Our bird again got on top, but there was no
fight left in Fritz; he scooted for a hundred yards in the direction of
home, but was winged while running, part of his left wing dropping off.
The rest was easy; his machine became unmanageable, an explosive bullet
smashed into his petrol tank and he dropped in flames.
The entire ceremony of sending the three German chickens to their
eternal hen-coop did not take ten minutes. As each bird fell to its
death, the entire valley resounded with wild cheering; and when the last
foe fell, the cheering wave of sound was followed by a tiger in the
shape of a volley from every rifle--in fact, everything that would
shoot, except the big guns.
Our bird then executed his stunt of victory, looping the loop several
times over Fritzie's trenches, and the spirit of Fritz was amply
exemplified by the thousand times ten thousand shots which were leveled
at the air king to bring him down. He bore a charmed life; although his
plane was perforated with machine-gun bullets, none touched a vital
spot.
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