WHAT A FEILDINGITE SAW.

Taihape Daily Times, Issue 220, 27 July 1917, Page 3

WHAT A FEILDINGITE SAW.

FROM THE TRENCHES IN FLANDERS.

Rifleman Joe Marston, well kno-vn in Feilding (who has since been gassed and is now in hospital in France) sent his relatives the following highly interesting descriptio not air fights seen from the trenches: At last those Hun aeroplanes are beaten at their own game—running. Yes, he is beaten in pace. Our men are simply perfect in the air. They seem to have no fear. They hover over Fritz's trenches quite coolly and treat his anti-aircraft shells with contempt. When the Hun ' comes over he is usually going like the devil, and very high up. He adways has had the advantage of pace. B'ut now he has'nt even that. Although our birdmen have always given as much as and more than they receive, and this despite the fact that five times out of six they have to force the fight themselves, they have nearly always been beaten in pace, and pace means quickness of manoeuvring.

But the other morning the barking of our anti-aircraft guns just handy drew our attention to white shell bursts up in the air, where they were vainly endeavouring to drive two of Fritz's redoubtable Taubes to his own side of the line. Suddenly the vicious rat-a-tat of a' Lewis machine-gun up in the air told us that something more than shells Is being" fired at the Huns. Just like the German navy, those Huns do a bolt for Home. The Britisher singles one out, and after him he goes. Too late the Hun finds out that he is beaten at his own game—running. So the next tmhg to be done lg" fight. The slower pop-pop of his Vickers tells us that he is manoeuvIng to keep his gun bearing oh the Britisher. He is beaten at this. He tries an old trick. He takes a header straight towards the earth. No good, that little plane of the Britisher's can dive too, and much more quickly. Then the Hun tries another dodge. He makes his machine almost stand on its tail as he shoots almost straight up in the air. But again all to nopurpose. That little' plane can also climb, and quickeF than he can. The rattle of that Lewis gun—there is no mistaking the stutter of the Lewis, she is the fastest thing in the way of machine-guns—tells us that John Bull is getting his work in. Soon that Hun dives again. < No "playing possum" this time. Head foremost he shoots towards mother earth. Like a kingfisher diving after its prey, that Briton swoops down after him to make sure he has done the trick. Number Que has not reached the ground before that 'British airman Is off after Number Two, who soon is sharing the other's fate. You cannot •imagine more fascinating than watchmg'These duels to the death in the air. IE reminds one very much of a fight between two huge birds "Star."