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The question of the strangers' nationality being answered, we slip into a cloud to avoid attack. The flight-commander thinks it advisable to remain hidden by keeping inside the clouds. He must therefore steer entirely by compass, without sun or landmark to guide him.
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.
As often happens, the German biplanes are ranged one above the other, like the tiers of a dress-circle. Again the signal to attack, and the flight-commander sweeps at what seems to be the highest enemy. We are ranging ourselves round him, when two enemy scouts sweep down from heaven-knows-where, firing as they come. Several of their bullets enter the engine of our rearmost rearguard.
There is a moment of excitement when the flight-commander spots three machines two thousand feet below. Are they Huns? His observer uses field-glasses, and sees black crosses on the wings. The signal to attack is fired, and we follow the leader into a steep dive.
But the flight-commander, remembering the recent order about completing a reconnaissance at all costs, thinks differently and decides to go on. To get our bearings he holds down the nose of the machine until we have descended beneath the clouds, and into full view of the open country. We find ourselves a mile or two beyond Arras.
The flight-commander selects a Boche and dives straight at him. You follow until you are within range, then swerve away and around, so as to attack from the side. Then, with a clear field, you pour in a raking fire by short bursts ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta-ta, aiming to hit the Boche pilot and allowing for deflection.
The single wouff of the first shot has become a jerky chorus that swells or dwindles according to the number of shells and their nearness. I signal to the flight-commander that I have finished with Toutprès, whereupon we climb into the clouds and comparative safety. We rise above the white intangibility and steer north-east, in the direction of Passementerie.
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.
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