To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [240]
He pressed the trigger again, nothing happening, and he looked at the gun in front of him, could see now, the bolt partially open, a shell stuck halfway. The gunner in the Albatros was firing at him again, and Lufbery jerked the stick, pulled the Nieuport in a sharp bank, looked back, the Albatros not following him. No, he thought, he’s in no condition to fight. He’s trying to get home. And unless I can fix this damned gun, he’ll make it.
He unbuckled the belt across his waist, stood slightly, leaned out over the windscreen. He kept his head down, fighting the hard wash of air from the prop, trying to keep his goggles from blowing off. He felt for the gun, wrapped his gloved fingers around the bolt, and he jerked hard.
“Come on, dammit!”
The bolt gave way, the spent cartridge tumbling out, the breech clear, and he pulled the bolt again, smooth, the gun ready once more. He eased back, sat again, adjusted the goggles, scanned the sky, said aloud, “Now, you son of a bitch. Where are you?”
He circled, saw more of the white puffs, could see the Albatros snaking its way westward. He straightened the Nieuport, followed again, let out a long slow breath, flexed his fingers. All right, he thought. I’m ready for you. Let’s try this again.
The Albatros was swerving, the pilot struggling, trying to avoid the shells bursting around him. Lufbery felt a small jolt, shrapnel scattered in the air around him. It was typical, the ground gunners not caring who they shot at, and Lufbery cursed, kept the Nieuport in a straight course, aimed for the tail of the Albatros.
He was close again, saw the gunner standing, the machine gun coming up once more. He held the nose in a tight line, measured again, saw flashes from the German gun, streaks of fire ripping past him. He leaned forward slightly, stared at the man, the gap closing, his finger on the trigger. It’s time now, Boche. . . .
He pressed the trigger, the gun chattering, throwing a stream of lead into the Albatros, but the German plane was rolling, dipping again, and Lufbery held steady to the stick, thought, All right, one more time. The German gunner raised his head, seemed to look up at him, the two men only yards apart, and the man lowered his head again, staring through his gun sights, finding his own aim. Lufbery pressing the trigger again, felt a sudden sharp jolt, his hand punched free from the stick, a sharp stinging burn. Blood was coming from his glove, and he fought to grip the stick, but his hand was still burning, and he saw the thumb of his glove gone, blood spilling out onto his flight suit. The pain came now, and he tried to grip the stick again, but there was no control, no grip. He looked up, saw the Albatros still in front of him, grabbed the stick with his left hand, fumbled for the trigger, heard a sharp ping, more bullets striking the motor. He pulled his right hand up to his chest, tried to bank with his left, and suddenly the motor exploded in fire, great sheets of flame sweeping back around him. He released the stick, his left hand fumbling for the ignition switch, and he stabbed at it, his hands quivering, the flames now on him, burning his face. He pulled the stick to the left, the flames sweeping out to the right for a brief second. Yes, that’s it. Slip dive, slide back and forth. The motor was silent now, and he could smell the sharp odor of burned cloth, the flames engulfing the motor, the slip not working. The cowling was consumed by the fire now, the flames starting to roll over him, the fire spreading out on the wing above him. The plane began to tumble, and he tried to see out, his flight suit burning, his arms carrying the flames. The screams came now, carried off by the rush of wind, and he beat his arms against his chest, fought