Dorman didn’t know exactly his range, but he marked the light exhaust of the Boche machine and opened his guns at four hundred yards. He held them open and slowly nosed down, certain that in that broad sweep he would find his target.
Then before he knew it he was directly over the big machine. It seemed that all hell had caught fire below him; two tourelle guns got into action and he felt the whine of the German lead ripping and tearing through his plane. In half a dozen places in his legs it felt as though someone had jammed hot needles into his skin; and he swore at himself again and circled back to get his victim before the two men from the ground could maneuver into advantageous position.
He came around fast and saw the Boche gunners firing wildly at the point he had disappeared over at the right, and then he dived and fired again. He was so close now he could see a twin stream of fire pouring into the heart of the big fellow; and he zoomed just in time to save his undercarriage.
He climbed on off, his legs stinging like the devil. He could feel something warm inside his pants’ leg trickling down... and he swung over in a quick Immelman and got ready to come back. He caught sight of the black form below him and went down after it like a hawk.
He had no idea he was close to the ground. Then there was a terrific explosion and a white sheet of flame that seemed to cover the earth. His Spad was caught in the midst of it; it seemed to balloon upward and then he was conscious that both his wings had snapped off.
He threw up his hands to protect his face as his eyes closed.
Chapter V
It was dark. Gradually a light gleamed far away... and came on with the speed of a falling star. Big George Dorman blinked his eyes to clear the mists and made out faces. One of them was Chick Lancaster’s. He dimly remembered the other one...
He tried to move his legs, but they felt funny. His head ached. His mouth was dry.
“Easy,” said Lancaster. He moved closer. “You had a hell of a spill.”