“Do you often lose fellows?”
“Off and on—you see, we’re a fighting squadron—must take a bit of risk now and then—it’s the game, y’know!”
He brought me where stood biplanes and monoplanes of all sizes and designs, and paused beside a two-seater, gunned fore and aft, and with ponderous, wide-flung wings.
“This,” he explained, “is an old battle-plane, quite a veteran too—jolly old bus in its way, but too slow; it’s a ‘pusher’, you see, and ‘tractors’ are all the go. We’re having some over to-day—tophole machines.” Here ensued much technical discussion between him and N. as to the relative merits of traction and propulsion.
“Have you had many air duels?” I enquired at last, as we wandered on through a maze of wheels and wings and propellers.
“Oh, yes, one or two,” he admitted, “though nothing very much!” he hastened to add. “Some of our chaps are pretty hot stuff, though. There’s B. now; B.’s got nine so far.”
“An air fight must be rather terrible?” said I.
“Oh, I don’t know!” he demurred. “Gets a bit lively sometimes. C., one of our chaps, had a near go coming home yesterday—attacked by five Boche machines, well over their own territory, of course. They swooped down on him out of a cloud. C. got one right away, but the others got him—nearly. They shot his gear all to pieces and put his bally gun out of commission—bullet clean through the tray. Rotten bad luck! So, being at their mercy, C. pretended they’d got him—did a turn-over and nose-dived through the clouds very nearly on two more Boche machines that were waiting for him. So, thinking it was all up with him, C. dived straight for the nearest, meaning to take a Boche down with him, but Hans didn’t think that was playing the game, and promptly hooked it. The other fellow had been blazing away and was getting a new drum fixed, when he saw C. was on his tail making tremendous business with his useless gun, so Fritz immediately dived away out of range, and C. got home with about fifty bullet holes in his wings and his gun crocked, and—oh, here he is!”