For perhaps three seconds the agony lasted, or maybe it was three years. Then he was practically right on top of the other Devastator, so close that he could actually see the whites of the pilot's fear-glazed eyes staring up at him. The pilot was trying desperately to kick off to the side and cut out from under Dave's diving plane. But there wasn't time, and the terror in his eyes seemed to indicate that he realized it.
Three seconds, and then Dave jabbed his electric firing trigger. His guns hammered and pounded out nickel-jacketed destruction, and a hail of doom tore into the other Devastator like red hot pokers slashing into snow. The plane actually leaped off to one side like a bird nailed in full flight. It rolled over twice, and its right wing started to tear away in shreds. As Dave went thundering on past it he heard Freddy Farmer's gun taking up where he had left off. A moment or so later he was able to ease his plane out of its wing straining dive and circle up and around and back.
Almost reluctantly he slid his finger off the trigger button. There wasn't any need to continue drilling the crippled plane. It was shy one wing, and was slip sliding about in the air like a dead leaf in a raging gale. Its propeller was still spinning over, but even as Dave looked at it black smoke belched out from under the engine cowling, and licking tongues of flame went darting backward.
"Poor devils, just the same," Dave heard his own voice mutter. "But they're probably stone dead now, anyway, so the fire won't add to their—"
He never finished the rest. Rather, he finished it with a wild shout of anger and maddening defeat. The pilot and gunner of the other Devastator were not dead. By a miracle the withering fire from Dave's guns and from Freddy's guns had passed them by. On the contrary, they were very much alive. Out of anger-filmed eyes, Dave saw both of them push up out of their bullet-shattered greenhouse and leap out into space and down toward the rolling blue waters of the Pacific.
Both the pilot and gunner were alive! Both had bailed out with their parachutes! Both would land in the water—and both could very easily be picked up by either of the onrushing Japanese cruisers. The gods of war were screaming with glee. A valiant effort by two valiant war eagles serving Uncle Sam was going for a complete loss, would completely fail in its purpose.
[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN]
Eagle Madness
A thousand little demons seemed to be screaming their mocking laughter in Dave's ears as he watched the two parachute envelopes billow out and catch in the wind. Seething white rage boiled up within him, and he impulsively started to kick his Devastator around and down toward those two flying garbed figures swaying like clock pendulums at the ends of their parachute shroud lines. But even as he started to drop down, he made strangling noises in his throat and pulled the Devastator up onto even keel.
"I can't do it!" he cried hoarsely. "I can't shoot them like a couple of helpless dogs. That's murder. That's the Nazi way. That's not our way. I just can't do it."