You checked around you again, nervous, well aware how easy it was to overlook another aircraft. If you went for the wounded plane, you might bring more heat down on yourself. Moreover, as much as you loathed it, you were
scared.
You wheeled around west and began slowly descending, letting off the throttle a touch and gliding into formation next to the other plane. It was one of the SPADs, and you could see now holes around the nose where the radiator had been perforated. As you got within a winglength of him, you recognized the pilot as the other fellow from the car ride, the one from Oregon, and he pulled down his scarf to yell across the gap between you.
"Radiator's out!" he cried, his voice only barely audible between you despite the short distance. You nodded, a big exaggerated motion to show you were hearing him. "I almost had him!"
"Next time!" you replied, and he gave a little OK sign and pointed ahead. Back home then. You indicated to get some altitude before you passed over the line, worried about flak and ambushes, and for a moment his machine outran yours even as you stayed in pace in the climb. Looking guilty, he pulled back the throttle.
The white cloud from his engine slowed, and soon stopped.
The front line came back into view as a storm of activity. The clouds of yellowish gas looked even thicker now, mostly obscuring the line, but now you could see the fort even from the other side of the line and you felt stupid for not realizing what it was. Your field was to the south of the fort, at least on the maps, so you indicated south and he followed you as you flew down the length of the line and across. One of the things your trainers had told you was that, paradoxically, you were safer on their side of the line if you had to reposition, because it was more likely their fellows would still be climbing to altitude. Your friend's engine was sounding lower and throatier than before, but he didn't look concerned.
You flew on for a short period, then began to bank back across the line proper this time. There was a pair of tiny dots flying parallel about three kilometres away, but they were far below you, and you figured it was likely they were friends rather than foes. There were one or two flak bursts, but none of them came even remotely close, being just short, dull rumbles and a black dot somewhere in the sky. Down below, the landscape was completely obscured by the enormous cloud of poison gas, and you swore you saw the land behind it writhe with the bodies of German soldiers making their way cautious forward behind it.
The dull rumble of the SPAD's engine became a shuddering roar, then silence.
You glanced over to see the propeller lock in place with a
thunk, and the pilot level out the shallow climb. You were barely just over the German side of the line, and you didn't know how far the SPAD could glide. Eyes wide, the man from Oregon glanced down below at the yellow-green cloud.
---
What do you do?
