Short stories, English; World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
12.25--the scout bent his eyes on the ground. A couple of minutes later
a handful of white cottages flitted past as he looked down between his
feet. His enemy could not be seen. The body of the monoplane hid him as
he flew below and slightly in rear, but the roar of his engine, louder
than the scout's own, could just be heard.
Now was the time--the scout turned off abruptly at a tangent along the
line he had marked out for himself and drove his engine at its fastest.
The speedometer needle oscillated over 101 miles an hour. He calculated
that he had approximately twenty miles to go ere he reached the patch
of country he wished to explore. He should reach the commencement of
the enemy's left flank at 12.39, and be able to spend six minutes in
flying over five miles of ground and then have a couple of minutes in
hand. To the trained intellect behind his keen eyes six minutes were
amply sufficient. Having run along the left flank it was simplicity
itself to turn to the right and glide down into his own lines. There
seemed nothing to stop him. The pursuing machine was being quickly left
behind. The slow biplane now far off to his right could not possibly
arrive in time. The sky in front was clear of any menace.
Again he began to draw close to the great belt of dust-cloud which
stretched out to his right and again the din of battle began to
overpower the roar of his engine. Directly ahead was a dark mass of
woodland. It was from thence that the enemy's screen around the right
flank of the scout's army commenced. He swerved slightly to the left,
behind it. The hour was a second or two over 12.38.
Below him was a network of country roads, and from four strands of that
network which ran in an approximately parallel direction, coincident
with his own course, arose long dense clouds of dust. It was the dust
of marching columns. The scout shot a glance back at his pursuer,
assured himself that it was five or six miles in rear, and slowed down
his engine as he entered upon a long, gradual descent over the route of
those marching columns.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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