But where was the other Gotha?
The Gotha itself answered the question. From the left came another blinding white glare as it dropped its bombs, impervious to the fate of its sister ship.
Dorman grinned and kicked his rudder around and was off like a streak for the second bomber. The wind screamed through his wires and tore at his eyeballs. Through his little windshield he could see the tips of his propeller dyed in a dull red circle from the burning Gotha that slowly settled behind.
HE WAS aware too, that on the ground below there was some confusion. Men were swarming around in the darkness, pocket flashes glowed beside a great brown monster that was the hangar. Then he saw a smudge of light as the door opened and a little moth came rolling out; behind it was a second.
Dorman swore aloud into the wind.
Two of the squadron were coming up. They were going to give him a hand. Like hell they were!
Then, in a second, the flashes from the exhaust of the two ships below spat out as they got away. The lumbering Gotha was making straight for the hangar.
It was not difficult to divine their motive. They were racing to destroy the hangar before the American bullets ended their career, and Dorman’s brain leaped under the inspiration and he banged his throttle ahead and nosed down.
He had to get the bomber before it got the hangar.
Already the men below had sensed the same thing, for the lights went out and there was blackness. But the Gotha bombing crew already had the hangar spotted.