He flung himself down to the earth.
Wind beat on them suddenly, then an outrageous blast of icy air from above. For an instant the sky lightened. They saw a hole in the mist, saw the little pill-box clearly, saw a huge framework of supporting screws sweeping swiftly overhead with figures in it watching the ground through wind-angle glasses, and machine-gunners firing madly at dancing things in the air. Then it was gone.
"One o' ours," shouted Coffee in Wallis' ear. "They' tryin' to find th' Yellows' tanks!"
The center of the roaring seemed to shift, perhaps to the north. Then a roaring drowned out all the other roarings. This one was lower down and approaching in a rush. Something swooped from the south, a dark blotch in the lighter mist above. It was an airplane flying in the mist, a plane that had dived into the fog as into oblivion. It appeared, was gone—and there was a terrific crash. A shattering roar drowned out even the droning tumult of a hundred aircraft engines. A sheet of flame flashed up, and a thunderous detonation.
"Hit a tree," panted Coffee, scrambling to his feet again. "Suicide club, aimin' for our helicopter."
Corporal Wallis was pointing, his lips drawn back in a snarl.
"Shut up!" he whispered. "I saw a shadow against that flash! Yeller infantryman! Le's get 'im!"
"Y'crazy," said Sergeant Coffee, but he strained his eyes and more especially his ears.
It was Coffee who clutched Corporal Wallis' wrist and pointed. Wallis could see nothing, but he followed as Coffee moved silently through the gray mist. Presently he too, straining his eyes, saw an indistinct movement.