Chapter IV
Midnight. Blackness pressing in against five trim fighting ships going up on an emergency order. Five trim fighting ships in the hands of five trusted pilots... pilots eating their hearts out for a chance at action... five cogs in a mighty machine of war.
Dorman’s ears rang with the hum of his motor and for the first time in a month he was conscious of his part in the scheme of things. Major Carew had been right; there wasn’t anything to be gained by beefing. Well, from now on he’d do the best he could and trust to luck... and on and on he flew in that sea of darkness. It seemed as if he were motionless in a great void.
It wouldn’t be long, he reflected, before he’d get his chance. Every squadron in the lines was feeling the sting of the enemy. Every day some crack pilot got knocked down and it stood to reason that soon the depot at Orly would be minus several ferrymen...
Sometime later he noticed he was alone. The yellow rings from the other exhausts had disappeared, and for a moment he was chilled. He checked his compass and looked out again, and as he settled back he had a queer feeling that all was not well. But his bearings were true, so he didn’t worry.
Ahead of him there presently flared the magnesium light of the landing field. It flared only for a moment and then died; and Dorman smiled and put his nose down. Toul. The jump-off place for the squadrons.
As he cut his gun he heard a sullen thump and a great explosion of white far out in front caught his eye. In the closing glare he saw a geyser of dirt and his eyes went up.
Two great black planes hovered above—Gothas.
They had figured the arrival of the replacements perfectly; the hum of the Hispanos had drowned out the roar of their own motors, and they had marked the field by the brief magnesium flare.
With a start Dorman realized the Gothas were closing in and were just about over the neighborhood of headquarters.