Artillery spotting wasn't my favorite kind of mission, but there I was approaching No-Man's-Land. My heart went out to the poor blokes below. I laughed at myself the way I was starting to pick up British slang. I hoped I was using it correctly!
I'd flown this kind of duty since February. I didn't appreciate the flack or being without a weapon. The German's had started arming their 2-seaters with an observers gun. Our side did two. But I was flying a single-seat Scout. And for months I was helpless.
But that was all changed now. Hawker had down a plane just the previous month in a Bristol with a Lewis Machine gun bolted to its side. My mechanic and I figured out a way to mount such a gun on top of the wing. If the Hun came calling I would be able to answer this time.
Then I saw it. A slow moving plane flying directly at me. Looked to be an Albatros; soon to be a dead duck!
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She came straight on; I guess she had nothing to fear from an unarmed scout. I went low she went high. We exchanged fire during the pass and the sputtering of her engine indicated my kite got the better end of it.
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She tried a lazy turn to the right as I did a half loop.
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I turned in for another pass at her. My bullets punched holes in her side from just behind the pilot to the tail; the Albatros' rudder looked to be jammed.
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I then settled in behind and slightly below her popping her the past I could. Soon fire erupted from her engine.
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She was trying to get back to her lines, but I stayed with her. Flames continued to eat their way along the fuselage towards the crew. Then an explosion and debris rained down dead center between the lines. I circled over the smoldering heap knowing nothing could have survived.
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Slowly to turned back to my original course. Maybe artillery spotting wasn't so bad after all?
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