DON HALE
WITH THE
FLYING SQUADRON
By W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
Author of
“DON HALE IN THE WAR ZONE”
“DON HALE OVER THERE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB SERIES,” ETC.
Illustrated by H. A. BODINE
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
1919
COPYRIGHT
1919 BY
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
Don Hale with the Flying Squadron
He shut off the engine and dove
Introduction
“Don Hale with the Flying Squadron” is the third of the “Don Hale Stories.” It follows “Don Hale in the War Zone,” and “Don Hale Over There,” and tells what happens to Don after he relinquishes his dangerous post as an ambulance driver for the Red Cross on the western front.
But Don’s new duties are of a far more dangerous nature; and during his training in the aviation school and after he finally becomes a full-fledged member of that most famous of all flying squadrons, the Lafayette Escadrille, he has interesting experiences and enough exciting adventures to last even the most spirited youngster an entire lifetime.
It may be safely said, however, that the account is not overdrawn; indeed, in the air service, in which most valiant deeds have been performed, it would be hard to exaggerate the perils which beset the “cavalry of the clouds” on every side.
To add to the interest of Don’s experiences with the escadrille there is a certain mystery connected with several characters which is not solved until the end of the story.
In the next book of the series, “Don Hale with the Yanks,” is told the further adventures of the young combat pilot after he has been transferred to the American air service. He sees much of that memorable conflict—one of the turning points of the great war—when, at Chateau Thierry, the German drive for Paris was halted by the victorious Americans.
W. Crispin Sheppard.
Table of Contents
Illustrations
[He Shut Off the Engine And Dove]
[“There Are Other Games Just As Dangerous”]
[“The German Lines Must Not Be Crossed”]
[His Passage Was Unexpectedly Blocked]
Don Hale With the Flying Squadron
CHAPTER I—THE GREENHORN
A rickety-looking cab, containing two passengers and much luggage, and driven by a gray-haired cocher, drew slowly up to a high iron gate and came to a halt. And the wheels had scarcely stopped before two young chaps, with exclamations of deep satisfaction and relief, literally tumbled out of the ancient vehicle and stared about them.
“Well, Don, here we are at last!” cried the elder.
“Yes, George. And this is certainly one of the greatest moments of my life. Tomorrow I start my training to become a pilot,” exclaimed the other, such a degree of enthusiasm expressed in his tone as to make the wrinkled cab driver turn, survey him with a curious grin, and comment in the French tongue:
“I guess that’s the way most of them act until something happens.”
But the boys scarcely heard him.
Surmounting the iron gate, inside of which an armed sentry was slowly pacing, this inscription in large, bold letters, stood out against the sky:
“École d’Aviation Militaire de Beaumont.”
“I certainly hope the Boches won’t get you, young monsieur,” continued the driver. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d be glad if you’d will your life insurance to me.”
“I’ll think about it,” laughed the boy. He deposited several pieces of silver in the palm of the hand held toward him, then began the task of getting his luggage off the vehicle. By the time this was done the sentry had opened the great iron gate.
With a hasty good-bye, the boys turned toward the soldier and producing several important-looking papers handed them to him.
And while the proceeding was underway this series of comments passed between five young men, attired in the horizon blue uniform of the French poilu, who were strolling inside the great enclosure not far away:
“Well, well! What have we here?”
“No doubt a couple more pilots.”
“But, if I’m not mistaken, one of them is actually wearing the stars and wings insignia of the air service on his uniform. He’s a corporal.”
“So he is! Such a young chap, too!—looks, for all the world, like a high-school boy on his way home from the place of demerit marks and ciphers.”
“Let’s give ’em the grand quiz.”
It took the sentry only an instant to scan the papers and nod his head in approval, and another instant for the newcomers to gather up their possessions and head for the group of five.
“Step up and give your names, boys.” The speaker was a tall, angular youth with bushy red hair and twinkling blue eyes.
“Don Hale,” answered one of the newcomers.
“George Glenn,” replied the other.
“Of the Lafayette Squadron?”
“Exactly! And on a couple of days’ furlough.”
And one of the natural but not very agreeable ways of the world was exemplified then and there; for Don Hale, the prospective student of the great military flying school, immediately found his presence totally ignored, while his companion, member of the most famous escadrille of the aviation service, began to receive the homage and admiration due to one who had attained such an exalted position in life. To be a member of the Lafayette Flying Corps was indeed a signal honor—an honor coveted above all things by the majority of the American aviation students.
Don Hale, smiling a little to himself, thereupon seized the opportunity to examine the view outspread before him.
And what the boy saw made him draw a deep, long breath, like one who has just experienced a feeling of vast satisfaction and pleasure. It was an immense level field, or rather a series of fields. Far in the distance long rows of low canvas hangars and tents stood out in faint gray tones against the background of earth and sky. Nearer at hand were lines of rather dingy-looking wooden structures—the barracks—and isolated buildings used for various purposes, while dominating all rose a tall and graceful wireless mast.
Far more interesting to the American lad, however, was the sight of several airplanes performing evolutions in the distant sky. The sun had descended in the west and its cheerful rays no longer touched the earth, but every now and again one or another of the graceful flying machines caught the glow, and, as if touched by a fairy’s wand, became transformed for the moment into a flashing object of silver and gold.
Don Hale felt his pulse quicken. How wonderful it was to be up in the heavens, soaring with all the ease, the grace, the certainty of a huge bird of the air! It made him long for the time to come when he, too, would have his ambition fulfilled! Presently a deep gruff voice broke in upon his meditations.
“Better come down to earth, son.”
The red-headed chap had spoken.
“Sure thing!” laughed the new student. “What’s that, sir—my last job, you ask? Oh, driving a Red Cross ambulance near the Verdun front.”
“I must say we seem to have met a couple of real heroes,” chuckled the other. “And now, to show you that I haven’t forgotten my Fifth Avenue manners, I’ll introduce these would-be flyers, most of whom as yet haven’t risen above the grasshopper stage of the game.”
Thereupon, with many chuckles, he presented Gene Shannon, Cal Cummings, Ben Holt and Roy Mittengale, adding that his own name was Tom Dorsey.
“Glad to know you all!” declared Don Hale, heartily.
“So am I,” exclaimed George.
“Very gratifying indeed, I’m sure!” laughed Dorsey. “We all hope that later on some people about whom we are hearing a whole lot won’t be so glad to meet us.”
“Oh, you coming aces!” grinned Ben Holt.
“Hooray, hooray, for the future cannon-flying express!” chuckled Mittengale. Then, turning toward Don, he said: “I suppose that the day you didn’t run into at least a half dozen or so hair-breadth escapes must have seemed like a pretty dull one?”
“I had all the close calls I wanted,” confessed the former ambulance driver.
“And yet you are now going in for something which at times ought to make that Red Cross work look like little rides of joy. Ever take a spin in a plane?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh, boy! There’s some job ahead of you, then.” Mittengale laughed. “You’ll have to get right down to business.”
“You can just better believe I will!” declared Don, enthusiastically. “I’m mighty anxious for the time to arrive when I can go up to business.”
“It may never come,” suggested Ben Holt. “’Tisn’t everybody who is fitted to be an airman. One or two bad spills—an airplane ready for the scrap pile, or a student now and then killed on the training field, and it’s all off with some!”
“If you don’t look out, Holt, we’ll elect you chairman and sole member of our committee on pessimism,” laughed Dorsey. “Say, son,”—he addressed Don—“I suppose you have all your papers?”
“Yes, and owing to my father having been a member of a Franco-American aviation corps I didn’t have much trouble in getting them,” returned Don. “He’s now an instructor in an American aviation school.”
“What did they do to you? I’d like to know if your experiences were like my own.”
“Well, here’s the story,” laughed the new élève[[1]] pilot. “I hoofed it to the recruiting office, which is located in the Invalides at Paris, filled out a questionnaire, signed a document requiring me to obey the military laws of France and be governed and punished thereby; then, after that agony was over, the medical man took me in charge. I just had to show him that I was able to balance myself on one foot with eyes closed, jump straight up from a kneeling position, and also walk a straight line after having been whirled around and around on a revolving stool until all the joy in life seemed to have gone.”
“Spies are Everywhere”
“Ugh!” grunted Dorsey. “The very recollection of that ordeal makes me wish to recollect something else.”
