When the pursuing planes drew nearer, the shelling from below grew
less, while the condition of his own plane was such as to cause alarm.
He knew that he was cornered. Cornered, too, in a way seldom happening
to the birdmen who became temporarily lost in a raid. He eyed the two
nearing scout planes with no little aversion. Not only was his machine
going at less speed, despite his efforts, but the difficulty in
steering was greater. Apparently if would only obey the rudder slowly,
no matter how hard he tried to "get a move on her." As for wheeling,
volplaning, spiraling or doing anything that occasioned quick action on
his part with rudder or planes, he was nearly helpless.
Meantime the pursuing planes, both Fokker scouting machines, drew still
nearer and began to use their machine guns. The balls pattered all
about; but as yet neither he nor his plane was hit. He was zigzagging,
mounting, spiraling, but all in a much slower fashion than he had been
used to do with this same plane before.
"What's the use?" he groaned. "I can't get back at them, even if I am
running away. It's got to come. What's the odds? I'll turn and give
them one good try for their game, anyhow."
He was already turning in his lame evolutions when something like a big
shadow darkened the air for an instant overhead. It passed. Then back
came the shadow again, and a voice was megaphoning, not from below or
in the rear but from right overhead.
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