about over.

His plane was literally shot to pieces. The wings hung in tatters.
Only the vital mechanism that kept him moving, thereby supporting him
in the air, fortunately remained untouched. Even now he staggered and
with difficulty rose a trifle upward, while off to the right he saw
Bangs in even a worse fix.

The latter, with his wings honeycombed by bullet holes, had received
the full charge of a machine gun from some passing battle plane in an
around his propellers. His supply of ammunition too was now exhausted.

Could he make the ground in a safe place? With every ounce of power,
his propeller crank revolving like lightning, still he made alarmingly
slow progress. Good reason why. Two of his propeller blades were shot
off. The other two were revolving swifter than can be imagined. He
felt that he was drifting down, down, amid the riff-raff, smoke and
confusion of a battlefield over, which the thunders of conflict had
twice passed.

Above, the aerial battle was still going on, though making towards the
east; for the Germans, following their retiring columns, were being
slowly yet persistently pushed back to their trenches. Occasional
bullets spattered about him. Day was fully on, and a rising sun
disclosed a prospect of clearing skies.

There was a ruined house or cabin just ahead. Could he land there? It
lay deserted for the time being amid war wreck and ruin, its roof
battered in, its stone walls crumbling. Still it promised temporary
shelter. Blaine had vanished. Had his plane gone down? Was he