arer and nearer to your
prey. The Hun puts his nose down to sweep away; but it is too late. His
petrol tank bursts into flames, and the machine dives steeply, a
streamer of flame running away behind it. The fire spreads to the
fuselage and planes. After rushing earthwards for two or three thousand
feet, the whole aeroplane crumbles up and you see the main portion
falling like a stone. And you (who have shed the skin of sentiment and
calm restraint and become for the duration of the fight a bold bad pilot
with the lust of battle in your blood) are filled with joy.

Meanwhile, your observer's gun has been grinding away behind you,
showing that you in your turn are attacked. You twist the machine round.
Almost instinctively your feet push the rudder-control just sufficiently
to let you aim dead at the nearest enemy. You press the trigger. Two
shots are fired, and--your gun jambs.

You bank and turn sideways, so as to let your observer get in some
shooting while you examine your gun. From the position of the
check-lever you realise that there has been a misfire. Quickly but
calmly--feverish haste might make a temporary stoppage chronic--you lean
over and remedy the fault. Again you press the trigger, and never was
sound more welcome than the _ta-ta-ta-ta-ta_ which shows you are ready
for all comers.

Once more you turn to meet the attacking Germans. As you do so your
observer points to a black-crossed bird which is gliding down after he
has crippled it. But three more are closing round you. Something sings
loudly a yard away. You turn your head and see that a landing wire has
been shot through; and you thank the gods that it was not a flying wire.

The flight-commander and another companion have just arrived to help
you. They dash at a Boche, and evidently some of their shots reach him,
for he also separates himself and glides down. The two other Huns,
finding themselves outnumbered, retire.

All this while the two rear machines have been having a bad time. They
were surrounded by five enemies at the very beginning of the fight. One
of the Boches has since disappeared, but the other four are very much
there.

You sweep round and go to the rescue, accompanied by the
flight-commander and the remaining British machine. Just as you arrive
old X's bus drops forward and down, spinning as it goes. It falls slowly
at first, but seems to gather momentum; the spin becomes wilder and
wilder, the drop faster and faster.

"Poor