“The kind of air-sickness you get by the unearthly dips and twists of an airplane has sea-sickness beaten to a frazzle,” commented Ben Holt, pleasantly.
“Then I’m not anxious to make its acquaintance,” grinned Don. “I had a few nerve tests, too, made in a pitch-dark room, which weren’t altogether pleasant. Among other things, a revolver was unexpectedly fired several times close beside me.”
“It’s tough, how they treat a perfectly respectable chap,” chirped Cal Cummings.
“My, what a relief it was to receive a service order requiring me to report to the headquarters of the Flying Corps of Dijon!”
“That’s an old story with us,” drawled Mittengale. “Once there, you had to answer a lot more questions. Then you paid a visit to the ‘Vestiare,’ where the soldiers are outfitted. A uniform, shoes, socks, overcoat, hat and knapsack were passed out, and thereby, and also perforce, another chapter added to your brief but eventful history.”
“Besides all that, I received a railroad pass to come here, and also three sous, representing that many days’ pay,” chuckled the new candidate. “The salary I’ve already squandered,” he confessed, with a grin.
“Awful! The French Government should be told about it,” exclaimed Gene Shannon, laughingly. “But now, son, perhaps you would like to begin a new chapter by paying the captain a very necessary call?”
“To be sure!” said Don.
He stooped over, preparatory to gathering up his belongings, when Shannon stopped him.
“Leave the department store there, Don,” he remarked. “We’ll send some of the Annamites over to wrestle with ’em. Now come along.”
The “Annamites,” both Don and George knew, were the little yellow-skinned Indo-Chinese, who had journeyed from far-off Asia to give their services to the French Government.
Led by Tom Dorsey, the crowd began to pilot the new student and his chum toward headquarters. To Don Hale it was all wonderfully interesting. The boy was filled with that eager curiosity and anticipation which is one of the glorious possessions of youth. A new life—indeed a startlingly strange life, would soon be opening out before him—one that held vast possibilities, and also terrifying dangers. Whither would it lead him?
“I say, young chap”—Ben Holt’s voice broke in upon his thoughts—“you’ve got to mind your eye in this place. No talking back to officers; no overstaying your leave, eh, Monsieur Nightingale?”
“Oh, cut it out!” snapped Mittengale.
“Yes, there’s a chap who knows!” Holt chuckled. “One day Roy thought he’d enjoy a few extra hours in Paree—result: a nice little chamber two stories underground; a rattling good wooden bench, but uncommonly hard, as a bed; a bottle of water for company and eight days of delightful idleness, to meditate upon the inconsiderate ways of military men.”
“It was well worth it,” growled Mittengale. “Some tender-hearted chaps smuggled in paper and I wrote sixty-four pages of my book entitled ‘Life and Adventures of an Airman in France!’”
“An airman in France!” snickered Ben. “There’s nerve for you! Why, he hasn’t even been above the three hundred foot level yet.”
“Well, that’s just about two hundred and seventy-five feet higher than your best record,” retorted Mittengale, witheringly. “Don’t talk, you poor little grasshop.”
Don Hale paid no attention to these pleasantries, for, at that moment, one of the distant machines circling aloft, now dusky, gray objects, sometimes but faintly visible in the darkening sky, began to volplane. Down, down, came the biplane, in wide and graceful spirals, toward the earth. A few more turns and the wings were silhouetted faintly for the last time against the sky; another instant and they cut across the turf in still swiftly moving lines of grayish white.
“Good work, that!” cried Don, breathlessly.
“Fine!” agreed George.
“Won’t I be jolly glad when I can manage a machine like that!” Don happened to glance at his chum’s face, and was surprised to see a swift, subtle change come across it, an almost sad expression taking the place of his usual buoyant look. “What’s the matter, old chap?”
“I was thinking what a dangerous life you are about to begin, Don. As some of the boys in the squadron say: ‘Death is often carried as a passenger by the airman.’”
“And you engaged in the very same work yourself!” laughed Don. “There’s consistency for you! I understand, though, just how you feel about it, George. Honestly, at times, I’ve worried a whole lot about you. But”—a determined light flashed into his eyes—“we must ‘carry on’ the big job before us.”
“That’s the way to look at it,” acquiesced George, heartily. “You have a cool head and steady nerves, Don; and you’ll be called upon to use all your wits, all your courage and resourcefulness, as never before in the whole course of your life. Great adventures are ahead!”
“Better wait until he gets out of the ground-class before talking that way,” grinned Ben Holt, dryly.
“Don’t discourage the infant class, Holt,” put in Dorsey. “Now, boys ”—he turned to face Don and George—“that good-sized building you spy just across the field is the headquarters of the captain and moniteurs—teachers we call ’em in the good old lingo of the United States. By the way, know much French?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Don.
“Good! Frankly speaking, some of these chaps here do not.” Dorsey chuckled mirthfully. “Their efforts sound weird and wild. And sometimes it has the effect of making the moniteurs act wildly and weirdly.”
“The idea of Dorsey talking about French!” scoffed Ben Holt. “Why, he can’t even speak English. An Englishman’s the authority for that.”
“One’s shortcomings should never be mentioned in polite society,” grinned Tom. “And now, Don, while you’re over there parleying the parlez-vous we’ll get a bunch of the Oriental Wrecking Crew, the Annamites, to lift your traps.”
“As a rule, I rather object to having my things lifted,” laughed Don. “But this time it’s all right.”
“You’ll find our crowd, with a few additions equally handsome, in the big barracks—the third from the end. Now scoot.”
While Don and George didn’t exactly “scoot,” they nevertheless immediately left the group and made good time toward the building indicated. Within a few minutes they entered and were conducted by an orderly to the captain’s sanctum.
If Don had expected any effusive greeting or words of commendation for his willingness to give his services to aid the cause of France he would have been greatly disappointed. The captain, very alert and authoritative in manner, greeted the two boys in a casual, disinterested sort of way, and examined Don’s papers.
Then came the usual number of formalities and an order to report to the sergeant on the aviation field on the following morning.
Don Hale was now duly enrolled as an élève, or student pilot, in one of the most important of the great Bleriot flying schools in France.
| [1] | Élève—pupil. |
CHAPTER II—NEW COMRADES
A pleasant refreshing breeze was springing up as Don Hale, with his chum, left headquarters and hastened toward the barracks which was to be his temporary home.
There were plenty of signs of life about the great plateau, and occasionally voices came over the air from the distance with peculiar distinctness. By this time all nature had become gray and sombre, and the slowly advancing shadows which heralded the approach of dusk were enveloping the distant hangars and tents and merging the vast, sweeping line of the horizon almost imperceptibly into the coldish tones of the sky.
Here and there lights were beginning to flash into view. From barrack windows, from tents and outbuildings, they shone—each little sparkling, star-like beam carrying with it a message of good cheer and welcome.
Just before Don and George reached the barracks designated by Tom Dorsey, over the door of which was painted in very large black letters “Hotel d’Amerique,” a loud and lusty chorus, composed of French and American voices, accompanied by a piano, started up, singing with ludicrous effect:
“The Yanks are Coming.”
Then, as the last words were carried off on the breeze, the momentary silence that ensued was broken by a loud-voiced student standing by the window, who bawled:
“True enough, boys!—the Yanks are not only coming, but they’re here.”
The aviators immediately crowded to the window, and even before Don and George entered the building, which was to the accompaniment of that well-known classic: “Hail, hail! The gang’s all here!” they had received a noisy and good-natured welcome.
A smiling and dapper little Frenchman was the first to shake them by the hand; and having performed this act with much gravity he immediately struck an attitude and began to recite, in the manner of a schoolboy who has memorized a piece:
“Gentlemens, excuse the bleatings of a little chump who should remain silent before he speaks. Permit me to say, however, that you may use me as a doormat when it is your will and I shall be overwhelmed with joy. And now having bored you to tears I will desist.”
He ended the oration, which some of the fun-loving, mischievous Americans had taught him, with a low bow, evidently much surprised at the chuckles and gurgles of mirth which ran through the room.
Don Hale laughingly made a speech in reply, quite astonishing the Frenchmen present by his ready command of their tongue.
And during it all he had been observing his new home with keen curiosity and lively interest. The interior of the long but rather low wooden structure was whitewashed, and ranged alongside each wall were rows of beds. They were makeshift affairs, however, consisting of a couple of sawhorses with a plank thrown across. Over the top had been placed a mattress, looking as though it had done long and valiant service.
