Air Stories, April 1936 — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AIR STORIES Because he was not in the least anxious to meet any Huns that afternoon, Warton felt that it was inevitable that they should do so. In this surmise he was correct, for hardly had the patrol crossed the lines before they encountered a veritable swarm of Fokker triplanes and Pfalz scouts, that seemed to appear from every part of the sky. In the ensuing ‘‘ dog- fight,’? Warton was kept busy trying to remedy a chronic double feed in his Vickers gun. The little sergeant, with a piece of half-chewed string hanging from a corner of his mouth, worked feverishly at the back, rattling the magazine on its post, and firing drum after drum at any machine that came near. But his shooting, though enthu- Siastic, was inaccurate. ARTON saw very little of the fight. Unconsciously, he used stick and rudder for dive and turn, the while he wrestled with the crank handle of his Vickers gun. Whenever he took a hurried survey of the sky, he received a confused impression of small black- crossed machines darting here and there with Fories or Savage in pursuit. He saw one German scout spin slowly down in flames, and several others dive east to take refuge in the clouds. The number of machines was considerably diminished by the time he had remedied the stoppage, and was testing his gun with a short burst. Coote, at the same time, was leaning over the side pouring tracer into a Hun several thousand feet below. Above the din caused by the two Huns, Warton heard a_ sharp crackling noise and something burst through the fuselage behind him, rip- ping splinters from the wicker-work of his seat. Coote abruptly stopped firing and fell back against Warton’s head, clutching at the empty air with his upraised hands. Then he crumpled up like a doll and lurched forward on to the floor of his cockpit. At the instant at which the bullet struck his seat, Warton had kicked hard at the rudder-bar and skidded away to one side. But over his shoulder he saw a Fokker triplane, painted with black and yellow stripes, that swung round on his tail, almost without ceasing to fire. Warton turned and twisted, trying every expedient he knew to shake off the triplane, but it was all to no avail. The German followed every movement, playing with his two guns upon Warton’s machine as with a hose. From below, where they had dived to chase home the stragglers, Fories and Savage watched the duel with anxious eyes, unable to offer any assistance. It was Warton’s aim to induce his opponent to over- shoot, so as to enable him to use the front gun, but neither loops nor rolls served to lure the German on or to confuse him. At the end of every manceuvre he was still in the same position, not twenty yards from Warton’s tail-plane, firing short bursts that frayed the wings and ricochetted from the engine cowling. Warton had almost forgotten Coote lying motionless in the back seat, so he was the more amazed to see his figure first stir uneasily, then stagger gropingly upright. Coote’s jaw hung down and saliva dripped from his open mouth ; as he stood up, blood trickled from his face, down the length of his flying-coat on to the floor. Swaying like a drunken man, he pushed up the goggles from his eyes with one hand and felt round the mounting with the other until his fingers closed uncertainly on the spade-grip of the Lewis gun. Slowly, as though shifting an immense weight, he swung the gun round towards the triplane. Then he laid his cheek against it and aligned his sights. Instinctively Warton steadied his machine for the shot and waited. The Lewis gun clamoured with its irri- tated laugh for a few seconds while the blazing tracer leapt across at the German. Warton watched for its effect, panting withexcitement ; then muttered, ‘*Ah, Good man! Good man!’’ as the triplane swerved aside and hung poised in the air, before it spun slowly and flutteringly down. When he looked again into the observer’s cockpit, he saw Coote lying on his stomach across the seat, his knees gathered in close 312 COnnicloo SJ (C(O)