“Can you beat that?” exclaimed the Captain enthusiastically, “lifted her clean away!”
“I rather fancy he’s about as good as they’re made!” observed the Lieutenant. Meanwhile, the witch-lamb soared up and up straight as an arrow; up she climbed, growing rapidly less until she was a gnat against a background of fleecy cloud and the roar of the engine had diminished to a whine; up and up until she was a speck—until the clouds had swallowed her altogether.
“Pity it isn’t clear!” said the Captain. “I rather fancy you’d have seen some real flying. By the way, they’re going to practise at the targets—might interest you. Care to see?”
The targets were about a yard square and, as I watched, an aeroplane rose, wheeling high above them. All at once the hum of the engine was lost in the sharp, fierce rattle of a machine gun; and ever as the biplane banked and wheeled the machine gun crackled. From every angle and from every point of the compass these bullets were aimed, and examining the targets afterwards I was amazed to see how many hits had been registered.
After this they brought me to the workshops where many mechanics were busied; they showed me, among other grim relics, C.’s broken machine gun and perforated cartridge tray. They told me many stories of daring deeds performed by other members of the squadron, but when I asked them to describe their own experiences, I found them diffident and monosyllabic.
“Hallo!” exclaimed C., as we stepped out into the air, “here comes the Major. He’s in that cloud—know the sound of his engine.” Sure enough, out from a low-lying cloud-bank he came, wheeling in short spirals, plunging earthward.
Down sank the aeroplane, the roaring engine fell silent, roared again, and she sped towards us, her wheels within a foot or so of earth. Finally they touched, the engine stopped and the witch-lamb pulled up within a few feet of us. Hereupon the Major waved a gauntleted hand to us.
“Must stop to lunch,” he cried, “I’ve ordered soup, you know.”