"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!"
Flight-Lieutenant C. appeared, rather younger than his Captain, a long, slender youth, with serious brow and thoughtful eyes, whom I forthwith questioned as diplomatically as might be.
"Oh, yes!" he answered, in response to my various queries, "it was exciting for a minute or so, but I expect the Captain has been pulling your leg no end. Yes, they smashed my gun. Yes, they hit pretty well everything except me and my mascot—they didn't get that, by good luck. No, I don't think a fellow would mind 'getting it' in the ordinary way—a bullet, say. But it's the damned petrol catching alight and burning one's legs." Here the speaker bent to survey his long legs with serious eyes. "Burning isn't a very nice finish somehow. They generally manage to chuck themselves out—when they can. Hello—here comes one of our new machines—engine sounds nice and smooth!" said he, cocking an ear. Sure enough, came a faint purr that grew to a hum, to an ever-loudening drone, and out from the clouds an aeroplane appeared, which, wheeling in graceful spirals, sank lower and lower, touched earth, rose, touched again, and so, engine roaring, slid smoothly toward us over the grass. Then appeared men in blue overalls, who seized the gleaming monster in unawed, accustomed hands, steadied it, swung it round, and halted it within speaking distance.
Hereupon its leather-clad pilot climbed stiffly out, vituperated the weather and lit a cigarette.
"How is she?" enquired the Captain.