A mile below them the blackness of the night was punctured by a lively little volcano of red and yellow jets. A dozen anti-aircraft guns opened fire on the fugitive airplane, whose course must have been telephoned along the line. Some of the shells burst so close that fragments of metal whizzed about the ears of both Americans; some of the shells went far wide of the mark, but at least two of the gunners followed the moving craft for the distance of a mile with an accuracy that caused the two fugitives in the sky the liveliest uneasiness. The gunners were aiming by the sound of the engines. "Give us fifteen minutes more at this speed," Tom roared, "and we'll be back over our own French lines!" They were soon going at terrific speed, fifteen thousand feet up in the air, when a terrifying peril beset them. Out of the blackness ahead, bearing straight at them, came a dozen German airplanes in splendid formation! CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION "Hurrah!" yelled Tom Reade. "Sink or swim---but never say die! Now we'll give it to 'em, real Yankee Doodle, 'over there' style!" It sounded like sheer bravado, but Reade was fired with the new genius of the war. Tom headed straight for the nearest plane, and Dick turned the machine gun loose. Almost immediately he had the great good luck to cripple that enemy and send the craft fluttering down to earth. But another plane had attempted to go under them with a view to shooting up. It came too near, in the maneuver shot too badly, and Dick let loose with the machine gun again. Down came the enemy plane while Reade took a wide swerve to the right. So swift and daring had been Reade's tactics that he was through and past the opposing fleet ere the German aviators realized their failure. Now the survivors wheeled and gave chase, though they soon abandoned it, for the plane that Reade drove was a new one and faster than any of his pursuers. For a minute or so more the two Americans survived by sheer good luck. Then they were out of enemy range. Higher Tom mounted in the air. Dick fairly chattered with the cold, but he kept the machine gun ready for instant use. A few minutes more, then Tom, shutting off the power for a glide, inquired, at the top of his voice: "Where do you want to be put down?" "For choice," Captain Prescott answered, "as close as possible to General Bazain's divisional headquarters." "I know the place," Tom nodded. "There's an aviation station about three miles beyond there." Tom threw on the power, straightened away, and three minutes later began to glide again until he was not more than six thousand feet from earth. "Keep your eyes turned low," Tom counseled. "Soon we ought to see something." Nor was that "something" long in appearing. Not far ahead, yet so much below them as to look tiny, hundreds of flashes were seen. "German artillery," Dick told himself. Another minute, and he beheld flashes turned against the Germans.