wandering eyelash, caught his attention. Half a mile away and climbing straight at him was WoolleyâsSE. Heâd been seen. Delaforce opened the throttle and roared around in a hard-climbing turn.
Crimson fire bloomed on his right and seemed to leap toward him, trailing smoke, before it curled sharply and dropped away out of sight under his tail plane. He was so astonished that he first looked backward, trying to see what it was; then down, suspecting anti-aircraft fire; and thenâtoo lateâup. An SE5a hurtled over the top wing and curved up and away in a celebratory loop, at the top of which it half-rolled and flew complacently on.
It couldnât be Woolley; Woolley was still climbing. It looked like Gabriel. How humiliating, to be scored against by Gabriel! The memory of that hot-red flare made Delaforce flinch and sweat. He must have been blind.
What mattered now was to get Woolley. That mattered more than ever.
Delaforce flew into cloud and turned back toward where he had last seen Woolley. He flew straight and level through the murk while he counted to twenty, and then eased up into daylight.
Gabriel was off to one side, cruising around, so that was all right. Delaforce took out the Very pistol again, and slipped down the side of the cloud, eyes wide open.
Woolley, exasperatingly, was now a thousand feet below, and flying the opposite way. So perhaps heâd already been to Montdidier after all. For the second time, Delaforce pushed the stick forward and leaned the airplane into a dive. The whistling of air became a screaming; the clatter of the engine a bellow. As Woolleyâs machine came into view through the shimmering arc of the propeller, Delaforce concentrated on nursing the controls toward a precise intersection. There would be only one chance. If he fluffed this, Woolley would never let him get close enough again.
At five hundred feet range he raised the Very pistol and thumbed the safety-catch back. He held his angle, letting Woolley pull away just a bit. He would fire the flare dead ahead and over the top of his own propeller when he wasabout four lengths away, and then drop behind him. The flare should fall under Woolleyâs wing. Three hundred feet.
A sound like tearing canvas made Delaforce grab at the stick: was his SE breaking up? Again the angry crackle. It wasnât his plane. He was being machine-gunned.
Delaforce twisted violently and saw flames spurting from the gun mounted high over the upper wing of yet another SE5a, diving behind him, fifty feet to one side. The pilot signaled, pointing forward. Delaforce recognized him.
That
was Woolley.
He jerked round to see his target looming up fast but now off to one side. Angrily he corrected, bullying his plane over, kicking it for his mistakes, and fired; the flare trailed badly wide: not within a hundred feet; a miss. He pulled out of the dive. Woolley flashed past him, heading for home. Instinctively, Delaforce climbed. Making height gave him something to do: a substitute for success, or competence, or something.
At six thousand feet he found Gabriel, fell in alongside him and fired a shot from his Very pistol. The flare actually went between the wheels and Gabriel dived away in a great hurry. Delaforce took little comfort in the achievement. He had flown very stupidly. He wondered who had been flying the plane which he had missed. Richards, probably.
Woolley was waiting for them when they landed. âA right old cock-up you all made of that,â he said. âNot one of you got near me, and I could have pissed into your cockpits, all three of you, one after the other, and drowned you, which you might say is a wonderful way to go, but itâs still a bloody awful waste of government money. What did you think you were doing at five thousand feet?â he asked Delaforce.
âSir, I was patrolling,â Delaforce said. âThat was what you said. I was waiting for you. To intercept you,
Crimson fire bloomed on his right and seemed to leap toward him, trailing smoke, before it curled sharply and dropped away out of sight under his tail plane. He was so astonished that he first looked backward, trying to see what it was; then down, suspecting anti-aircraft fire; and thenâtoo lateâup. An SE5a hurtled over the top wing and curved up and away in a celebratory loop, at the top of which it half-rolled and flew complacently on.
It couldnât be Woolley; Woolley was still climbing. It looked like Gabriel. How humiliating, to be scored against by Gabriel! The memory of that hot-red flare made Delaforce flinch and sweat. He must have been blind.
What mattered now was to get Woolley. That mattered more than ever.
Delaforce flew into cloud and turned back toward where he had last seen Woolley. He flew straight and level through the murk while he counted to twenty, and then eased up into daylight.
Gabriel was off to one side, cruising around, so that was all right. Delaforce took out the Very pistol again, and slipped down the side of the cloud, eyes wide open.
Woolley, exasperatingly, was now a thousand feet below, and flying the opposite way. So perhaps heâd already been to Montdidier after all. For the second time, Delaforce pushed the stick forward and leaned the airplane into a dive. The whistling of air became a screaming; the clatter of the engine a bellow. As Woolleyâs machine came into view through the shimmering arc of the propeller, Delaforce concentrated on nursing the controls toward a precise intersection. There would be only one chance. If he fluffed this, Woolley would never let him get close enough again.
At five hundred feet range he raised the Very pistol and thumbed the safety-catch back. He held his angle, letting Woolley pull away just a bit. He would fire the flare dead ahead and over the top of his own propeller when he wasabout four lengths away, and then drop behind him. The flare should fall under Woolleyâs wing. Three hundred feet.
A sound like tearing canvas made Delaforce grab at the stick: was his SE breaking up? Again the angry crackle. It wasnât his plane. He was being machine-gunned.
Delaforce twisted violently and saw flames spurting from the gun mounted high over the upper wing of yet another SE5a, diving behind him, fifty feet to one side. The pilot signaled, pointing forward. Delaforce recognized him.
That
was Woolley.
He jerked round to see his target looming up fast but now off to one side. Angrily he corrected, bullying his plane over, kicking it for his mistakes, and fired; the flare trailed badly wide: not within a hundred feet; a miss. He pulled out of the dive. Woolley flashed past him, heading for home. Instinctively, Delaforce climbed. Making height gave him something to do: a substitute for success, or competence, or something.
At six thousand feet he found Gabriel, fell in alongside him and fired a shot from his Very pistol. The flare actually went between the wheels and Gabriel dived away in a great hurry. Delaforce took little comfort in the achievement. He had flown very stupidly. He wondered who had been flying the plane which he had missed. Richards, probably.
Woolley was waiting for them when they landed. âA right old cock-up you all made of that,â he said. âNot one of you got near me, and I could have pissed into your cockpits, all three of you, one after the other, and drowned you, which you might say is a wonderful way to go, but itâs still a bloody awful waste of government money. What did you think you were doing at five thousand feet?â he asked Delaforce.
âSir, I was patrolling,â Delaforce said. âThat was what you said. I was waiting for you. To intercept you,
Similar Books
