I was in the saddle of the cockpit, feeling on my face the bite of the
slipstream--no, that was a later term--the prop-wash?--no, that was
still later--the backlash from the screw, that was it. I was lifting
to meet the Fokker triplanes in the dawn sky. Then in a moment my
Vickers was chattering in answer to Spandaus, firing through the screw
outfitted with iron edges to deflect bullets that did not pass to the
left and right. And back through the aerial maps in the cockpit pocket
at my knee.
Here he comes, the Spandaus firing right through the screw in perfect
synchronization. Look at that chivalrous wave. You can almost see the
dueling scar on his cheek from old Krautenberg. He can afford to be
chivalrous in that Fokker. I'd like to trade this skiddoo for it. That
may be just what I do too if I don't watch it.
You ain't any Boelcke, mister, but this is from the Fifth for Squadron
70.
Missed!
Hard on that rudder! God, look at the snake in that fabric. At least it
was a lie about them using incendiaries.
One of your own tricks for you, Heinie. Up on the stick, up under your
tail, into the blind spot. Where am I? Where am I? _Right here._
Look at that tail go. Tony can't be giving you as good stuff as he
claims.
So long. I'm waving, see.
He's pulling her up. No tail and he's pulling her up. He's a good man.
Come on. A little more. A little more and you can deadstick her. Come
on, buddy. You're doing it. You're pulling her up--
But not enough.
God, what a mess.
I'm sick.
That damned castor oil in the carburetor. I'll be in the W. C. until
oh-six-hundred....
* * * * *
No, the air wasn't one of castor oil but the pleasant smell of aged
paper and printer's ink.
I'd been daydreaming again. I shouldn't forget things were getting
different lately. It was becoming dangerous.