Notions that my wing-warping Fokker is actually quite manoeuvreable quickly evaporate, as the Nieuport proceeds to run rings around me.
By using the vertical - sacrificing height, basically, as any upward component just reduces me to sluggish meat on the table - I manage to cut across the speedy Frenchman's turns and get off some long-range bursts. He replays the favour and gets out of my way using similar tactics, only faster.
Finally, by some miracle, I get behind him at a reasonable range and manage to land the occasional hit.
The Nieuport turns away and seems to lose some of his verve. Suddenly, I sense the possibility snatching victory from the jaws of an early demise. But as luck would have it, my ammo runs out just when I most need it. Those desperate early bursts at long range wasted too many rounds. I push down the nose and race for the ground over our reserve trenches, hoping the damaged Nieuport will not follow.
The Frenchman too has had enough. He turns away for home. He may have been winged by the flak, which was banging away at us throughout the air fight.
I'm taking no chances though and hug the deck until I'm well over friendly territory.
In the clear at last, home I go, feeling more than a little relieved and much chastened by the experience.
Back at Bertincourt, I say nothing about my experience and make no claims, although questions may be asked about the absence of several hundred rounds of valuable ammunition. I feel much better when, the next day, our staffel's Fokkers are transferred to a training unit and we're issued with brand-new Albatros D.Is. With two machine guns and more power, I'm looking forward to renewing my acquaintance with that Frenchman and his friends, but this time on rather better terms.