“Clearly, the élèves are expected to rough it a bit,” thought Don.
It would be a strange boy indeed, however, who objected to roughing it—Don Hale, at least, was not one of that kind.
The lad was glad to discover that the room was evidently occupied by Frenchmen, as well as by his own compatriots. At one end large posters made by some of the best known artists of France adorned the wall, while at the other were pictures clearly of American origin.
Tom Dorsey made the introductions, adding a word or two, in a jocular fashion, about the characteristics of each. Very naturally, the new student took a decided interest in studying the Americans with whom he would be so closely associated during the weeks to come.
“Among those present” were men of striking dissimilarities in appearance—of widely different stations in life—of various degrees of wealth; but the call of adventure, having brought them all together, had also served to unite them in a common spirit of comradeship perhaps impossible under other circumstances. There was, for instance, Dave Cornwell, of New York, of the beau monde of Fifth Avenue, with aristocracy imprinted unmistakably on his clean-cut features. And in striking contrast to him was Sid Marlow, cowpuncher of Montana, deck hand on a Mississippi steamboat, longshoreman, and, lastly, fighter in the Foreign Legion. In fact, the majority of the American élèves had seen service in that famous branch of the French army, which had recruited its members from all parts of the world. No embarrassing questions were asked; an applicant’s antecedents mattered little; he was given a chance to retrieve whatever mistakes he may have made, and, perhaps, through the fiery ordeal of battle, come out a vastly superior man.
Several of the students particularly attracted Don Hale’s attention, one of them being T. Singleton Albert, referred to by his companions as “Drugstore”; for he had at one time been a drugstore clerk and soda-water dispenser in Syracuse. Albert was a rather effeminate looking little chap, who seemed wholly out of place in an aviation school. He appeared diffident to the point of shyness, and his voice, delicate and refined, was seldom heard. Don Hale wondered if he would ever make a flyer, a profession in which courage and daring are such prime requisites.
Another boy who interested the new student greatly was Bobby Dunlap, who had had the singular cognomen of “Peur Jamais” thrust upon him. Tom Dorsey airily explained that on one occasion a student had demanded in French of Bobby if he experienced fear during a certain offensive in which the Foreign Legion took part, whereupon Bobby had blurted out the words “Peur?—Jamais!—Fear?—Never!” in such a strenuous and convincing tone as to create a big laugh—also a new title for himself, and one that persistently stuck.
There was a certain reserve and hauteur in the manner of a third young chap named Victor Gilbert which somehow appealed to Don Hale, suggesting to his imaginative mind that Gilbert’s sphere in life was, or rather had been, a little different from that of most of his fellow students.
Conversation was going on briskly when a rumble of wheels outside made Don hurry to the window.
“It’s the camion bringing in some of the real birds from the grande piste, or principal flying field, which is a good long way from here,” volunteered Peur Jarnais. “Those chaps are the stuff—yes, sir. By Jove, they’d make an eagle jealous! Eagles can’t fly upside down, can they? Of course not; but some of our boys can.”
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,” put in Tom Dorsey.
“Ever feel any symptoms of it?” asked Don, smilingly.
“Sure!—a hundred times.”
“I never did,” put in Drugstore, in his mild, weak voice. “To-morrow,” he cleared his throat and paused impressively, his manner indicating that some information of vast importance was about to be communicated—“to-morrow ”—another instant of hesitation, and he began again—“to-morrow I’m going to make my first flight in the air.”
“That means flying at an altitude of twenty-five feet at most,” giggled Mittengale.
“I reckon it also means a machine smashed to bits in landing,” chirped Peur Jamais. “They say it costs the French government an average of five thousand dollars to train its aviators. I’ll bet in your case, Drugstore, they’ll get off cheap at ten thousand.”
Don Hale, his head thrust out of the window, now saw the returning aviators tumbling off the big camion which had halted before the door.
In another moment they bustled into the barracks, and the yellowish rays of the oil lamps fell with strange and picturesque effect across their forms. Each was encased in a great leather coat and trousers and wore a helmet made from the same heavy material. Several, too, still had on their grotesque-looking goggles.
“They make me think of Arctic explorers,” declared Don, with a delighted little laugh.
Don was experiencing a pleasurable sensation, not unmixed with a certain sense of awe. Here, right before him, were actually some of the men who but a short time before had been piloting their machines at dizzy heights in the sky. The fascination of it all seemed to grip him strangely—to make him impatient and anxious to begin his initiation into the art of flying.
“Another little eaglet, sir, ready to carry terror into the heart of the Kaiser.”
In these words Tom Dorsey was introducing him to one of the “real birds.”
The aviator was only a young chap, not many years older than Don, but, like many of the Americans and Frenchmen present, he had allowed his face to remain unshaven, and the resulting growth of beard gave him quite an appearance of maturity.
“There’s a big lot of difference between the way flying schools are conducted over here and in America and Canada,” volunteered the aviator, whose name, Don learned, was Hampton Coles. “On our side of the big pool discipline is probably as strict as in any other branch of the army. We go in for drills and all that sort of thing, while in France, at least at present, the schools are only semi-military in character. The object is to turn out flyers as quickly as possible, which means casting a whole lot of theories, red tape and non-essentials into the junk heap. Flyers are needed—badly needed. The ‘eyes of the army,’ they call them.”
“At what time does work begin?” asked Don.
“We’re in our planes shortly after dawn. At nine o’clock the first session is over; then it’s back to the barracks. Dinner is served at one o’clock, and after that the boys are free to do what they please until five. On our return to the piste, or flying field, we usually keep steadily at it until nearly dark.”
“How does it happen that so many are here at this hour?”
“Oh, this crowd only represents a small portion of the students who, for one reason or another, stopped work a bit early,” replied Hampton. “In all, we have about one hundred and twenty-five men, and among them are several Russians—daring chaps they are, too, but rather poor flyers.”
“But the Americans seem pretty good at it, eh?”
Hampton Coles laughed.
“The moniteurs are always bawling out some of the best élèves for doing unnecessary and risky stunts,” he declared. “I imagine they think we’re a reckless, hair-brained lot. However”—his tone suddenly sobered; his eyes were turned thoughtfully off into the distance—“it doesn’t do to take many chances in the air. It’s mighty tricky; and so are the machines. Some of our boys have already paid the penalty. Yes, it’s a dangerous game, son.”
“Which only makes it a lot more interesting,” put in Drugstore, quietly.
“To be sure!” laughed Coles. “But, as this rig o’ mine is getting to feel prominent, I’ll skip.”
Jack Norworth presently sauntered over to tell Don that in order to get a bed he would have to go to the commissary depot, about a half mile distant.
“I’ll hoof it with you,” he volunteered.
“Good!” said Don.
George and Drugstore elected to accompany them; so the four immediately left the Hotel d’Amerique, and, through the slowly-gathering shades of night, started off.
“By the way, where are you staying?” asked Jack, turning to George Glenn.
“At a hotel in the little village of Étainville,” replied the young member of the Lafayette Squadron.
“Why, it’s at Étainville that we have our club!” cried Jack.
“A club?” queried Don, interestedly.
“Sure thing!”
“I don’t like clubs,” commented Drugstore.
“Why not?” demanded Jack.
“Oh, the fellows are always calling upon a chap to tell a story, make a speech or do something else to amuse ’em,” returned Drugstore, rather hesitatingly.
“Well, what of it?”
“Some can do that sort of thing, but not I.” The former dispenser of soda-water spoke in plaintive tones. “Half the time I can’t think of the words I want and when I do think of ’em they’re not the right ones.”
“Oh, what you need is a correspondence school course in the art of self-expression—‘think on your feet; latent power aroused; trial lesson free; send no money,’” chuckled Jack.
“Let’s hear about the club,” said Don.
“It meets in a typical little inn called the Café Rochambeau. The floor is of sanded brick; there are cobwebs everywhere; cats and dogs wander in and out. It’s all rustic, dusty and charming. Say, George, have supper at our mess to-night, then, afterward, you and Don can travel over with the bunch.”
“Thanks! I’ll be delighted,” said George.
The four soon reached the commissary depot. Attendants dragged from its generous supply of stores the necessary portions of the bed and delivered them to the boys. Quite naturally, the march back, hampered as they were by the cumbersome articles, did not prove to be agreeable. Finally, however, rather hot and tired, they reached the Hotel d’Amerique.
