Flaming Zeppelins by Joe R. Lansdale

Cetshwayo.
    â€œYou, physician fella. Get that damn green man inside.”
    The Master Physician grabbed the monster at the elbow, led him off the promenade, onto the enclosed deck. Through the great glass windows he could see the vague shapes of the biplanes in the darkness.
    Annie was the first to fire. Her shot, as always, was a good one. She hit a pilot in his cockpit. The plane jerked, dove. Moments later there was an explosion and a flash of light as the biplane slammed into the shore near the Pacific Ocean.
    The biplanes were trailing the dark cigar shape, firing their simple guns.
Blat.
A beat.
Blat.
A beat.
Blat.
The guns were designed to fire with the beat of the propeller, slicing through at the precise moment of the blades’ spacing. It was clever. It was tricky. And it didn’t always work.
    Hickok was glad they were not the new German planes which fired dual Gatling guns as fast as they could work till the ammunition ran out.
    On the downside for them, the zeppelin had no real maneuverability. They were like a dying albatross besieged by falcons.
    Wood splintered on the promenade deck, bullets pocked, cracked, or exploded glass on the main deck. One bullet went through the glass, drove splinters into the creature’s face. A bullet tore through his upper left arm.
    He didn’t bleed.
    Another bullet took Buntline’s bowler hat, caused him to prostrate himself on the deck. The monster stood his ground, glass dangling from his chest. His kimono was torn and burned where the bullet had ripped through it and through his arm.
    The planes were attacking the zeppelin itself. Bullets slammed into the great rubber casing, and though it was designed to take terrific impact from hail, flying birds, and small arms fire, the heavy bullets were succeeding in pounding through.
    Hickok heard a hissing sound as the zeppelin let loose some of its helium. The good news was the big bag was actually a series of smaller gas cells. It could lose considerable helium and still stay airborne. The bad news was there was a limit to anything.
    A biplane passed in front of the promenade deck. Bull shot it the finger, then they all raised their Winchesters and fired at its rear end.
    Their shots smacked into the biplane’s tail assembly. A stream of fire raced along the fuselage, rolled around the plane as if it were a hoop the craft was jumping through. Then the flames grabbed at the seat and the pilot, burst him into a human torch. The plane spun. The blazing pilot freed himself from his seat, and even as the plane turned over and over, he dropped free, a burst of meteoric flame driven hard into the ocean.
    The plane exploded on the water. Flames spread on the surface, waves leapt wet and fiery until the fuel burned itself out.
    The zeppelin sailed along rapidly, propelled not only by its motors, but by a strong tail wind. The Japanese pilots no longer exposed themselves to the zeppelin’s defenders; they knew how unerringly accurate they were. Instead, they flew high above it, firing at the defenseless structure of the craft, causing it to collect damage.
    On the zeppelin’s bridge, pilot William Rickenbacher needed more steam. He was not used to working without a copilot, but Cody had insisted on a skeleton crew. William felt sick. Why had he agreed? Cody had given him a choice. He could have gone back with the others. His copilot, Manfred Von Richthofen, had been eager enough. But no. He wouldn’t let him. He didn’t want a dumb kid in command of his ship. Wanted to spare him the danger. What an idiot he had been. He had a wife and children. This was idiotic. He wasn’t a spy, and he wasn’t a fighter pilot. He was the captain of a luxury airship.
    Jesus. What had he been thinking?
    Had he been thinking?
    Not only were the biplanes tearing his craft apart, the storm was slamming it about. He was no longer sure of the difference between sea and sky. The only thing to do was to try and let the