Then suddenly all became quiet. The machine guns and the archies had for some reason stopped their firing. I had been there before—I knew. The time had come. Looking over to the right I saw what I expected—four German Fokkers had already taken off the field and were coming up after us. We could even see their airdrome and other planes ready to take off if necessary. It was a sad day. I had been in scraps before but such odds as these had not faced me. This was, indeed, foreign—ten miles from home, about out of gas, with a bunged-up plane and yet forced to stand there with hands on the guns and patiently await the seconds until they steadily climbed up to get us. I wanted to throw up the sponge in the worst way; it seemed but useless murder of the two of us, for there could be no possible chance to live through it. On the other hand, we might get one or even two of them, so it was the big game—the call of chance. We must give combat—now to break the word to Davis. I laughed hysterically.
“Davis,” I called, “have you ever had a fight?”
Puzzled as to the significance of this question he turned around and answered, “No. Never.”
“Well,” and I again laughed for no reason in the world, “you are going to have one now.” Of course, the airplane did a strange shimmy, after which I continued, “There are four Boche coming up to the right rear. Fly straight ahead, and don’t worry. Only keep me in a position to fire.”
Davis said nothing, but turning around he calmly eyed the oncoming Germans, then I saw his jaws set in fierce determination and without another sign of emotion he directed his attention to the damaged plane.
While the Huns were in formation and at twelve hundred feet, I leveled the guns and fired a burst of thirty rounds in order to scatter them for I have found that the Boche is not half so bold when he knows he is seen. It had the effect I wanted; they scattered and began firing at me from about one thousand feet, hoping to get us by a chance shot, or better, of frightening us into landing. They kept this position for several minutes. I did not fire another shot; I could ill afford to waste a single cartridge and ever hope to make the lines. Seeing that we intended to fight to a finish they separated; one plane came from the left, the other three from the right, and attempted to close in all at the same time. At nine hundred feet they again began to fire, and steadily close in. Still I did not pull the triggers. At my reticence they became bolder and when the right three got to about six hundred feet from me I carefully leveled my right gun and turned loose a well-directed burst of about fifty rounds. To me the real fight had now begun for soon they would be at close range where real fatalities occur. The lad at my left required my attention so I swung the tourelle and carefully laying the bead, I pulled the trigger. It did not fire. Thinking perhaps the locking mechanism had been caught by the sudden swinging of the guns, I reached down to pull it into place. The lock was O.K. It was nothing else than a plain jam. I did not feel so bad for I still had my other gun untried and there was sufficient ammunition yet for a good fight. So, as the left plane closed in I aimed with unerring accuracy; and I was sure I had him unless something unusual happened. Something unusual did happen. The left gun fired about seven shots and stopped. It was no time for child’s play—team work was the one thing necessary to save the situation. Davis realized it, for the moment the guns stopped firing he knew something was all wrong, and he took up the fight by a series of remarkable acrobatics, in a vain effort to get his own guns into play.