It took but a few minutes to put the rude contrivance called a bed together in its place alongside the wall, and by this time the crowd was being considerably augmented by the students returning from the piste.
“Come along, you chaps! I’ll pilot you to the grub department,” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “It won’t make you think of the Waldorf Astoria.”
“Never mind! They’ve got things on the menu the Waldorf hasn’t,” chuckled Gene Shannon.
“For instance?” asked Don.
“Horse-meat.”
“I’m game,” laughed the new student.
Less than five minutes later Don and George, at the head of the advance-guard, reached the dining-hall. They found it a crude, unpretentious structure exteriorally, and equally crude and unpretentious in regard to its interior arrangements. The tables were of rough boards, and tabourets, or stools, took the place of chairs.
The mess-hall was soon filled with a noisy, jolly crowd. Clearly, the hazardous nature of the work had no distressing effects on the minds of the élèves. To judge by the manner of those present, theirs might have been the least dangerous of professions; yet, nevertheless, the talk often reverted to the accidents or near-accidents which had occurred on the flying field. But it was the keen enthusiasm of all that especially appealed to Don Hale. Probably none among the gathering enjoyed the meal more than he. The dim, fantastic light cast by the oil lamps, the sombre ever-changing shadows on faces and forms, the grotesque and larger shadows that sported themselves on the four walls, the shrouded, obscured corners, all added their share to the charm and novelty.
A particularly fastidious person could very easily have found fault with the meal, which consisted of soup, meat, mashed potatoes, lentils, war bread and coffee. The horse-meat was tough, the lentils rather gritty, as though some of the soil in which they were planted had determinedly resolved to stand by them to the end. But to hungry men, whose lives in the open meant healthy, vigorous appetites, such little unconventionalities in the art of cooking were of but trifling importance.
As the students were filing out, not in the most orderly fashion, into the clear, moonlit night, Jack Norworth joined Don and George.
“All ready, boys, for the Café Rochambeau?” he asked.
“You bet we are!” cried Don.
CHAPTER III—SPIES
To reach the peaceful village of Étainville, which, more fortunate than many another in France, had never known the horror and tragedy of war, it was necessary to pass through several little patches of woods. That walk with a number of his compatriots proved to be a very delightful one to Don Hale. Nature, in the soft, greenish moonlight, which filtered in between the foliage and ran in straggling lines and patches on the underbrush or fell in splotches on the trunks and branches, presented a very poetic—a very idyllic appearance. Here and there, amid the pines and firs, gnarled, rugged oaks, ages old, reared their spreading branches against a cloudless sky. A fragrant, delightful odor, like incense, nature’s own, filled the air; and the gentle sighing of leaves and grasses swayed to and fro by a capricious breeze joined with the ever constant chant of the insect world of the woods.
Étainville possessed only one main street, a cobbled, winding highway, lined on either hand with picturesque and sometimes dilapidated houses. Near the centre of the village rose the ancient church, the tall and graceful spire of which could be seen over the countryside for many miles. The twentieth century is a busy and a bustling age. Progress, ever on the alert, fairly leaps ahead, but it seemed to have carefully avoided Étainville in its rapid march.
Of all its inhabitants, none was better known or liked than old Père Goubain, proprietor, as was his father and grandfather before him, of the Café Rochambeau. Père Goubain was very fat—so fat, indeed, that he sat practically all day long in a big armchair. During the winter it was generally in the main room of the café, before the big round stove near the centre; but the summer days generally found him comfortably installed in the garden which enclosed the old stuccoed building.
Père Goubain appeared to be the very personification of contentment, except, however, when the Germans happened to be mentioned within his hearing. Then, his rubicund face became redder, his mild, blue eyes fairly blazed with a fierce, vindictive light, and, altogether, he looked quite ferocious indeed.
Such, then, was the Café Rochambeau and the man who greeted the crowd of Americans. To Don and George he was especially gracious. He asked many questions, and delightedly informed them that only the day before he had actually seen a detachment of American soldiers marching through the village street.
“Ah! and how grand they looked, mes amis!” he cried. “With their help—‘On les aura’—we shall get them! Ah, les Boches!”
The placid look on his face was gone, and, rising in his chair, he began to sing in a deep bass voice:
“‘Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory!
Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
When peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms—to arms, ye brave!
Th’ avenging sword unsheathe,
March on, march on, all hearts resolved
On liberty or death.’”
Vigorous indeed was the chorus which accompanied Peré Goubain’s rendition of the first stanza of the “Marseillaise,” and vigorous indeed were the plaudits that resounded throughout the room when the old Frenchman sank back in his armchair.
“Yes, the Yanks are the boys to do it,” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “Now, mes garçons—for the council chamber!”
The “Council Chamber” was an apartment adjoining the main room of the café. An oblong table stood in the centre, smaller ones by the walls; and there were plenty of chairs and tabourets for the use of the Americans, for the room practically belonged to them. Very often old Pére Goubain honored the gathering by his presence, and on this occasion he raised his ponderous form, and, with lumbering tread, followed his guests inside.
For their benefit Pére Goubain, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian war, told several interesting reminiscences about that memorable conflict; then, abruptly, he branched off into a subject which brought the old fiery look back into his usually placid blue eyes.
“Ah, what a wonderful system of espionage the Boches have!” he exclaimed. “Its sinister ramifications extend to every corner of our great land and far beyond the seas.”
“Know anything about it?” queried Peur Jamais, with interest.
“Listen, mes amis”—old Père Goubain spoke gravely: “Many officers are among my acquaintances. One of them belongs to the French Flying Corps, and he, poor fellow, while in a scouting plane far over the enemy’s lines, had the great misfortune to be obliged to descend in hostile territory.”
“Captured?” asked Peur Jamais, quite breathlessly.
“He was. But”—a grim smile played about the Frenchman’s mouth—“somehow, he managed to make his escape, and, after the most nerve-racking ordeals, succeeded in reaching the Swiss frontier, and from thence returned to France. In this very room, Messieurs, he told me his experiences.”
Immediately, to Don Hale, and probably also to a number of the others, that modest interior became invested with a singular interest—with a strange and subtle charm. How wonderful to think that a man who had passed through such harrowing adventures should have actually been in that very place!
“And do you know,” continued Père Goubain, with vehemence, “that when the German officers learned the aviator’s name, astounding as it may seem, they told him many facts concerning his own history.”
“But how in the world did the Boches ever learn them?” demanded Peur Jamais.
“As I said before, spies are everywhere; one cannot know whom to trust. Listen, my friends: not a hundred years ago, one of the officers belonging to a training school was actually discovered to be a spy.”
“Whew! That’s going some!” declared Sid Marlow to Don, while Peur Jamais, eagerness expressed in his eyes, began to look curiously about him, as though vaguely suspicious that perhaps some among those gathered together were not all they pretended to be.
Before Père Goubain could resume, several newcomers, also Americans, bustled past the door.
General interest was immediately aroused by the discovery that one carried a bundle of Parisian dailies.
But the old innkeeper had started to say something, and he intended to finish.
“Yes, Messieurs, the Boches possess many ways of obtaining information. For instance, I learned from another officer that spies have even boldly descended into the French or British lines, flying in airplanes captured from the Allies. Naturally, some of these pilots spoke excellent French; others the English tongue equally well. Naturally, also, having all the appearance of belonging to the cause of freedom and justice, they escaped suspicion at the time, and were thus enabled to pick up much valuable information.”
“Very interesting!” drawled one of the late comers. “But what’s all that got to do with Captain Baron Von Richtofen?”
“Captain Baron Von Richtofen?” cried Peur Jamais, interrogatively.
“Never hear of him?”
“No, Monsieur Carrol Gordon.”
“I have,” said George, in an undertone to Don.
“Then I’ll read something for your special benefit, Mr. Peur Jamais.”
Thereupon, Carrol Gordon, the owner of the prized bundle, having opened one of the papers and allowed the yellowish glow of the lamplight to fall across the page, began:
“‘Advices recently received from the western theatre of battle state that the famous Red Squadron of Death, commanded by Captain Baron Von Richtofen, has again made its appearance in several places along the front.’”
“‘The Red Squadron of Death!’” echoed Peur Jamais, something akin to awe in his tone.
“‘The Red Squadron of Death!’” repeated Don.
