He adjusted his goggles and put on his gloves. He reached out with his hands and touched the feed blocks on his guns. They were loaded. His gasoline line cocks were turned right; there was his signal pistol and four cartridges. In his box were pencil, paper, some cigarettes, a flash and two bars of chocolate.
His feet were on the rudder bar; his hand raced along to the throttle. The motor spluttered and caught, he jiggled the lever and eased it open. Dust and pebbles threw up the backwash and bounced against the stabilizers.
Saufley twisted his shoulder and head to brace himself and protect his eyes from the slipstream and came running around to the cockpit.
“Has the lieutenant any papers on his person that would be of value to the enemy?” he yelled.
Dorman shook his head. He pulled his throttle shut, then opened it and waddled out. He got his windage and had a final look around; there was the Fokker just about over headquarters of the General commanding the Air Service. It looked as if he were in a dive, tiny puffs jumped from the Spandaus as he sprayed the roof with lead.
Dorman kicked his ship around and gunned it; and it got away in a flutter of wings. He slipped wide around the hangar and went after the Boche.
His finger slipped up onto the trigger and he squeezed it. He saw the crank arms jumping and could dimly hear the rattle of his guns. Well, thank God, they were all right. He settled down a little more so he could get his eyes on a level with the ring sights. Now. This was something like. Would this be a thrill for the lads back on the ranch or not?
Chapter II
Four minutes later he was at thirty-five hundred feet and he swept the sky in layers again to make sure he was all alone. He was. It was almost as if the sky had been invented exclusively for him.
He nosed over and opened his guns. His tracers reached far out with smoky fingers and fell short, in little arcs.