But --
what? Again and again he tried to train his own gun on the American,
but the latter kept edging just out of range, while at the same time he
drew near, nearer.
At last, when within fifty yards, Erwin let him have it. While his
Lewis was spitting forth a continuous fire, by some method not at once
comprehended by the other, Erwin ranged alongside, still at a distance
where he was free from air suction, and literally riddled that big
plane with holes. After a spattering fire that did no harm, the German
abandoned the gun and strove to nosedive, always a rather risky
proceeding in such a big plane when haste is apt to neutralize
efficiency.
Instead of presenting a slanting pair of wings, the big machine was
tipped in such a way as to present for a minute, its whole under side
to Erwin's view.
It was the critical moment. With feet on controls, and one hand on the
wheel, the lad managed to pour a continuous volley of those leaden
hailstones squarely into the entrails of the foe. Then up he climbed,
at almost lightning speed, and as he came to dancing level off the
German's tail, out from the sagging biplane pitched another human body,
this time not the murdered, but the murderer.
"Good riddance!" almost gasped Erwin. "He's gone to hell, where he and
his like belong! But -- what's this? Glory! His tank is busted; his
plane goes down with him and on fire!"
Erwin was correct.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125