_Ratatatatatatatatat! ratatatat! ratatatatat!_ went several machine guns. Sanderson turned and climbed towards the trio swooping down upon the lonely prey. But his man[oe]uvre was seen. Two of the enemy planes detached themselves and turned to meet the aggressor. "Phillips can look after himself," called Sanderson, but his optimism changed when a fourth enemy machine came out of the clouds. It was four to two now. Still Sanderson climbed. His machine was faster than theirs. John saw his intention--to make an Immelmann turn and get underneath the enemy and rake him with machine gun fire. At the top of the climb there was a sudden _ratatata!_ which sounded in their ears, ominously near. It came from above them, a fifth machine emerging from a cloud-bank, at a distance of eighty yards. John felt a sudden buffet, as though the wind had struck him, Sanderson's hand shot out to his gun, and there was an answering burst of firing, full into the belly of the machine above. It fell swiftly out of control with a wounded or dead pilot. "Oh, good! Good!" yelled John. Sanderson turned with a swift smile of triumph, ere tackling the machine below, but his smile changed to a look of concern. "Dean--you're hit!" "Hit?" echoed John, and looked down. His shirt was wet with blood. He plunged his hand into the open neck. A thin stream welled out from the left breast. Yet he had felt nothing. He was about to reassure Sanderson, when a sudden burst of firing broke on his ears. The next moment, with a fearful roar, a machine swept over them, the sparks from the exhaust trailing behind like a comet's tail. They swerved, climbed, and then fell. Down they went, leaving the enemy above; down, with an increasing roar of the wind, as they gathered momentum. Ten thousand, nine thousand, eight thousand, louder roared the wind, and John caught a glimpse of the country below as it leapt to meet them. It seemed incredible that the planes could stand this strain. Every moment he expected the machine to open up, but Sanderson knew his work; he was safe in his hands. They were falling still. Surely only three thousand feet now? Wasn't Sanderson cutting it rather fine. He could see his head in front, familiar and reassuring. Two thousand! "Sanderson!" John called. He had no right to, of course, but something impelled him. The roar of the wind carried his voice away. "Sanderson!" Loud, this time, yet the head of the pilot did not move. "Sanderson!" screamed John. A sudden swerve, and the machine shuddered from wing tip to tail. He Was pulling out at last. No! they falling again. John stretched forward, dizzy now with loss of blood. "Sander--" The cry was unfinished. Sanderson lay with his head inert on the side of the fuselage. They were out of control! Faint, John fell back; the wind screamed in his ears as they swept to earth. CHAPTER II