“Oooh, Don! Look, look!”
The airman had once more turned about, evidently to fly back over his work of destruction to feast his eyes on its completeness. Then he met his Waterloo. The long swerves took him beyond and near the woods, where a French 75, aimed by a cool-headed American gunner barked upward just once. With a burst of flame the airplane pitched to the earth. The brutal driver, who refused to respect an ambulance, a supposed dressing station, or the modest home of non-combatants, was probably strapped on his seat and unable to extricate himself went down to the most horrible of deaths.
“Ah, he got his, all righty!” Don shouted; then turning: “And here’s another who’s going to get his! Billy, this Hun, this skunk here, is praising the act of that devil! We’ll just dump him out and let him lie here and suffer and bleed to death. Come on; give a hand!”
“No, no, Don! You can’t mean that. It would not be humane.”
“Humane? I’d be humane to a dog, a cat, a worm even, I hope, but not to a thing like this. Come—!”
“‘As they should do unto you’, Don. I know this is war and he’s a Hun, but it’s all the more of an excuse that he is only partly human; he doesn’t know any better and he has feelings, some. Let’s go on, Don, please, now.” Don leaped to his seat with Billy and they continued on their way.