the Britishers hear the rattle of machine-guns.
The observer engages one of the Huns, and evidently gets in some good
shooting, for it swerves away and lets another take its place. Meanwhile
enemy bullets have crashed through two spars, shot away a
rudder-control, and ripped several parts of the fuselage.

The black-crossed hawks cluster all around. There are two on the left,
one on the right, one underneath the tail, and two above. A seventh Hun
sweeps past in front, about eighty yards ahead. The pilot's gun rakes it
from stem to stern as it crosses, and he gives a great shout as its
petrol-tank begins to blaze and the enemy craft flings itself down, with
a stream of smoke and another flame shooting out behind.

But his own petrol-tank has been plugged from the side, and his observer
has a bullet in the left arm. The petrol supply is regulated by
pressure, and, the pressure having gone when German bullets opened the
tank, the engine gets less and less petrol, and finally ceases work.

To glide fifteen miles to the lines is clearly impossible. There is
nothing for it but to accept the inevitable and choose a good
landing-ground. The pilot pushes the joystick slowly forward and
prepares to land.

The Germans follow their prey down, ready to destroy if by any chance
its engine comes back to life, and it stops losing height. The observer
tears up papers and maps, performs certain other duties whereby the
enemy is cheated of booty, and stuffs all personal possessions into his
pocket.

A medley of thoughts race across the observer's mind as the pilot
S-turns the machine over the field he has chosen. A prisoner!--damnable
luck--all papers destroyed--arm hurting--useless till end of war--how
long will it last?--chances of escape--relieve parents' suspense--must
write--due for leave--Marjorie--Piccadilly in the sunshine--rotten
luck--was to be--make best of it--Kismet!

One duty remains. The observer digs into the petrol tank as they touch
earth, and then runs round the machine. In a second the petrol is ablaze
and the fuselage and wings are burning merrily. Germans rush up and make
vain attempts to put out the fire. Soon nothing remains but charred
debris, a discoloured engine, bits of metal and twisted wires.

My friends are seized, searched, and disarmed. They then shake hands
with the German pilots, now heatedly discussing who was chiefly
responsible for their success. The captive couple are lunched by the
enemy ai