The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-west FrontierStrang, Herbert
General
The Air Patrol: A Story of the North-west Frontier
Strang, Herbert
Adventure stories; Airplanes -- Juvenile fiction; British -- India -- Juvenile fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Juvenile fiction
The Gurkha fired, as the two machines rushed at terrific speed towards
each other. There was no reply, but a few seconds afterwards an
explosion in the valley below showed that the enemy had dropped a bomb.
It would have been almost a miracle if it had hit the aeroplane in the
fraction of a second of the passing. But a second explosion a little
later was very perturbing. Unless he could check the enemy, they might
sail over the mine again and again, and on the wider target which that
presented take surer aim. Luckily they would have to fly several miles
down the river before they could again turn, and the few minutes’ grace
might give him time to ascend still higher, and attain an altitude at
which he would have the advantage.
As the machines passed, Lawrence had had time to confirm his impression
that the other aeroplane was much larger than his own. He saw too that
it was occupied by three men. But these elements of superiority would be
to some extent neutralized by the greater handiness of his own machine
in navigating the narrow gorges of the valley. The situation demanded a
readiness to take risks. The gorge to which Lawrence had now come after
passing the enemy was so constricted that in ordinary circumstances he
would never have dreamed of attempting a turning movement. But he felt
the supreme necessity of wheeling at once, in order to return to the
"bay" which he had lately left. There he might do something to protect
the mine, if only by diverting the enemy’s attack upon himself. He
might also have an opportunity of rising to a sufficient height for
offensive purposes.
Choosing the widest part of the gorge, he banked his machine up, and
clearing the cliff apparently by inches he swept round again to the
north. When in half a minute he reached the turning place, the
aeroplane was not in sight. But he heard sounds of a fierce struggle
beyond. The bombardment had ceased, but the air was filled with the
crack of rifles, the rattle of the machine gun, and the shouts of men.
He could do nothing to help his brother. There was not even time to fly
on and drop a bomb among the enemy: he must utilise every moment in
preparing for the return of the aeroplane. He steered his machine in a
series of short spirals, rising as rapidly as possible, watching the
valley northward anxiously. As yet its windings concealed the enemy’s
aeroplane from view. It was an inexpressible relief to him that they
had not attempted to turn at the spot where he now was. They had not
thought it practicable, or not had the time; probably they had shot by
before even the possibility had occurred to them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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