Swiftly he scanned the ever-lightening skies, but he could not locate the missing 'plane. For a breathless moment he feared that in the melee it had escaped; then the voice of his old Combat Instructor at Kelly Field seemed to whisper an old, almost forgotten warning:
"If you can't see it, look out! It's on your tail!"
Once more, and this time with frantic haste, he shot the ship into a climb, a wingover turn. But not before a hot hail, punching on metal behind him like the vibrant tattoo of pounding rivets, rasped a song of death in his ears. Then he was on a level with his enemy—and driving headlong at him!
For a yearlong moment it seemed inevitable they must crash head on, collide and destroy each other and go hurtling to earth locked in flaming, loveless embrace! But not for an instant did Ramey's finger relax its pressure on the trigger. And when scant yards separated their whirling propellers, his bullets found their mark. The enemy pilot suddenly collapsed in his seat; his body, pitching forward, was a dead weight on the stick. And with a shuddering groan, the last Jap fighter nosed earthward in a streaking dive!
It was a moment of triumph. But Ramey Winters never found time to savor that victory. For even as he pulled back on the stick to lift himself clear of the falling 'plane, the stick went dead in his hands! From somewhere deep within the entrails of the gallant little Curtis came the grinding clash of metals. At the last moment, a dying foeman had evened the score. Ramey's motors spluttered and died, and the thin song of wind lashing the fuselage was the only audible sound in an awful silence as the ship, like a dancing leaf, glided earthward out of control.
There was but one thing to do. Ramey plucked at the buckle of his safety belt, prepared to go overside. And Red? Well—it was an airman's burial. A moment of flame, then an unmarked grave in the jungle. Ramey glanced once more at his chum. "So long, Red," he whispered. "See you again, pal—"
Then he gasped. For Red's lips had fallen open, and a bubble of bloody spittle was leaking from one corner of his mouth—but this tiny spume pulsated faintly! Breathing! He was still alive!
And—it was no longer possible for Ramey to take to his 'chute. Somehow, somehow! he must get this crippled ship to earth. He stared down wildly. Trees ... trees ... an endless tangle of foliage towering high, bayonet-tipped. But—Ramey trembled with sudden, feverish eagerness—over there a patch of lighter green! And something that looked like gray walls, a manmade building! A cleared field. If he could—
Once more and desperately he wrestled with the unresponsive stick. No good! The rudders, then? If the aileron wires were undamaged he might be able to control, to some extent, the direction of their glide. Ease the brutal shock of landing.