There, sheer ahead of us, darting, twisting, turning, was a monoplane right
over the German trench. It was a British plane, and taking inconceivably
risky chances. We could see the airman on the steering seat wave to us. He
seemed like a gigantic mosquito, bent on tormenting the Huns. Their bullets
spurted round him. He spiraled and sank, sank and spiraled. Nothing ever
hit him. The Boches got wildly hysterical in their shooting. Every rifle
pointed upward. They forgot where they were; they forgot us; they fired
rapidly, round after round. And still the plane rose and fell, flitted
higher and looped lower. It was a magnificent display. We could see the
aviator wave more clearly now; his broad smile almost made us imagine we
heard his exultant laugh.

"Who is it? What is it?" We boys gasped out the questions breathlessly.

"'Ere he comes; watch 'im, mate; watch 'im. 'E's the Mad Major. Look,
look--he's looping! Gawd in 'eaven, they've got 'im. No, blimey, 'e's
blinkin' luck itself. 'E's up again."

"Who is the Mad Major?" I asked, but got no answer. Every eye was on the
wild career of the plane.

The Germans got more reckless. They stood in their trenches. We fired. We
got them by the ones and twos. They ducked, then--swoop--again the major
was over them, and again they forgot. Up went their rifles, and spatter,
spatter, the bullets went singing upward.

It was about an hour after that we heard a voice cry down to us: "Cheer up,
boys, all's well." There, overhead, was the Mad Major in his plane. Elusive
as was the elusive Pimpernel, he flitted back of the lines to the
plane-base.