attack he ordered his machines to descend. Before he could recover altitude the swift little scouts were up and into the formation. The air crackled with the sound of Lewis-gun fire, machines reeled and staggered like drunken men, Tam's fighting Morane dipped and dived, climbed and swerved in a wild bacchanalian dance. Airplanes, British and German alike, fell flaming to the earth before the second in command of the enemy squadron signaled, "Retire."
A mile away a battery of A-A guns waited, its commander's eyes glued to a telescope.
"They're breaking off—stand by! Range 4300 yards—deflection—There they go! Commence firing."
A dozen batteries were waiting the signal. The air was filled with the shriek of speeding shells, the skies were mottled with patches of smoke, white and brown, where the charges burst.
Von Rheinhoff's battered squadron rode raggedly to safety.
"Got him—whoop!" yelled a thousand voices, as from one machine there came a scatter of pieces as a high-explosive shell burst under the wing, and the soaring bird collapsed and came trembling, slowly, head-over-heels to the ground.
Von Rheinhoff, that redoubtable man, was half conscious when they pulled him out of the burnt and bloody wreck.
He looked round sleepily at the group about him and asked in the voice of a very tired man:
"Which—of—you—fellows—bombed—our Kaiser?"