As Dorman kicked off the switch Luf got away. He pulled straight off with the windside and made straight for a line of bois-d’arc trees ahead; and just when it seemed his wheels would get caught in the foliage he yanked his Spad up and went after the Fokker.
But the Fokker was no longer in a playful mood. It rolled of a sudden and scudded for home, with the drab brown Spad on its tail. It may be, sometimes these things did happen, that the pilot recognized an adversary of merit. There was a double explosion of black from the exhausts of the Spad as Luf gunned it and drove after the daring German pilot.
Dorman crawled down and Saufley came trotting over.
“Say,” Dorman said, “drop a match in this cockpit. What the hell’s the matter with these guns?”
Sergeant First Class Saufley didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked. A cold, contemptuous look. Then he spoke.
“Tough luck,” he said.
He turned around and saw a slender officer approaching rapidly. He was about forty, and he was in a light overcoat. From his cap gleamed a silver star. Saufley snapped to a salute, Dorman raised his hand awkwardly. He felt ill, for something shone through the officer’s eyes.
“Your name, Lieutenant,” he said, spreading his legs.
“Dorman, sir. George Dorman.”
“Oh, yes. Reported this week for duty.”