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By Root 2300 0

’t, you son of a bitch. He banked toward the Albatros, the German plane sliding beneath him, no time for either man to shoot. He dove now, put the nose nearly straight down, then turned in a tight spiral, brought the Nieuport back around. He expected to see the Albatros coming around as well, searched frantically, saw him now, off to the side again, out of range. Damn! He jerked the stick, began to loop around the German’s tail, focused on his gun sights, close, closer, but the Albatros seemed to jump up, rolled above him, spun down, trying to get behind him. No, you don’t! Lufbery repeated the looping spin, the Albatros repeating the same move. They were clear of the clouds now, and Lufbery tried to spot the patrol below him, but there was no time, the Albatros matching his every move, darting up and over, as Lufbery spun to keep the German off his tail. They were circling now, both men seeking to close on the other, neither man gaining the advantage, each move either high or low matched by the other. Lufbery stared out toward the German, saw black goggles, the man looking back at him. They continued to circle, and his heart was racing in his chest. He scanned the Albatros, saw every detail, two machine guns on the motor housing, the black cross on the plane’s fuselage, the plane’s nose painted bright red. He thought of fuel, ran the time through his mind, how many minutes had it been? Thirty, forty before I saw him. More, perhaps. And the wind, blowing out of the West. So, we are moving your way, eh, Boche? You think I’ll just keep up this carousel ride until it’s too late? He ran tactics through his mind, the distance to the cloud bank, no, too far. If I straighten out, he’ll have me. He glanced down, the ground below him rotating slowly, no sign of the patrol, of anyone else. Where the hell are you? I could use a little assistance up here! He looked again at the German, thought, How much fuel do you have, Boche? How much longer before you are in trouble? Perhaps we should just wait and see.

The German suddenly waved at him, and Lufbery could see hints of a smile beneath the man’s goggles. Lufbery ignored the gesture, thought, So, you’re enjoying this little dance? He was losing patience now, glanced again toward the ground, thought, Someone see me up here? Dammit, all it will take is one of you to come up here. He looked again at the Albatros, was surprised to see the plane’s belly again, the Albatros suddenly falling away in a sharp dive. Damn! He pushed the Nieuport down hard, turned to follow, but the Albatros had a head start, was already dropping far below him. He glanced at the compass, saw the German was heading east. Why, you bastard. You’re going home. Well, I suppose you answered my question. You were obviously low on fuel. No wonder you were watching me so carefully. You were waiting for me to look away, just that one brief second. Smart fellow. Perhaps next time I won’t let you get away.

He pulled the Nieuport level, scanned the air beneath him, still no sign of the patrol. He looked at his watch, thought, Better find your way home. He began to drop, searched the ground for details, could see a snaking smear of wide brown earth, the familiar sign of no-man’s-land. He was east of the line, German territory, thought of the Albatros again. It had to be his fuel. Otherwise, the bastard had the advantage. Lufbery moved toward a low line of clouds, dropped the nose again, the clouds shielding him from any antiaircraft fire on the ground. He thought of the German pilot waving to him. What was that? Arrogance? I’m letting you go home this time. Or else, what, Boche, you trying to be my friend? He ran the confrontation through his mind, the details, the turns he had made, the cleverness of the German. He scolded himself: you assumed no one else would be up here. Hell, he might have assumed the same thing. Perhaps we were both fools.

A RED NOSE? AN ALBATROS WITH A RED NOSE? YOU CERTAIN?”

“He was less than seventy-five yards from me for fifteen minutes. How sure do I have to be?”

DeLaage clenched his fists,