CHAPTER IX

AN EXCITING STRUGGLE

On a sunny morning a few days later, Blake and Joe were watching the maneuvers of a small fighting plane high aloft in the clear sky. The machine was one of the newest and best of the recently delivered American planes, and great things were expected of it, although the little wasp-like flyers had had small chance as yet to demonstrate their worth.

This particular machine had gone up only half an hour previously, and the boys had followed its flight with more than ordinary interest, admiring the amazing speed with which it mounted and its quick, darting movements as the pilot manipulated his levers.

“Looks as though that machine could deliver the goods,” remarked Blake critically. “I’d like to see how it would act in a brush with one of those new Boche planes.”

“You’re going to have the chance to see,” cried Joe with sudden excitement. “Look, Blake! isn’t that a Boche plane sneaking out of the cloud?”

“Of course it is!” exclaimed Blake, catching his friend’s excitement. “And he’s going to attack, sure as shooting! Just look at that!” and he jumped from one foot to the other in his agitation.

As the moving picture boys strained their eyes upward in a fascinated gaze, they saw a large Fokker aeroplane emerge fully from a fleecy white cloud, in which it had evidently been lurking. It appeared to be at a higher altitude than the small American plane whose pilot was evidently still in ignorance of the peril that threatened him.

In their excitement, the boys forgot the pilot was far beyond reach of their voices, and they gesticulated frantically and shouted words of advice and warning.

But now the American seemed to have become aware of his danger, for the boys saw him take a sudden swoop and dive and then mount steadily upward, evidently trying to climb above his enemy, and thus be in a superior attacking position. Even at that distance, the boys could faintly hear the staccato voices of the machine guns of the two aeroplanes, as each one endeavored to put his adversary out of the fight.

But the American aeroplane had been especially built to outclimb any other machine in existence, and it well repaid the careful thought and skill that had been expended in its make-up. Swift and straight it flew, pointing its nose almost directly upward. The German machine was also climbing at the best speed of which it was capable, but it was no match for the American. Soon the boys were convinced that the little machine had gained a superior altitude, although they knew that a person on the ground could not judge this with any degree of accuracy.

“I guess that Yankee boy is all there,” shouted Joe, his voice higher than usual. “Just look at him, Blake. He’s pointing downward now, and that means that he’s higher than the Boche and giving him a dose of machine-gun bullets. Ah-h!” he ended, and stood silent.

A thin cloud of dark smoke arose from the German aeroplane, was blown aside by the wind, and then rose again, thick and black this time and shot through with angry tongues of yellow-red flame.

“He’s afire!” breathed Blake, “and that means that he’s done for.”

Indeed, it seemed that the German must be doomed as his machine shot earthward, a mass of smoke and flame streaming out behind it. But suddenly a black speck was seen to disengage itself from the fiercely blazing machine and throw himself out and away from the doomed plane.

“That’s better than burning to death, anyway,” muttered Blake. “It’s what I would do myself if I were caught that way. The poor fellow will be unconscious, anyway, by the time he touches the ground and he’ll never know what killed him.”

Even as he spoke, however, a great white cloth swelled suddenly out a few feet above the falling German’s head, and his descent lost something of its speed. He still descended rapidly, but not with the sickening rush of his former headlong flight.

“A parachute!” exclaimed Joe. “He’ll save himself after all.”

“Looks that way,” conceded Blake. “But,” he continued grimly, “while he’ll probably save his life, it’s up to us to see that he becomes a guest of Uncle Sam, even if an unwilling one. I should judge that he’ll land about a quarter of a mile from here, and we want to be Johnny-on-the-spot when he comes down.”

Joe needed no argument to convince him of the advisability of this, and the two raced off at top speed. The German was very near the ground now and they redoubled their efforts, and to such good purpose that they reached the Boche almost at the instant he struck the ground. He landed with a good deal of a bump and the boys had no trouble in making him a prisoner, as his nerve-shattering experience had taken all the fight out of him. They knew enough now of German cunning to take no chances, however, and Blake quickly relieved the aviator of two heavy revolvers that hung from a stout belt about his waist.

“Now, my aviator friend, I guess that draws your stings,” remarked Blake. “And now, forward march, and we’ll see what they can do for you at headquarters.”

Meanwhile the victorious American plane had descended and now skimmed along close over their heads. It had been the intention of the airman to make a landing and personally secure his prisoner, but when he saw that the German was in competent hands he waved at them and shouted something that the boys could not make out above the roar of the motor.

They waved back at him and shouted congratulations. It was doubtful whether the aviator heard them, but he understood their meaning. He did not descend any further, but skimmed off, mounting rapidly and soon becoming a mere speck in the clear sky.

The German followed the plane with his eyes as long as it was well in sight and then shook his head dolefully.

“_Ach, Himmel!_” he exclaimed, and then added in broken English: “You vos too much for me,” and he shrugged his shoulders and fell into step with his captors.

“You’re right we’re too much for you,” said Blake, “and it won’t be long before all your pals and your dear old Kaiser will find it out, too.”

The Boche scowled darkly but said nothing further, and the others marched on in silence, the boys’ minds still busy with the memory of that whirling, flashing duel in the clouds.

“That parachute stunt is pretty good at that, though,” conceded Joe, voicing his thoughts. “I wouldn’t have given a plugged nickel for the chances of our German friend when I saw that his plane was on fire.”

“Nor I,” agreed his friend. “But as it has given us the pleasure of his congenial company I’m glad that he had it along.”

All attempts to overcome the sullen silence of their prisoner proved fruitless, and they reached their destination without having had a further word from him.

Once at headquarters, they turned the German over to the officers in charge, at the same time giving a brief account of the battle in the air and the circumstances attending the capture.

“Yes,” said one of the officers when they had finished. “Almost all of them carry parachutes now. I’m going to send out two men to see if they can recover the one this fellow had. They’re made of the finest kind of material and there may be some wrinkles about them that our people will like to study.”

He thanked the moving picture boys for the service that they had rendered and turned the prisoner over to guards who led him away.

As the boys proceeded slowly to their quarters, they went over again the details of the exciting event in which they had been glad to take part.

“If we’d only had the camera handy,” remarked Joe regretfully.

“Yes,” agreed Blake, “it’s always the biggest fish that gets away. What a crackerjack that film would have been!”

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