lights glared into the sky. Rockets streaked above the black city; shells flared and flaked in the air; and the glory of battle grasped Gerry. Grasped O'Malley, too. He patted his machine gun and turned about in his seat, appealing to Gerry.
Above them the Fokkers and the other machines of the German defense were diving and engaging the raiders; a light caught the under wings of a plane and showed Gerry the tricolor circles of the allies. Before it sparks streaked—the illuminated tracer bullets streaming from the machine guns; and toward it, beyond it—now through it—other sparks streaked back. These were the tracer bullets of the German who was attacking; and Gerry, jerking back his elevator, tried to climb; but the big, lumbering training "bus" responded only slowly.
When he threw up the nose, bringing the forward machine gun to bear, O'Malley loosed a burst of bullets, though the target German plane was five hundred yards away. A range of that length was all right for machine-gun work on the ground, but in the air—with firing gun and with the target flying—it was sure waste. Gerry bent forward and pummeled O'Malley's back to tell him so. But the Irishman did not turn; while Gerry climbed, the raiders and the Germans dropped, bringing the battle nearer, and O'Malley had a target now at two hundred yards from which he would not be withheld.
The range still shortened, and bullets streaked down past Gerry. He gazed above and tried to dodge; O'Malley looked up; he saw the tricolor circle and did not reply. One of their own people, having sighted the black cross, was coming down upon them, taking them for German.
