Читать книгу High Adventure. A Narrative of Air Fighting in France – WW1 Novel онлайн

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I buckled myself in, fastened my helmet, and nodded to my mechanic.

“Coupe, plein gaz,” he said.

“Coupe, plein gaz,” I repeated.

He gave the propeller a few spins to suck in the mixture.

“Contact, reduisez.”

“Contact, reduisez.”

Again he spun the propeller, and the motor took. I pulled back my manet, full gas, and off I went at what seemed to me then breakneck speed. Remembering instructions, I pushed forward on the lever which governs the elevating planes, and up went my tail so quickly and at such an angle that almost instinctively I cut off my contact. Down dropped my tail again, and I whirled round in a circle—my first cheval de bois, as this absurd-looking manœuvre is called. I had forgotten that I had a rudder. I was like a man learning to swim, and could not yet coördinate the movements of my hands and feet. My bird was purring gently, with the propeller turning slowly. It seemed thoroughly domesticated, but I knew that I had but to pull back on that manet to transform it into a rampant bird of prey. Before starting again I looked about me, and there was Drew racing all over the field. Suddenly he started in my direction as if the whole force of his will was turned to the business of running me down. Luckily he shut off his motor, and by the grace of the law of inertia came to a halt when he was within a dozen paces of me.