the German guns were replying; they might halt at eleven, but no love was being lost upon this last day.
About the middle of the morning German combat planes appeared. Gerry was among the first to sight them and dash forward. Seven or eight American machines followed him; and for the swift seconds of the first attack they kept somewhat to formation. Then all line was lost in a diving, tumbling, looping, climbing, sideslipping maelstrom of machines fighting three miles above the ground. Each pilot selected a particular antagonist, and Gerry found himself circling out of the mêlée while he maneuvered for position with a new triplane Fokker, whose pilot appeared to have taken deep dislike for him.
The German was a good flyer—an old hand in a new machine, Gerry thought. At any rate, Gerry could obtain neither the position directly above him or just behind him—"on the tail." They fired at each other several times passing, but that was no way to hit anything. Several times, of course, they got widely separated—once for an interval long enough to give Gerry chance to aid another American who was being pressed by two Germans, and to send one of the Germans down out of control. Then Gerry's particular enemy appeared and they were at it again.
Gerry climbed better now and got above him; Gerry dived, and the German, waiting just the right time, sideslipped and tumbled out from underneath. Gerry checked his dive and got about behind him. Gerry was coming upon him fast, behind, and just a trifle below—in almost perfect firing position—when he saw the German look back and hold up his hand. Gerry held his fire, and,
