In another minute they were dodging,
diving, eluding, darting among each other, inextricably intermingled,
yet now, on the whole, rising higher. Just over to the right of Blaine
one of the Boche fliers was already dropping to the earth. Blaine saw
and noted the cause. It was Erwin, rising from a dexterous side-loop
to higher elevation, yet peering over at his fallen foe.
"Good boy," murmured the ensign. "He'll do! No use to worry about
flying position now. It's fight or die!"
What the Allies mainly cared about now was to dodge the enemy fliers,
and still pour the remainder of their explosives down upon the mangled
trenches until the Allied infantry should come up. By this time
Stanley, back at his old post, was whirling round on his seat for more
racks of bombs. He had already used his own machine gun with deadly
effect. Blaine was reaching for another drum of ammunition for his
Lewis when he saw Stanley lurch forward. He was hit. Not a word
though; not even a struggle.
"My Gawd, man!" called Blaine. "Are you hit bad? Slip down under
cover!"
No reply as the observer slowly sagged back and down into the manhole.
Then a sudden rage filled the stalwart American. He loved Stanley, who
he knew was game to the core. Just then a German machine sped by full
tilt, sending spatters of bullets right and left. Instantly Blaine
tried the tail-dip, always risky yet worth while if successful.
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