for the bird on his upper
left, and continued to chase and fight him in this position. The other
German bird was off to one side, put-put-put-put-ing! for all he was
worth, but his bullets were wasted by reason of the upside down
position. In a run of another 500 yards the work of our lad was
finished, his machine gun having done the trick; and Fritz and his pilot
being killed, the machine dashed rudderless to the ground, nose first.

There remained but one. Our bird again got on top, but there was no
fight left in Fritz; he scooted for a hundred yards in the direction of
home, but was winged while running, part of his left wing dropping off.
The rest was easy; his machine became unmanageable, an explosive bullet
smashed into his petrol tank and he dropped in flames.

The entire ceremony of sending the three German chickens to their
eternal hen-coop did not take ten minutes. As each bird fell to its
death, the entire valley resounded with wild cheering; and when the last
foe fell, the cheering wave of sound was followed by a tiger in the
shape of a volley from every rifle--in fact, everything that would
shoot, except the big guns.

Our bird then executed his stunt of victory, looping the loop several
times over Fritzie's trenches, and the spirit of Fritz was amply
exemplified by the thousand times ten thousand shots which were leveled
at the air king to bring him down. He bore a charmed life; although his
plane was perforated with machine-gun bullets, none touched a vital
spot.

But, suddenly, from out the clouds swooped a German swallow in a
frenzied attack to retrieve the disgrace. He had all the advantage of
position, and a great fear filled my heart that our champion might not
long enjoy the fruits of his victory. However, when about 400 yards
above our bird, our watchful boys at the Archee guns (the anti-aircraft
guns, so nicknamed because of their peculiar explosive sound) opened on
him, and with the third shot, off flopped his fish tail. He dove in a
wabble to the ground and, in his descent, his petrol tank was struck by
one of our explosive bullets. When it reached the ground in No Man's
Land, it was a mass of flames.

For seven days, every hour of the night and day, the mighty chorus of
1400 batteries rose and swelled unceasingly in a vast concourse of
sound.

Promptly at ten minutes past five, on the morning of the seventh day,
the word having passed from end to end of the lines, the men were up and
o