I was in the lines the other day when there sounded close at hand salvo after salvo so fast that I took it for a bombardment.  The Germans were firing at one of our aeroplanes.  It was flying as low as I ever saw a plane fly in Gallipoli—­you could make out quite clearly the rings painted on the planes, which meant a British machine.  A sputtering rifle fire broke out from the German trenches opposite—­their infantry were firing at him.  Then came that salvo again—­twelve reports in quick succession—­a sheaf of shells whining overhead like so many puppies—­burst after burst in the sky, some short, some far past him—­you would swear they must have gone through him—­one right over him.

The hearts of our men were in their mouths as they watched.  He sailed straight through the shrapnel puffs, turned sharply, and steered away.  A new salvo broke out over the sky where he should have been.  He immediately swerved into it like a footballer making a dodging run, then turned away again.  A minute later a third sheaf of shells burst behind him, following him up.  “He ought to be safe now,” one thought to oneself, “but my word, they nearly got him—­”

And then, as we were congratulating him on having escaped with a whole skin, and breathing more freely at the thought—­he turned slowly and came straight up towards those guns again.

The Australians holding the trenches were delighted.  “My word, he’s got more guts than what I have,” said one.  Sheaf after sheaf of shells burst in the air all about him; but he steered straight up the middle of them till he reached the point he wanted to make, and then wheeled and made his patrol up and down over the trenches.  He was flying higher but still low, and the crackle of rifles again broke out from the German lines.  He was within the range of the feeblest “Archie” even at his highest.  They were literally just so many big shot-guns, firing at a great bird; only this bird came up time and again to be shot at, simply trusting to the chance that they would not hit him.

“The rest may take their luck, but I should be dead sick if they was to get him,” grunted a big Australian as he tugged a pull-through out of his rifle.

Of course they will get him if he does that often—­you only need two eyes to know that.  The communiques tell of it every week.  As you scurry past the hinterland of the lines in your motor-car you will sometimes see two or three aeroplanes flying like great herons overhead.  They seem to be in company, keeping station almost, and holding on the same course, all mates together—­until you catch the cough of a machine-gun, and realise that they are actually engaged in the deadliest sort of duel which can possibly be fought in these days.  In a battle of infantry you are mostly hit by an unaimed shot, or a shot aimed into a mass of men.  Even if a man fires at you once, it is probably someone else whom he aims at next time.  But in the air the man who shoots at you is coming after you, and intends to go on shooting at you until he kills.  The moment when you see an enemy’s plane, and realise that you have to fight it, must be one to set even the strongest nerves tingling.