The German plane crashed between the lines, in a great burst of flame. Black smoke rolled up from her. And Lieutenant Adams was leveling off now; he was heading back toward the Squadron. He was ignoring Tex, just as though he had never been in the air. Even as the pilot of the damaged ship tried to level off and wing after the other Nieuport, fog swept over Lieutenant Adams’ plane. She was lost from sight.
Rage struck at Tex Langdon. His Nieuport was heading back toward the Sixteenth, but the whole sector was covered with fog. Lieutenant Adams knew that. The veteran pilot knew that Tex would have trouble finding the Squadron. He must have guessed that gas was running low. And yet he winged away from the other Nieuport; roared his ship into the ground fog.
Tex Langdon swore grimly. He roared the engine into full voice and the Nieuport rushed into the white blanket of fog. The beat of the engine increased in tone, magnified by the density of the atmosphere. Tex could barely see the wing-tips of his ship; his goggle-glass clouded instantly. He felt that he was flying with a wing droop, and there was no level guage in his baby plane.
He pulled back on the stick. It was either that or risk going into a spin. He couldn’t drop down very low to the earth, as perhaps Lieutenant Adams was doing. He didn’t know the country well enough. There were hills about the sector; he might pile into one. Adams could fly by time and his sense of direction.
“He knew I couldn’t make it!” he muttered. “Not without—his help. And he pulled out on me!”
The engine spluttered, picked up again, spluttered once more. Tex Langdon worked over the air and gas adjustment, his heart pounding. Then, abruptly, as he nosed the ship forward, the engine died.
Tex Langdon was suddenly very cool. He banked the ship to the westward, got her into a gentle glide, stretching it as much as he could. He cut the ignition switch. The Nieuport glided downward, her wires shrilling softly, the fabric of the left wing surfaces crackling in the glide-wind. The fog enveloped her.
The altimeter was not registering at the low altitude. He guessed that the ship was within fifty or seventy-five feet of the earth. He pulled back slightly on the stick; the nose of the Nieuport came up. There was a blur of dark color stabbing up through the gray stuff. Savagely he wiped the glass of his goggles for the last time and stared ahead, downward.
Something long and curved stabbed at the right wing. He saw other blurs of color, fog clinging to them, rise up before him. He jerked the stick back against his flying overalls; the nose came up. And then the ship twisted violently to one side! Fabric ripped! He threw both arms before his face, releasing his grip on the stick!