That was an unmistakable whistle of bullets too close to be comfortable. At least one or two perforated his wings. Then Erwin pointed higher at the same time trying to keep his sense of direction, imparted by a momentary sight of the western sun. More gun shots: still more whistling of balls, and all too close to be comforting. Up, up he went, veering more to the west. All at once came other gunshots, this time in an extended roar from an area covering perhaps a mile in extent. "The Archies are getting too familiar," he grumbled. "I must put on more speed. Won't do for me to fail to return." About that time a breeze sprang up from the east and the skies cleared through a narrow Vista, showing a war-scarred belt of country below with a small town ahead; that is, toward the west. But before he had time to consider this, he saw two airplanes rising from the main street of the little town, while the detonations of the Archies grew into a continuous roar. "Guess they think they've cornered me," he thought, "but I'll give them a race at least. If I have to, I'll fight." While reflecting, his machine was still rising rapidly, with the two Boche planes in pursuit. "They won't catch me unless I'm crippled by those pesky Archies." Even while he thought, a stray fragment of shell penetrated the fuselage of the triplane and, striking one of the propeller shafts, so bent it that the lightning-like blades began to revolve more slowly, despite all his efforts to increase his motor power. For the first time Erwin became seriously alarmed. Try as he might, he was in no position to stop to make repairs, nor could he descend with safety. Apparently the only thing for him to do was to speed up as best he could, try to avoid this pursuit and, if it came to close quarters, put up the best fight possible under the circumstances. This, of course, he did. But the sight of their own planes pursuing, and at the same time signaling to their friends below, caused Erwin at once to become the target for a continuous line of Archies, extending from the front line German trenches way back to the unknown distances in their rear. When the pursuing planes drew nearer, the shelling from below grew less, while the condition of his own plane was such as to cause alarm. He knew that he was cornered. Cornered, too, in a way seldom happening to the birdmen who became temporarily lost in a raid. He eyed the two nearing scout planes with no little aversion. Not only was his machine going at less speed, despite his efforts, but the difficulty in steering was greater. Apparently if would only obey the rudder slowly, no matter how hard he tried to "get a move on her." As for wheeling, volplaning, spiraling or doing anything that occasioned quick action on his part with rudder or planes, he was nearly helpless.