Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1927-08-07

A flight of II Of them crossed be.
hind him and he could wait no longer.
He would make Il feint attack, pull
I'D again. and in the confusion wing
back toward the line to meet the
Spads that must be coming.' But
would his men pull up when he did?
That was the whole point. That was
the fear in his mind as he rocked his
plane to signal, turned in Il reverse.
ment, and led his flight back on it's
course and down on top of the
FOkkers.
Then he zoomed and looked back.
His planes were still with him. one.
two, three, four, tve--one was
missing. No 10 was missing. His
first thought was not of danger. or
of st. Georges folly, but Of girl
in cafe at Souilly, waiting for some
one who would never come. All this
in an instant. Down below. in
melee of Fokkers. Phil Blanchard
struggled in the face of death.
\ glance showed him turning first
into one line OF fire. then another.
More and more Fokkers were coming
from behind as Tom waved Lieut..
BECKER to move forward and take the
flight. He motioned them on. He
couldn't kill six more men in defense
OF one-although he could kill one
more. Tom Boone's Spad stood sud
)denly on its nose and he shot down,
like a hawk on the dive, into the
thick OF it, straight at two red-winged
FokkerS that were pouring hail Of
lead into "St. Georges" Spad. lie
fired two bursts. the first at perhaps
60 yards, the second at so, so close
that he could see the figure of the
German pilot slump loosely in the
seat. held in only by the belt as his
plane Topped out of control. The
second Fokker pulled off to avoid col
lision. He caught one fleet glimpse
of Phil Blanchard's white face.
The rest of it was like an aSonizinS
dream, one of those dreams in which
one is helpless awaiting the stroke.
A stream of tracers crossed i'll front
of his face, taking a strip of linen
from his wing. Every turn brought
him into a line of fire and under the
dive of Fokker. His left shoulder
jolted forward. He knew he was hit,
although he felt no pain. A thin spray
of gasoline spurted into his face from
the punctured auxiliary tank in the
top wing. A streak of white fire
burned close to his face-and every
time he could bring d plane and pilot
in front of his ring sights his own
guns spat back their streaming de-
fiance. Two Fokkers collided, crum-
ping. as he turned to escape them.
One of Tom Boone's last. thoughts
was that some of those Planes wera
Spads. \ line Of tracers bent ines
capably upon him. and two spangled
Fokkers appeared unnaturally large
before his eyes. He tried to turn
white lines of death. But he seemed
raralyzed. He made a desperate ef-
fort. Zoomed and fired blindly, shout
ing some mad berserk challenge that
brought blood into his mouth. Then
came another jolting shock that made
him feel-Well, too tired. He leaned
his head forward against the cowl pad
and closed his eyes. Let them go
ahead and shoot.
But how could fellow get any rest
being thrown around like that. bump
ing your head against the cowl and
with the belt jerking your insides
out? A screaming blast of air struck |
his face, pulled his soft leather he'll |
met half off and for one instant Tom
Boone Strengthened enough to know |
that he was falling. He must have |
fallen nearly 1000 meters. well. |
l won't them he said. He set his |
teeth. Il won't fall. They didn't |
burn me and I'm not going to fall"
He pulled the plane very slowly out
of its dive and into fiat glide, head !
ing southwark. concentrating every.l
remaining resource Of will to carry |
him through the next 60 seconds.
The bump came sooner than he ex-
pected. The wheels touched. the |
plane bounded again into the air. |
passed over a ravine. struck once |
more with diminished speed at the |
edge of a shell crater. There was |
splintering crash. the limp, hurting |
figure of the pilot was thrown 80 |
feet beyond, and from the shell hole |
came the quick, roaring gush OF a |
gasoline flame.
THE parade Of trucks still hammer
l. ed the highway to Verdun tA1t |
night. The towering searchlisht still |
swept the sky in search of the Ger |
man bomber's deep-toned hum. The |
front still blazed with fire. In an al |
cove of cafe at Souilly a girl in a |
nurses cloak and cap was waiting. |
her thoughts far away.
Through the main room, jostling the |
tables in his excitement. a young |
American aviator hurried. In the |
doorway he paused. Marion. Look |
me over, Marion--I am ace"
Her eyes frightened and faint |
flow of color came around the table. |
put her hands in his. I'm so
proud
He interrupted. ooh, what a day.
What we did to the Fokkers today |
was something to write home about.
We were the first squadron on the
front and it was pretty tough for |
awhile
He did not notice that she had |
drawn away from him and that an
expression Of puzzlement was in her |
dark. Swallowed eyes.
"Weren't-weren't any of Your men
shot down."
What? OF course. We lost four.
That wasn't many. considering what |
we did and what we were up against.
What's the matter with your"
Marion was white again. Nothing |
Is the matter. / was thinking of the
four men you lost. Who - were
they?"
''Oh, we lost Ned Shepherd. Paul
Jameson. young Gardiner and-oh,