“Quite an impressive title, I’ll admit,” remarked Carrol, smiling at the great interest which the article had evidently aroused. He resumed:
“‘The Albatross planes belonging to this feared and death-dealing squadron are painted a brilliant scarlet from nose to tail. All are manned by pilots of the greatest skill and daring; and only the most experienced air fighters of the Allies can expect to cope with these crafty and dangerous enemies. The bizarre idea of the red planes is no doubt an attempt on the part of Captain Baron Von Richtofen to instil fear into the hearts of the Allied Flying Corps. At any rate, the reappearance of this squadron, which claims to have destroyed more than sixty allied planes, heralds the near approach of many bitter battles in the air.’”
As Carrol Gordon ceased reading he looked around and remarked:
“Some news, eh? Now how many of you are going to pack your trunks and slide for home?”
“And to think of T. Singleton Albert, the great soda-water clerk of Syracuse, going up against such a game as that!” put in Tom Dorsey, irrelevantly. “Poor Drugstore!”
“One thing to remember always is this, mes garçons,” exclaimed old Père Goubain, nodding his head sagely: “Imagination is a very wonderful thing, and the Boche Baron must realize the hold it has on certain natures. Imagination, mes amis, can have the effect of glorifying the most ordinary and commonplace of objects and detracting from the most sublime. It can rob the heart of determination and destroy hope, and, equally well, it can raise a man’s courage to such heights as to place him on the pinnacle of fame. Bah, I say, for the Baron’s red birds!” The innkeeper snapped his fingers derisively. “I cannot believe that any air fighters of the Allies would be frightened by a few cans of paint.”
“Well spoken, Père Goubain!” laughed Hampton Coles. “Yours are the words of a wise man; which proves that an innkeeper can be a philosopher as well as a server to the material needs of humanity.”
“How would you like to be a combat pilot and meet the Baron, yourself?” asked Jack Norworth, quizzically.
“It would be quite impossible, mon garçon,” sighed Père Goubain. “My weight, alas I would sink the ship.”
“Shall I give him a message from you if we should happen to meet?” laughed George Glenn.
“Yes, and let it be accompanied by a fusillade of machine gun bullets.”
Don Hale thoroughly enjoyed his evening at the club. Instinctively he felt that it was a sort of dividing line between ease and comfort and a strenuous existence, with dangers and perils ever present from the moment he became in actuality an élève pilot of the École Militaire d’Aviation de Beaumont.
Finally good-byes were said to Père Goubain, and the crowd filed into the great outdoors. The village street was enveloped in the soft light of the moon, and but for the bark of a distant dog would have been silent. The stuccoed buildings rose pale and ghostlike, or in sombre, mysterious tones, against the sky, and deep shadows crossed the cobbled highway. A few beams of light to cheer those who might be astir came from the windows of the ancient, time-worn hostelry, the Hotel Lion d’Or, where George Glenn was staying.
At the entrance, Don and the others bid the combat pilot of the Lafayette Squadron good-night, and then the march back to the flying field was begun. It was rather late when they arrived at the barracks. The excitement, the great desire to begin his schooling and the new surroundings all tended to drive sleepy feelings away from Don Hale. But Mittengale very solemnly assured him that unless he “hit the pillow” at once he would be liable to have regretful feelings in the morning.
“I know, because I know,” he declared.
“Then I’ll ‘hit the pillow,’” laughed Don.
The sound of laughter and voices was gradually ceasing as Don Hale climbed into his bed.
Several of the lamps had been extinguished and the interior of the big barracks certainly appeared very sombre—very gloomy indeed. Here and there details made a valiant effort to reveal their presence, but, for the most part, shadows, grotesque in shape, deep and grim in tone, held the mastery.
Presently Don Hale’s impressions became a little confused, and, within a very few minutes, he was sleeping that sound and dreamless slumber which is another of the glorious possessions of youth.
CHAPTER IV—“PENGUINS”
“I say, boy, wake up! Didn’t you hear the bugle sound? The reveillé! Wake up, for goodness’ sake! You’ll be late. It’s almost three-thirty now. You have that early morning feeling, eh?—a pippin of a feeling, too! I know, because I know!”
The sense of this string of words, jerked out with extraordinary rapidity by Roy Mittengale, was quite lost on Don Hale’s mental faculties, but, nevertheless, they had exactly the effect the speaker intended. With a start and a half-stifled gasp, the new student sat up.
Morning! Was it possible that morning had already come? Of course not! He hadn’t before suspected Mittengale of being a practical joker. Morning, indeed! He felt quite vexed—quite exasperated, in fact.
The effects his eyes took in were precisely similar to those he had seen on retiring—the same glimmering yellowish lights, the same lurking shadows, the long row of windows framing in the palish moonlight of the outside world.
He was about to protest. But before he had time the big room, all at once, became filled with noise and commotion—with the sounds of men jumping out of bed, of men talking, of men hurrying and bustling about as though their very lives depended upon the swiftness of their movements.
So, after all, Roy wasn’t a practical joker.
“All right! All right!” mumbled Don. “I’ll get right up.”
“You’d better,” continued Mittengale, laughingly.
Don Hale certainly had that early morning feeling, besides being cold and shivery; but, though he devoutly wished that he might enjoy a few minutes more of repose, he slipped off the mattress and fairly jumped into his clothes. By the time Don had finished dressing he was alone.
A swift dash for the door and a brisk run after leaving the barracks enabled him, however, to overtake speedily the more tardy students.
It was still a calm, serene moonlight night, with the stars dimmed by the greater lustre of the earth’s satellite, and no hint, no trace of color in the eastern sky to herald the approach of another day.
The destination of the hurrying crowd Don found was the wash-house situated not far away; and on arriving there he discovered that certainly “all the comforts of home” appeared to be lacking.
A dash of cold water over his face and arms made the boy feel the need of brisk exercise to counteract the effects of the damp, penetrating chilliness of that early matinal hour. Moisture glistened and sparkled on the tufts of grass, and low over the earth stretched long ghostly streamers of mist. High up in the heavens a flock of unseen crows, flying swiftly past, sent their cries far over the crisp, fresh air, but, rapidly, distance softened and then stifled the unmusical chorus.
A rush back to the barracks with the rest of the students put warmth into Don Hale’s shivery frame.
“Get in line, son, for the roll call,” commanded Tom Dorsey.
In an orderly double column the students ranged themselves alongside the barracks, an officer appeared and the formality began.
Proudly, the new student answered “present” as he heard his name pronounced by the officer.
“Now I suppose we’ll get a bite to eat,” he remarked to Mittengale, when the men broke ranks.
“Your ‘suppose’ is all wrong,” chuckled the other. “Now you’ll learn what you’re up against.”
“I suspect I’m up against a joker,” laughed Don.
But, again, his suspicion proved to be quite unfounded. The men were forming in line, and a few minutes later the march for the flying field began. The day for which Don Hale had looked forward so long—so expectantly—actually had come. His nerves, responding to the emotions aroused within him, were tingling, but tingling in a most delightful fashion.
The very faintest trace of delicate color, announcing the coming of day, now slowly began to suffuse itself in the eastern sky. It was a cheerless and a gloomy hour, not an hour, surely, for drooping spirits to be abroad; but, fortunately, there appeared to be no drooping spirits among that semi-military line of marching men.
Gradually the long row of curved-roofed hangars, partially hidden by the veils of mists, loomed forth more clearly. Before the head of the line had reached the first of the immense flying fields—there were three—numerous mechanics were rolling rather battered-looking little monoplanes from beneath the protecting shelter of the canvas coverings and placing them side by side in long lines.
“I say, my young knight of the air, cast your optics upon the ‘penguins,’” called Mittengale, who happened to be marching just ahead.
Don Hale, however, required no such invitation. He was already studying the machines with the most intense—the most eager interest. “Penguins,” he knew, are Bleriot monoplanes, the wings of which have been so shortened as to render the machines powerless to lift themselves from the ground; hence the rather curious appellation of “penguins,” birds of that name not being able to fly.
Certainly the “penguins” had an extraordinary fascination for the new candidate. To his active mind they suggested huge dragon-flies—all ready to wing their way lightly to other parts.
A few moments later the boy was standing before the nearest machine. Now every semblance to a military line had vanished. Students, moniteurs, mechanics and laborers were all mingling together before the hangars.
