By this time the anti-aircraft guns were getting in their work. With the targets so close, though darting hither and yonder with bewildering speed, two of the German fighting planes were soon zigzagging towards the ground. One fell right in the path of a disorderly advance of the infantry, which happened to be a well-known Canadian battalion. From his perch, his own ammunition exhausted, Blaine saw those troops surge around and over that unlucky plane, then pass on, leaving a flaming wreck behind. The bombs began to explode. Blaine saw the danger to other troops behind. It so happened that these troops were Sammies and Blaine, with a swoosh, swept down to within a dozen yards right over the heads of these men and the column heard his megaphone bellowing: "Watch out, bunkies! 'Ware that wrecked plane! She's full of Boche bombs. Watch out -- spread out! Give it room! Oh, you doughboys! Rah for Uncle Sam!" Recognizing the meaning and divining that it must be an American, the Sammies shouted back as they divided and gave the necessary room: "Oh, you Spaddy! What you doin' down so low? Rah for you! Bully boy! Rah, rah, rah! You're all right!" And on they went, comforted themselves, and comforting the weary, ammunitionless aviator who now recognized that his present job was about over. His plane was literally shot to pieces. The wings hung in tatters. Only the vital mechanism that kept him moving, thereby supporting him in the air, fortunately remained untouched. Even now he staggered and with difficulty rose a trifle upward, while off to the right he saw Bangs in even a worse fix. The latter, with his wings honeycombed by bullet holes, had received the full charge of a machine gun from some passing battle plane in an around his propellers. His supply of ammunition too was now exhausted. Could he make the ground in a safe place? With every ounce of power, his propeller crank revolving like lightning, still he made alarmingly slow progress. Good reason why. Two of his propeller blades were shot off. The other two were revolving swifter than can be imagined. He felt that he was drifting down, down, amid the riff-raff, smoke and confusion of a battlefield over, which the thunders of conflict had twice passed. Above, the aerial battle was still going on, though making towards the east; for the Germans, following their retiring columns, were being slowly yet persistently pushed back to their trenches. Occasional bullets spattered about him. Day was fully on, and a rising sun disclosed a prospect of clearing skies. There was a ruined house or cabin just ahead. Could he land there? It lay deserted for the time being amid war wreck and ruin, its roof battered in, its stone walls crumbling. Still it promised temporary shelter. Blaine had vanished. Had his plane gone down? Was he smitten by a stray bullet? Had his plane, unguided, crashed to the earth? Would he, Bangs, live to?