They came to where the reserve regiment was digging in. Some of them camped in the open, with a few little canopy tents spread. A few fires were burning. A few officers stood or squatted around talking and laughing. Sentries were pacing up and down. A sentinel stood in the road and faced about toward them, but when he saw the Red Cross on the front and side of the car and had scanned the faces of the drivers he asked no questions but let them pass. Don slowed up enough to hear him say: “All right. Go find ’em, bo! There’s some down there.” “Going to give your friends, the Limburgers, a warm reception after while?” Billy called back and the soldier nodded briskly, smiling and waving his hand. Turning sharply and dashing along the old farm road between greening fields, the little car gained a slight crest and, uncertain for the moment which way to turn, Don stopped her. Billy leaned out and looked around. “Over there are the woods the Major spoke about,” he said. “Sure is. We can cross this meadow, I guess.” “Ooh! Hold on a bit, and look up, Don!” Two airplanes were circling overhead. The boys could see a black Maltese cross on the under side and near the end of each wing of one plane; the other bore a broad tri-colored circle in similar positions. The two soaring, roaring, vulture-like things were approaching each other, suddenly little jets of white smoke burst from each and long streaks of pale light, like miniature lightning, shot from each flying-machine to the other. “A Hun plane and a Britisher! It’s a fight!” Don remarked excitedly. “See, they’re the illuminated bullets to tell just where they’re shooting, like squirting a hose. Watch ’em, Billy; watch ’em! Oh, by cracky!” “Watch them? Do you think I’m taking a nap? Oooh! Look at that gasoline swallow dive! And bring up, too!” The German plane had done this to try to get around under the tail of its opponent before the other could turn, but its calculation went amiss. The Englishman instantly made a quick swerve around and then dived straight at his enemy, sending a stream of bullets ahead, and as the boche had by this time turned around and was coming back toward him, it looked terribly like there would be a collision. But not so. The superior maneuvering of the Britisher was too much for his antagonist--the Hun plane swerved to the left, went on straight for a moment, then began to tilt a little sidewise and to spin slowly. As it sank it pitched from side to side, following a spiral course, thus imitating perfectly the fall of a dead leaf; so perfectly, indeed, that as it neared the earth and was not checked nor righted it became evident that the engine had stopped and that the airman could not control the plane. Then, when not more than fifty feet above the ground it suddenly tilted over forward and crashed to the ground in the field, about an eighth of a mile beyond the boys.