Some time later, while he was still regarding the machines with an absorbing degree of interest, the voice of the head instructor broke sharply in upon his thoughts.
In loud tones he was calling out the names of various students and designating the numbers of the machine they were to use. Immediately the future airmen began jumping into their places, and before many moments had passed every “penguin” in the long line had an occupant.
“Goodness! I certainly feel like an outsider,” murmured Don. “I reckon I’d better hunt up the sergeant and——”
At that second the air became surcharged with a series of startling staccato explosions, with roars, great crashes and bangs, quite ear-splitting in their intensity—the motors were being tested. Gradually the rising crescendo, suggestive of some strange, wild symphony, reached its greatest climax, and then as slowly began to subside. And presently, in its place, came the soft, pleasant drone and hum of many smoothly-working motors and propellers.
Now the highly interested Don Hale saw the assistants removing the blocks from beneath the wheels of the “penguins” and heard the moniteurs giving their pupils a few final words of advice.
“By Jove, don’t I wish I were in one of ’em!” he muttered. “Ah!”
The assistants were giving the propellers of some of the nearer machines a swift turn; and as the whirling blades became but misty circles the strange “birds” got into action.
“By Jove!”
This time Don Hale uttered the exclamation aloud.
A number of “penguins” had begun to “taxi” across the field, and were soon traveling at a most tremendous speed. Some twisted and staggered about, as though, every instant, they must topple over sideways and smash their wings against the turf. Others exhibited every indication of halting their onward rush and spinning around and around like a top, while still others, as straight and true as a swift breeze tearing its way across the countryside, kept rapidly growing smaller and fainter in the distance.
Yes, it truly was a remarkable spectacle that Don Hale had before his eyes. In the semi-darkness of that chill and early hour, the rushing “penguins” seemed to resemble a flock of huge birds, full of life, full of keen intelligence, rather than man-made machines.
There was a thrill and spice about the scene, too, which caused involuntary gasps to frequently come from the mouth of the student. Now and again, “penguins,” while traveling at a headlong pace, seemed about to smash into one another. The boy almost held his breath.
“Ah!”
One was down. Another, hustling past the fallen “bird,” just graced its broken wing. The game, even in the beginner’s class, was clearly not without its dangers.
Now the most skilfully handled machines had reached their destination—the flag at the other end of the field—and were returning as though borne on the blasts of a hurricane. From faint, insignificant whitish specks they became huge winged creatures in a moment of time, seemingly intent upon crashing their tempestuous way into the groups of moniteurs, mechanics and assistants and even through the hangars themselves.
The tense-faced pilots, however, stopped the engines in time, and, one after another, the “penguins” docilely came to a halt.
“Grand sport, sure enough!” cried Don, delightedly. He would have imparted this thought to others, too, but for the fact that not one among those all around him was paying the slightest attention to his presence. It gave Don a rather unpleasant feeling, as though he was of very little importance. It also served to make him decide to report to the sergeant of the first class at once.
Accordingly, he began walking toward the nearest group; and then, for the first time, he caught a glimpse of several of the Annamites attached to the aviation camp. Picturesque-looking little chaps they were, and unmistakably of the Orient from their yellow complexion and slanting, beady eyes to their small and stocky stature. They were about to cross the field. What was the meaning of that intrusion?
All at once Don Hale understood; and, instinctively, his eyes were turned toward the fallen “penguin,” which, like a wounded bird brought low by the huntsman’s bullet, lay where misfortune had overtaken it. A little crowd was collecting, and soon he discovered three distant figures moving slowly toward the hangars, the one in the centre supported by those on either side.
“The pilot must have been injured,” thought Don, commiseratingly.
In what seemed to be a very short time to him the sun was almost on the horizon, and eagerness to begin his task was gripping him with a strange intensity; no small boy with a lively and joyous anticipation of a visit to the “greatest show on earth” could have experienced more pleasurable sensations, and a glance toward the flying fields beyond served to even further increase them. Above the one adjoining, Bleriot monoplanes were flying at low altitudes; still further in the distance he could see airplanes piloted by more advanced members of the third and fourth class momentarily mounting in the air. The flying fields were beginning to show a pleasant warmth of color, and the Farnum and Caudron machines, high aloft, catching the sun’s reflections, sent them constantly flashing earthward. These planes possessed a certain grace, but they were heavy and clumsy craft indeed compared to several single-seaters—Nieuport or Spad machines. These far outclassing the swiftest of the feathered tribe in their flight, darted in and out, swooped downward from dizzy heights or climbed upward until their wings appeared as the faintest gossamer lines against the soft, purplish tones of the sky.
As Don set off in his quest for the sergeant the majority of the “penguins” were racing and tearing about the field in the most extraordinarily erratic fashion.
Sergeant Girodet was easily found, but, to Don Hale’s intense disappointment, the officer informed him that he would have to wait until the afternoon session, adding rather dryly:
“Monsieur will be safe and sound for several hours longer.”
Don laughed, rejoining:
“And for a good many hours after that, I hope.”
The Annamites were now bringing in the wrecked and battered plane, headed for the repair shops, vast structures employing hundreds and hundreds of skilled mechanics and helpers. As they were near by and the night shift still at work, Don concluded to pay them a brief visit before journeying to the field where the third class, of which T. Singleton Albert was a member, flew in real airplanes to a height of no less than twenty-five feet.
And just at this time the boy was overjoyed to hear a familiar, cheery voice shouting:
“Hello, Don! Hello, old chap!”
Turning quickly, he spied his chum approaching.
“My, but I’m jolly glad to see you, George!” he called. “Playing the part of a wallflower isn’t a pleasant outdoor sport.”
“Well, it’s good you don’t get up in the air about it,” replied George, laughingly. “That’s right—always keep your feet on the ground.”
“I’ll try to, even when I’m a few miles high,” chirped Don.
George agreeing to Don’s plan, the two began traveling after the guttural-speaking Annamites.
“It strikes me ‘penguins’ ought to be easily managed,” declared Don, reflectively. “One just has to drive them in a straight line across the piste.”
“Yes, that’s all,” replied George. A twinkling light shone in his eyes. “But——”
“Difficult, eh, old chap?”
And though George nodded emphatically, Don, nevertheless, felt strongly inclined to think that when once in the pilot’s seat he would surprise not only his chum but a few others as well.
Shortly afterward the two reached the machine and repair shops.
CHAPTER V—TRAINING
Americans, of course, enjoyed a great popularity all over France, and, therefore, Don and George were welcome guests at the shops, which resembled huge manufacturing plants. They immediately found themselves surrounded by another kind of activity. The din and hum of machinery, the clanging of hammers, the explosive reports of motors vibrated over the air, all symbolizing, as it were, by means of sound, progress and labor.
“They build airplanes here as well as repair them,” explained George.
As the two walked from one point to another Don Hale marveled at what he saw. The framework of hulls and of main planes, the latter with their strong but slender supporting spars, stood in long rows. Everywhere skilled artisans, ordinary mechanics, and helpers worked on various parts of the planes. In the assemblage department Don and George stopped to watch the winged creations, one of the latest products of man’s inventive genius, being put together. A foreman greeted them pleasantly.
“And what do the young Americans think of all this?” he inquired.
“Simply wonderful!” responded Don, enthusiastically.
“Very true!” agreed the men. “Ah! the art of airplane construction has advanced amazingly since the great world war began, mes Americaines. It is now a very exact science, where the laws bearing upon lateral and longitudinal balance, as well as many other things, have to be rigorously observed.”
“I believe that before 1914 the German equipment in the way of airplanes and dirigible balloons was greatly superior to either that of the French or English,” commented George.
“Yes, the Boches had been doing everything in their power to encourage the development of both types of machines, while the other nations, unmindful of the peril which menaced them, were satisfied to let the course of events in that particular direction merely drift along.”
“The Germans are said to have had, in addition to a fleet of huge Zeppelins, almost a thousand airplanes of the finest construction, while their aeronautical factories were rushing work on others,” put in George. “France possessed only about three hundred machines and England still less, probably as few as two hundred and fifty.”
“The Germans at that time held the world’s record for height and sustained flying,” declared Don Hale.
“Correct,” admitted the artisan. “They thought, too, that with the supremacy of their navy of the air, the supremacy of Great Britain’s fleet on the sea could be more than overcome and England invaded. But”—the Frenchman clenched his fists—“our enemies—your enemies—the enemies of the entire world realize at last their error. They failed! They failed! The supremacy of the air now rests with the Allies.”
