"This is fierce!" cried Roger. "Why don't we send up some more machines?"
"Haven't got 'em, maybe," remarked Franz. "Oh, look at that! They collided head on!"
This actually happened. One of the larger American machines, the ammunition probably having given out, was being attacked by a German Fokker. Knowing that it was either kill or be killed, the pilot of the craft with the Indian head painted on the underside of the wings took a desperate chance.
Straightening out his craft, he headed it directly toward that of his enemy. The latter tried to steer out of the way when it was seen what the game would be, but he was unable to do so.
They came together with what must have been a fearful crash, though of course not the faintest echo of it could be heard down in the woods. And then, locked together in a death embrace, the two machines hurtled over and over to earth, bursting into flames as they fell. They smashed down in a swamp, and all four airmen were killed—the two brave Americans and their perhaps no less intrepid German fighters.
"It's going to be a tight squeeze!" murmured Roger, as he and the others gazed aloft. "There's three of our machines done for and here come some more Germans. Oh, this is fierce!"
"More German machines? Where!" cried Jimmy.
"There!" and Roger pointed to the sky behind the German planes. "Ten more of 'em!" he cried. "Now we're done for, sure!"
"Those aren't Hun planes! They're French!" yelled Bob. "See, they're French! They've circled up behind the Germans! Now we have 'em between two fires!"
And this was just what happened. The French, seeing that the battle of the air was going against their American allies, had hastily sent up a squadron of speedy craft. These arose very high, flew over and above the Germans, out of sight, and then, coming down, attacked them in the rear.