Beyond the Horizon by Peter Watt Page A

machine-guns were blazing, tearing away at the wings of the fragile Nieuport. Matthew immediately noticed that his controls were sluggish and he knew it was over. The other man was bloody good, he thought bitterly, desperately seeking out a ravine flat and wide enough to bring down his near crippled aircraft.
    With great effort he was able to turn and bring his plane down low between two set of hills in a promising wide, flat ravine. The Albatros overshot him when he pulled away and then went into a tight turn to swoop down and finish him off. This was not the first time Matthew had been shot down and he prayed that the luck of the Irish was still with him. The sandy bottom of the ravine was coming up fast and he pulled back on the stick to lift the nose. Already the engine had cut out, and his aircraft touched the ravine, bumped and flipped over as the wheels bit into the soft earth.
    He felt the sharp jerk on his harness and his head snapped back as the aircraft tipped forward. The last time he had been shot down his adversary had spared him, but this pilot had no such sympathy for his defeated enemy. Instead, a long string of bullets ripped through the crippled aircraft. Matthew knew he had to get out quickly. He unbuckled his harness and snatched up the water bottle and packet of sandwiches his ground crew had given him before he took off.
    There was an ominous silence broken only by the drone of aircraft overhead and the crackle of flames. Fire! Matthew thought. His plane was on fire, he had to get out right now. He hauled himself out of the cockpit and over the side, and fell about ten feet to the sand below just as more bullets stitched his downed Nieuport. His adversary was ensuring that the aircraft was well and truly destroyed so he could count it as a certain kill. As Matthew lay winded on the ground he realised that he had been wounded; his arm as was bleeding profusely. He could barely catch his breath but he knew he had to move, to get away from his aircraft. He began crawling as fast as he could, and just then the crackling turned into a whoosh of flames.
    He crawled on, ignoring the pain in his arm and the constriction in his chest. When he was far enough away to be safe, he rolled over onto his back to see that there were only two aircraft left in the blue sky. Their rolling dogfight took them westwards and soon the sound of the aircraft faded and was also gone, leaving Matthew alone in the wilderness.
    He knew that he was a long way from help and probably in territory patrolled by the Turks; all he had with him was his revolver with six rounds, a crumpled packet of cheese and cucumber sandwiches and a battered metal water bottle. His bleeding was controllable and Matthew realised that the round must have ripped down his arm, opening the flesh. An inch or two to one side would have shattered his arm, so he gave thanks for small mercies, despite the fact his back ached and his neck felt stiff.
    As his downed aircraft continued to burn and send a black pillar of oily smoke into the cloudless sky Matthew took stock of his situation. He did not know whether his surviving pilot had made it back to the squadron’s airstrip to raise the alarm. His colleague’s plane had disappeared behind hills and what happened after that was in the hands of the desert gods.
    He realised that his photograph of Joanne would have been destroyed in the fire, and for some reason he regretted the loss of her image more than his being shot down.
    The sun was already setting low over the hills and the long shadows of night crept across the ravine. Matthew was grateful for his heavy fleece-lined leather jacket as the night would be bitterly cold.
    â€˜Well, old boy,’ Matthew said aloud. ‘Time to walk home.’
    In his pocket he kept a prismatic compass and now he used it to locate the cardinal points of north and south. He knew that he must walk west to find the more fertile lands nearer the Jordan River, where Arab