Down, down she came, lobbing first one way and then another, finishing up with a bump which completed the wreckage of one of her huge outstretched planes, and hurling the lifeless form of an observer-gunner to the earth.
"My word, what a size she is!" cried some one from the group of officers and men standing by.
She was a mass of wreckage, and how the wounded pilot had managed to bring her down so calmly was a miracle.
"Where are you hurt, Captain?" asked Dastral, helping the wounded man from the wrecked car.
"Here and here, Flight-Commander!" replied the German in good English, leaning heavily on the pilot, who a few minutes before had been his deadly enemy.
"Fetch Captain Young, the M.O., at once!" ordered Dastral, and immediately one of the air-mechanics ran off to find Number Nine.
"You were a marvel to bring her down without a crash!" said Dastral. "I'm sure I could never have done it."
The German smiled. He was a fair-haired Prussian, not at all of the Hun type, and there was moisture in his blue eyes as he replied,
"I thank you for the compliment, Flight-Commander. You also are some pilot, as you English say."
"And she is some machine, too!" urged Dastral, trying to keep up the man's spirit until the medical officer arrived.