"Look at 'em! Ain't they beauts?"
There was a row of eight of these snug-built machines, all the same
type and monogram, all with machine guns strapped solidly to the
fuselage of each, and with motors of great power and pliability.
"You can do anything with these chaps," remarked Milt, "except fly to
the moon. But these motors would take you a long way. As for stunts
like diving, circling, dipping, playing dead and the like, you never
saw the like. I only hope we go out soon. I learn there's a new raid
on the taps."
Blaine was nosing about one of the machines that was like the others,
only a trifle larger and had an observer's seat behind the pilot's.
"That's your, Sergeant?" queried Erwin, slightly emphasizing the last
word.
"Bet your bottee wootees, Corporal!" Another slight emphasis on the
last word. "As for yours, take your pick. They're all exactly alike.
We must go into preliminary practice today."
For an answer Erwin mechanically rolled out the machine he had first
examined, and prepared for a short flight.
"After all, all, these are much like the planes we used at Vimy last
year."
"Some improvements and stronger motors added thought," said Blaine.
"Going to give it a try-out?"
"Yep! Thought I'd like to get my hand in a bit before we go out in
squad formation." He nimbly vaulted into his seat over the rim of the
fuselage, or the body of the machine, as two mechanics pushed forward
behind the wings.
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