“And yet, for a while, the Germans had the best scouting and fighting planes,” commented George.
“Yes; the Fokkers. But La France replied to that challenge by constructing the famous Nieuport, the swiftest, the most easily maneuvered airplane that flies. Come! Let me show you a sample.”
Don and George, smiling a little at the tremendous earnestness exhibited by the Frenchman, followed him to another part of the great shop, where the most skilled workers were putting the finishing touches to several Nieuports of the latest model. They were delicate but staunch little machines—their lines as graceful as those of any yacht; and each was finished with a degree of care and attention to detail which scarcely seemed warranted when the perilous nature of the career they were so soon to embark upon was considered.
“What perfect beauties!” cried Don. “Crickets, George! Don’t I wish all my training period were over, so that I could sail sky-high in one of these little rockets!”
“The speed of a rocket, Don, wouldn’t do you very much good while flying over the fighting front,” replied his chum, rather grimly.
Don, too impatient, too restless to remain much longer indoors, soon started off with the other at his side. And all the while the obliging artisan kept imparting interesting bits of information. He told them something about the giant bi-motored Caudron, the Handley-Page and the Caproni, each type of machine representing the highest achievement in airplane building by the respective countries of France, England and Italy.
“The Boches,” he added, with a scowl, “have the Gothas.”
“I remember reading that some of the Gothas which bombed London had a wing-spread of seventy-eight feet, with motors of two hundred and sixty horse power, and carried, besides three men, hundreds of pounds of explosives,” remarked Don.
“Seventy-eight feet is nothing these days,” commented the Frenchman, musingly. “A hundred and fifty is more like it. You and I, mes Americaines, will live to see the time when huge flyers, with comfortable accommodations for passengers, can cross the Atlantic, linking still closer the old world and the new.”
Their volunteer guide now conducted the boys to another department, where they saw many women engaged in sewing together breadths of fine linen cloth destined to be stretched over the skeleton frames.
“Billions have been spent and are being expended in the airplane industry,” continued the man. “Even piano and furniture factories and many others have turned their attention to the fabrication of airplane parts, such as struts, ribs and propellers. And all this, in connection with aeronautic machinery, means work for thousands of mechanics. Vast quantities of raw material are required. Airplanes must be housed: therefore the erection of hangars and other types of buildings will employ thousands more. Then, the training of aviators, too, is a pretty expensive operation.”
“I suppose so,” laughed Don. “However, I’ll try to let ’em down as easily as I can. Coming, George?”
After heartily thanking the obliging artisan for his courtesy the two left the busy shops.
By this time the slowly-rising sun was casting its first pale and delicate tints over the earth. And with these rays the gloom which had taken possession of nature for so many hours began to lift. The dull and lifeless landscape, freed from the embracing mists, took on an aspect of quiet beauty and charm, and drops of dew shone and sparkled like “many a gem of purest ray serene.”
At a brisk walk Don and George set out for the distant aviation field, and before very long the ever moving “penguins” were left far to the rear. Now Don and his chum had an excellent view of the real flying machines, as they winged their way in straight flights from one end of the piste to the other, or taxied over the ground to rise in the air with amazing ease and lightness.
Another crowd of moniteurs, students and mechanicians stood around, the moniteurs following the movements of the planes with the most critical attention.
One after another the flyers alighted, some with ease and precision; some striking the earth sufficiently hard to have thrown the pilot out had he not been buckled to his seat.
“Whew! I’ll bet lots of planes are smashed!” cried Don.
“You win,” said George, dryly. “Hello! Look at the machine which just made that bully landing. Whom do you see on the pilot’s seat?”
“Goodness gracious! As I live, it’s Drugstore!” burst out Don.
But as Don, unmindful of the moniteurs or the crowd, left George’s side and rushed up to congratulate him on his success, T. Singleton Albert’s face didn’t have at all its usual half shy and modest look. Instead, it rather suggested the expression worn by some mighty hero on the occasion of his greatest triumph.
“Did you see me?” cried Drugstore, breathlessly.
“I should say so!” exclaimed Don.
“Flying!—Why, there’s nothing to it, son. Oh, boy! Only a perfect boob couldn’t handle these ships.” Drugstore almost stuttered in his elation and excitement. “But, take it from me, son, some of these chaps here couldn’t learn to drive an ash cart. Hello! I say, Rogers”—he raised his voice—“did you see me that time? I brought her down so easily I didn’t even rumple the grass.”
“You’re up in the air right now, Singleton,” chortled Rogers.
Albert, who had a pretty good command of French, swelled up with even greater pride as he listened to the moniteur’s “C’est bien fait, mon ami—it was well done, my friend.”
“I’ll soon be bumping into the clouds,” he declared, a confident grin on his face.
The machine was quickly turned around by several Annamites, and then Drugstore, yelling loudly for every one to get out of the way, started his motor full blast; whereupon the monoplane began to glide swiftly ahead. As the machine attained a speed of about forty miles an hour it gracefully left the terrestrial globe several yards behind, and, like an arrow shot from the archer’s bow, cut through the still, silent air toward its distant goal.
“Some flyer, that baby!” laughed Rogers.
And, indeed, his comments were just. Very few of the other students were approaching Albert’s performance. Their landings were generally faulty—so faulty, in fact, as to endanger the safety of plane and flyer alike.
It was only a very short time before Drugstore’s plane was seen returning. Don Hale watched the machine rapidly growing larger with breathless interest, fearful that Albert’s great flush of enthusiasm might have engendered so great a confidence in his ability as to threaten his efforts with disaster. Exactly at the proper moment, however, exactly in the proper way, the Bleriot dipped; and then, exactly in the proper manner, it struck the earth, and, after rolling a certain distance, came to a halt.
“Well, who said I couldn’t learn to fly!” shouted Drugstore, hilariously. “Whoop! It’s easier than slopping soda-water over a shiny counter. Oh, boy, I’ll soon be able to give an eagle lessons!”
It was now another pupil’s turn to take the machine, and Albert, releasing the restraining straps about his body, jumped stiffly to the ground. His gait for several moments became so noticeably uncertain as to bring forth a volley of humorous observations.
“Success has gone to his head!” cried one.
“To his feet, you mean!” chuckled a second.
“If that grin of his grows any wider his face may be seriously injured!” chirped another.
“Speech, Drugstore, speech!” howled a fourth.
If Albert had been his usual self all this attention and good-natured raillery would probably have brought a flush to his cheeks. At that moment, however, Albert wasn’t quite himself. He forgot to stammer and look embarrassed as he declared importantly:
“Let’s see some of you chaps beat it. Oh, boy, just a little while, and I’ll be shooting up to hit the blue!”
Naturally Albert’s very excellent work fired Don Hale with an even greater desire to begin his apprenticeship at the fascinating game of flying. The sun had never seemed to ascend so slowly. Hours and hours must pass before he could make his start. Really, it was quite a strain on his nerves.
At nine o’clock work was over for the morning, and the students trailed back to the barracks, where they were privileged to remain until five. The particular crowd which occupied the Hotel d’Amerique found a newcomer awaiting them. He was a very rosy-cheeked young chap; and from his uniform, still showing plentiful traces of mud and hard usage, it was seen that he, too, had once been a soldier in the famous Foreign Legion.
“My name is Dan Hagen,” he announced, pleasantly. “I’m from Dublin.”
“Ah ha, boys, we now have with us Dublin Dan!” chortled Roy Mittengale.
And that was the way in which Dan Hagen received a new christening, and one that he accepted with a boisterous, rollicking laugh.
“Call me anything; but don’t call me down,” he said. “I say, how’s flying to-day?”
“As usual, up in the air,” laughed Tom Dorsey.
“Next to me, who’s the newest greeny?”
A half dozen or so fingers were pointed toward Don Hale; a half dozen or so voices gave the desired information.
“Shake, old man!” exclaimed Dublin Dan, extending a big rough hand. “It’s a race between us to see which shall be the first to feel the caressing touches of the wind-blown clouds on our cheeks.”
“I’m on!” laughed Don.
“I say, did you see me land on my last trip?”
T. Singleton Albert voiced this query. It was addressed to no one in particular; and as no one in particular paid the slightest attention to it Drugstore became quite peeved.
