The bulky, box-like Fiat CR32 was plain to see now as it flew overhead, seeking to get sun side of the Potez so that he could attack with that glaring orb behind him. In his favour the Italian had speed and two forward-firing machine guns to the Potez’s one, but he did not have the swivelling Vickers, which narrowed his secure angles of attack; head-on would be best for safety unless he set out to get the rear gunner first and neutralised him.
That was a sobering thought, but when Vince had reacted to the question about Jardine’s ability with the Vickers, he was not just talking about that weapon: the cockney-Italian had seen his old CO shoot everything from objects and animals, including running human beings, and at long range. The only thing unfamiliar on these weapons was the ranging sight, different from those used on the ground.
He had shot game in Scotland as a youth and a man — stags, grouse and pheasants — so the need for deflection aiming was second nature, the requirement to put your bullets where the target was going to be, rather than where it was. Talking to those RFC flyers he also knew that in aerial combat the task was made more difficult, given the lack of any fixed object off which to measure the position and distance to your target.
De Billancourt had not turned for home — he was still flying into the sun — which did surprise his passenger, who had expected, up against a faster and better-armed plane, as well as anti-aircraft guns, he would seek to draw him into a position of potential danger by flying for the Ethiopian lines and losing altitude.
If the Italian pilot followed him down he would be at a greater risk of concentrated ground fire, and massed rifles could be deadly. Jardine had seen aircraft brought down by that in 1918 — his own side and the Germans’. The thought came to his mind that this Frenchman wanted to show off, a potentially suicidal way to behave.
There was no point in worrying: he could not fly the plane, so he just had to rely on the man who was doing so, even if he thought he disliked him; it was another one of those situations where the acceptance of risk went with the territory. The anti-aircraft fire ceased, which meant they were content to leave it to their flyer to see off this pest, and it would not be a good idea to keep blazing away in case they downed their own aircraft.
Glancing over his shoulder he saw that de Billancourt was pointing forward with a flat hand, which he dipped sharply under his other hand — he must have had the joystick clamped between his knees — an act he repeated, leaving his passenger to hope he understood. Then the plane began to jink seriously, left, right, up and down, which told Jardine action was imminent.
Getting as low as he could, Jardine pulled the machine gun handles down so the Vickers barrels were aiming as high as possible, the good thing about that being his own head was lowered, lessening the risk of him being hit. He had to assume the Italian had got to where he wanted to be and then banked to reverse his course and engage; his assumption proved right as bullets began to crack over his head, loud enough to overcome both engine noise and wind.
He felt the judder of the Potez as de Billancourt responded, then the sudden dip as the Frenchman put the plane into a dive, Jardine pulling both his triggers as soon as that happened. The camouflaged body of the Fiat was a huge blur as it shot past at a fractionally higher altitude that seemed very close to his head, and the notion that his man had risked a head-on collision was a fleeting but useless concern. All he was concentrating on now was keeping his Vickers firing as he raised himself to seek to stay on target, sure that bits were flying off the enemy aircraft.
De Billancourt banked as soon as he ceased firing and executed a tight turn to come round on the Italian’s tail, which was nothing short of madness. Looking over his shoulder now, Jardine saw the Fiat beginning to climb, and at a rate he suspected the Potez could not match.
What was this bloody idiot of a Frenchman about? The pitch of the engine was now a scream as the plane sought altitude, and a craning Jardine could see the Fiat fighter plane had what he wanted, sufficient height and distance, for he was now banking to come in on a second attack.
As soon as he began to dive, de Billancourt spun his plane to drop like a stone in what turned out to be a race towards ground level. Not only was the Fiat faster, it was heavier, which increased the speed at which it could close. Jardine now saw before him, and rapidly closing, the wisp of the spinning propeller, with the certain knowledge that two machine guns were timed to fire right through the blades, only then realising how cold were the hands holding the handles of the Vickers, almost too cold to function, even in gloves.
Stiff as the fingers were, he knew he had to wait until the Italian opened fire, which he would not do until he was in range, an option open to him but not to a rear machine gunner unfamiliar with the sights, who could only guess by the size of the object he was aiming at. If he fired off too soon it would only waste precious ammo; leave it too late and it was what the Americans called a ‘turkey shoot’, an almost unmissable target. The first wink came a split second before the gunfire hit the side of his cockpit, which proved the Frenchman was no coward, for he held his course.
The diving, attacking plane now looked like a large bee right before his eyes, the cowls covering its landing wheels in plain sight. Jardine opened up, moving his aim fractionally right, left, up and down to cover as much sky as possible inside a very small arc, and it had the desired effect: it takes a very brave man, or even a fool, to fly into a hail of bullets. He had no idea if he struck home, for de Billancourt hauled on his joystick and took the Potez, which if it was slower was more manoeuvrable, out of the line of fire, and the Italian shot by.
What happened then made Jardine thank the Lord he was strapped in: the blood rushed to his head as de Billancourt executed a tight loop the loop in what felt like a sixpence of airspace. Unbeknown to his passenger, the Frenchman had calculated that with a target no longer in his sights, the enemy plane would rapidly slow its own speed to turn. He was now on its tail again before the heavier Fiat could make that turn; closing significantly, he opened up again with his single forward-firing machine gun.
It wasn’t deadly, but it was enough to remove great patches of the covering on the Italian’s airframe, bits that flew past Jardine, still facing backwards. Then he was in amongst a trail of smoke, wondering to whom it belonged, the answer coming as the Fiat CR32 came into view with a black trail coming from its fuselage as it headed earthwards.
De Billancourt spun to follow, but the Italian was doing the sensible thing, which Jardine had expected from the Frenchman, heading for his own lines and supporting ground fire; thankfully this daredevil pilot was too shrewd to follow and he banked gently to head south.
The victory roll was just showing off.
The trio and the Rolls had not moved, and it took Jardine a little while to realise how small an amount of time had passed since they had taken off — under twenty minutes by his watch. Taxiing to the same spot as before, the damage to the aircraft was obvious enough to have Vince rushing forward, Tyler Alverson putting his hands to his cheeks and Corrie Littleton hers to her mouth, an act which she reversed when Henri de Billancourt whipped off his helmet and grinned at her with teeth of stunning perfection.
Wondering why he was so stiff — that is, till he realised he was still cold — Cal Jardine clambered out of the cockpit just in time to see the Frenchman slobbering over the female hand again. In perfect idiomatic French, albeit with a faint trace of a Marseilles accent, Callum Jardine loudly informed him that he thought he was a glory-seeking idiot. The response was a look of surprise and amusement, so he reverted to English in order that his companions could understand.