Simmons next. Orange flames raging backwards from the motor. The Spad rolling, diving as he tried to extinguish the fire. I saw him crater the earth as my wings dipped below the horizon.

There--crossing me; I banked hard left, nose dropping. The checkered black and white Albatros dived, rolled, turned--I squeezed off a second's burst from the twin Vickers. I could see his head turning rapidly, left, right, back, his red scarf trailing. He pulled up, straining to loop. I raked the cockpit with a long pull--canvas, wood, flesh and metal erupting in a red halo. The Albatros stalled, flipped gracefully and cartwheeled through cloud and sky.

I was turning my head to the rear when bullets ripped through my wings, stitching a line across the fuselage. Something pounded me back against the seat. I remembered: Hold on. And then the wind, the roaring of the motor, became distant, became still and soundless . . .

* * *

I craned my head over both sides. The undercarriage was smashed and twisted, hanging at an odd angle. Landing would be a one-way deal. I searched the horizon. No familiar landmarks. Fields. Narrow roads. A farmhouse. Peaceful enough. How far from the front? East or west? No idea. The sun was hidden behind darkening clouds. The first spit of rain hit my goggles.

I entered roiling air and fought to keep the Spad level. Rain slammed into me like a grey-white wall. Lightning ripped through the air, my body tingling, illuminating everything in sharp relief, etching the after-image against blinking eyelids. I was blind, struggling to stay airborne in a bucking box of canvas and wood. I slammed from side to side in the cockpit, the pain in my left shoulder edging my consciousness towards blackness and a last moment of careening flight.

Eased the stick forward, a slow bank to the left. I had to land. No choice. The rest of the war in a prison camp seemed a bright alternative to plowing into the earth. I hit a pocket of momentary clearness and saw a road open up below like a winding snake. This would be a belly flopper--I hoped. With the undercarriage still attached, it might act like a trip and we'd go ass over tit . . . and that would be all she wrote.

And then I saw him. A lone aeroplane captured through the rain by an electric flash. Friend or foe? The stick between my knees again and I reached out to make sure my guns were charged. Hand back on the stick; a test shot. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Jammed. I hammered the guns with my hand. Still nothing. I scanned every quarter--only rain and darkness between blinding light. Heart pounding. Body shaking. Raging against it all.

Not now. Not here. Not like this.

In the corner of my vision: he seemed to float up next to me. I turned my head to the right, wiped my goggles, and sobbed. A Spad. Flight Leader Henry Dearing. He pointed down at my wrecked undercarriage. I nodded understanding. He waved towards his right. Blessed relief: "Follow me."

I kept up with his bouncing Spad as we came out of the storm and over No Man's Land. Anti-aircraft shells flashed and puffed around us. Flares arched below. In the distance, off a few degrees to my left, the sun was setting in crimson and pink. I was flying on vapors. The motor was beginning to stutter and smoke.

The aerodrome came into sight like a new found lover. I thanked the Good Lord and Henry Dearing, who was beginning to circle the field. I came in low, motor sputtering, smoke blinding; easing the nose up to cut my airspeed, hoping the field was muddy enough, hoping the angle was--

The Spad hit tail first, cracking, tearing the fuselage in half. Sky and ground all a tumble for an instant. I slammed forward against the instrument panel; bright sparks, like stars dwindling into a vast windless, soundless night.

* * *

I opened my eyes. Squinting. Faces peered down at me--smiling. "Damn Yank luck," someone said. Whitewashed ceiling above them. I smelled alcohol and liniment and chloroform. "The surgeon said no broken bones. That shoulder will take time to mend," this from Scoggins, my mess-mate. He stroked his mustache. "Lad, you are indeed fortunate."

"Dearing," I said, hoarse, lips chapped and cracked. "He showed me the way home. He saved my life."

Scoggins frowned, looked up at faces that turned away. He reached down and touched my arm gently. "No lad, Dearing and the rest never returned. Only you."