To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [162]
The formation was moving past him, and he continued to flex his fingers, trying to bring the feeling back, the precision he would need. They were behind him now, and he banked the SPAD in a hard turn, the nose dropping, could feel the speed, the heavy plane slipping rapidly down, curling around, bringing the German formation straight in front of him. He was breathing heavily, dropped the nose again, the planes seeming to rise up slightly in front of him. He had seen their markings clearly, all manner of swirls and odd patterns, starbursts and geometric shapes. They were Albatroses, and he had seen this before, each squadron’s coloring, each pilot’s own design. Some said it was camouflage, and Lufbery had laughed at that, had seen too many of these Boche machines to believe they could hide from anyone. No, he thought, it is just vanity, your arrogant pretense that somehow each of you is unique, worthy of attention. Well, I shall give you my attention now.
The SPAD had closed the gap between them and was nearly underneath the last plane in the formation. He looked out toward the second Albatros, across the wide mouth of their V formation. He doesn’t see me either. Too bad for you, Boche. He pulled back gently on the stick, the tail of the first Albatros just above him, the gun sight squarely on the plane’s body. He pressed the trigger, the gun firing a long burst, ripping the belly, blasting pieces off the tail. The tail section of the plane suddenly disintegrated, large pieces breaking free, coming apart, and the Albatros spun away violently, the pilot losing all control. Lufbery looked across at the second plane, saw the pilot banking toward him. Lufbery was surprised by the move, the Albatros crossing right in front of him, right into his gun sights. He fired again, could see the face of the pilot staring at him, the man’s head now jerking away, the impact of the bullets, the cockpit splintering to pieces. The second Albatros began to spin, falling away as well, and Lufbery looked at the next two in the formation, could see wings tilting, the pilots searching for him, one plane banking away, trying to move around behind him. He pulled the stick hard to the side, pushed the nose straight down, dropping into a steep dive. He was pressed hard against the seat, stared ahead, glanced at the wings, stiff and solid, the SPAD showing no strain. He held the nose down, did not look for the Germans behind him, knew that with the head start, they could not catch him now. He continued the dive, faster than he had gone before, the SPAD still showing no sign of stress. He looked through the prop, could see details on the ground, rows of cannon, movement, a truck on a road, thought, All right, that’s low enough. He pulled back slowly on the stick, the SPAD responding, coming out of the dive. He glanced quickly at the altimeter, barely five hundred meters, and he made a quick turn, a tight circle, scanned the sky above him, saw nothing at all, the Albatroses not pursuing. He focused on the artillery below, turned the SPAD in the direction of the cannon barrels, the old lesson. If you’re lost, aim the same direction as the enemy’s cannon. He did not look for the two planes he had destroyed, thought instead of the pilot he had shot. What was he thinking? Perhaps he didn’t see me at all, was just following his friend. It was his final mistake. With the tail shot to hell like that, no chance his friend could gain control. Bastard probably went in at full throttle.
He could see no-man’s-land still out in front of him, the boundary that was so crucial to so many of the pilots.