“Jealous, eh?” he jeered, with unexpected bravado. “Jealous! Oh, boy! but my cheeks’ll soon feel the caressing touches of these wind-blown clouds. Some joyous expression that, eh?”
“It doesn’t beat yours at the present moment,” declared big Sid Marlow, with a hearty laugh.
Don Hale soon discovered that there was little military discipline about the camp. The students were perfectly free to amuse themselves in any way their fancy dictated, though Cal Cummings informed him that on lecture days absence from the classes was considered a pretty serious offense.
“I’d never want to play hooky,” declared Don, smilingly.
The day, wearing on, brought with it plenty of heat; therefore the shelter of the barracks was soon sought by the majority. Little comfort could be found inside, however. Swarms of flies—“of every known size—of every known species”—so Dublin Dan declared, also used it as a hotel; and, not being of a bashful disposition, they made themselves unpleasantly conspicuous. At one o’clock the little pests were sole masters of the situation, while the crowd joined other crowds in the spacious mess-hall.
During the meal T. Singleton Albert, having been heard to remark: “I say, did you see that last landing I made?” was loudly and insistently called upon to make a speech. Thereupon, he suddenly grew red in the face, and when forced to his feet by strong-arm methods stammered and stuttered to such a degree that the boys, perceiving that he had once more become the old, timid, shy Drugstore, mercifully let him alone.
Following lunch a game of baseball was played between two well-matched teams, one of them being captained by Victor Gilbert. Gilbert’s team won, which Cal Cummings declared was not strange at all, considering the fact that Victor had at one time been a crack player on a college baseball club.
After the game was over, Don, George and Dublin Dan set out for the aviation field together.
CHAPTER VI—DUBLIN DAN
Don Hale, standing before a much battered and bespattered “penguin,” experienced a delightful thrill, which ran through his entire being. Brimming over with ambition, equally full of confidence, he could see nothing ahead of him but success.
The moniteur in whose charge Don and several others were placed was a rather youthful and pleasant-spoken Frenchman. In a quick, incisive fashion, he began to give a little lecture on the airplane.
“The body is known as the fuselage,” he explained. “At the front and just beneath the wings, as you see, is the engine and propeller. This particular type of plane, and in fact the majority, are drawn and not pushed through the air. The pilot is seated in the cockpit immediately behind the motor. Two rudders and two ailerons are placed at the rear of the fuselage. The former, vertical, and used for steering the plane horizontally, are operated by a cross-piece of wood upon which the pilot rests his feet. The ailerons are horizontal, connected with a control stick by means of wires, and, of course, tilt the plane either up or down. The control stick is an upright lever in front of the pilot’s seat. These are details, however, that you need not bother with now. Monsieur Hale, take your place in number thirty-five. Monsieur Hagen may use number twelve.”
Both boys immediately followed instructions, and, after each had securely fastened the belt designed to prevent an unceremonious exit from the plane, the moniteur explained, first to one and then the other, the proper handling of the engine and rudders.
“The two most important things to remember,” he said, “are to keep the tail off the ground and the engine going at full speed.”
With his nerves at the keenest tension, Don Hale waited for the command to start. Out of the corner of his eye he could see groups standing by the machine, watching him, it seemed, in deadly silence. The familiar figure of George Glenn among them nerved the boy to do his utmost.
“Ready, sir?” asked the mechanician standing by the propeller.
“Ready!” answered Don.
“Throw on the switch!”
With a hand that trembled in spite of all his efforts to control it, Don Hale obeyed.
The mechanician whirled the propeller, and in another moment the motor was emitting a deafening roar; and in still another the “penguin,” as though suddenly endowed with life, began a headlong flight over the rather uneven ground.
With all his senses keenly alert, Don Hale felt the rushing wind fanning his cheeks; and a sort of wild exhilaration took possession of him as the “penguin,” like a runaway locomotive, sent the ground speeding behind at a rate which fairly dazzled his eyes.
But why did the “penguin” wobble and stagger in such an extraordinary manner?
The more desperately Don strove to assert his authority over the man-made bird the more he seemed to lose his control. Now he felt it swinging to the left; then, a too hasty push with his foot on the steering apparatus threatened to send it wildly careening off to the right. Above the roar of the motor he could faintly hear the shouts and yells of the crowd which he was leaving so far behind.
The confidence which Don had felt before jumping into the machine was given a rude and unpleasant jolt; and, besides this, the speed and erratic movements of the “penguin” were so bewildering as to make the boy lose, for a moment, his usual coolness. The sudden thought, too, that George Glenn was witnessing the almost absurd capering of the “penguin” served only to add to his discomfiture and apprehension.
In his tremendous eagerness to conquer the difficulties, Don made a sudden movement with the control stick, lifting the tail high off the ground, and at the same time he added to his mistake by pushing the rudder too far around. The result was almost terrifying. The “bird,” as though roused to sudden fury by his action, began to whirl around and around, its speed seeming to increase with each passing second.
Dazed and dizzy the pilot had just sufficient presence of mind left to shut off the power. But the “penguin” had already begun to somersault.
Don Hale experienced a chilling and sickening fear. So suddenly that he could scarcely realize what had happened, the airplane tumbled over. He heard the sound of breaking supports and felt the impact of a blow. Then he found himself pinned to the ground amidst a mass of wreckage.
Several seconds elapsed before he could think coherently enough to decide that beyond a few bruises and scratches he had not been injured. And, although the “penguin” was as motionless as though it had never made a movement in the whole of its checkered career, the ground still seemed to be whirling rapidly before his eyes. But the dizziness, the pains and aches he was experiencing were as nothing compared to his disillusionment. He had fully expected to make a grand and triumphal trip straight across the flying piste to the flag which marked the end of the course and to hear the plaudits of George, the praise of the moniteur and the comments of the admiring crowd. And here he was—in an undignified heap, with the breath almost knocked out of his body, and responsible for the ending of the tempestuous career of what had been but a few moments before a staunch and sturdy “penguin.”
Oh yes, he must have surprised his chum George Glenn—of that there couldn’t be the slightest doubt!
As Don began painfully to extricate himself, with grim forebodings of what the consequences of the disaster might be, he became conscious of the fact that from almost every point people were running in his direction. He felt the hot blood rushing to his face; he experienced a feeling, too, somewhat akin to anger—for his sharp ears had caught what sounded suspiciously like bursts of hilarious laughter.
And, to add to the boy’s discomfiture, he caught sight of a “penguin,” wobbling and shaking like a ship in a raging sea, approaching. He had one brief, instantaneous glimpse of a tremendously grinning face—that of Dublin Dan’s—as the machine lurched swiftly past. A short time later the foremost of the crowd bore down upon him.
“Are you hurt, Don? Are you hurt?” cried George Glenn, breathlessly.
“No—no!” jerked out Don.
And, as though these words were a signal for a jollification to begin, roars of laughter and howls of merriment broke loose on every side. The students were not averse, it seemed, to enjoying the humor of the situation.
“We have seen the human spinning-top!” guffawed one.
“What a wonderful merry-go-round!” gurgled another. “Sixty miles an hour without budging an inch!”
“Say, boy, wasn’t that enough to make you remember it?” chirped a third.
“You were chasing your tail so fast you nearly caught up with it,” chimed in a fourth. “At any rate, it’s certainly a case for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Birds, even though it was a tough old rooster.”
Now Don Hale, quite unsteady on his feet, having a jumping throb in his forehead, and being, besides, in a very disgusted state of mind, could not, of course, enter into the spirit of jollification, yet, nevertheless, by a strong effort of the will, he managed to control his tongue and temper.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the impromptu performance, boys,” he said, pleasantly. “I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to equal it again. Ah——”
This “ah!” uttered with the most peculiar intonation, was brought from his lips by the mere fact of his eyes having caught those of the moniteur.
But instead of the angry, steely expression he had expected to see the boy was amazed to observe that the Frenchman appeared as unconcerned as though the incident was of the most trivial character. Yet even this did not take away the fear that he was in for a neat little “bawling out.”
“Monsieur Hale, one sometimes learns more by his mistakes than by his triumphs,” were the words he heard, however. The instructor spoke in genial tones. “Let us hope that it will be true in this case! Come!—now for another trial!”
Like a flash, Don Hale’s mood was changed; his usual buoyancy reasserted itself, and he was now as well able to laugh over his adventure as any of the others. He also had very grateful feelings toward the moniteur for his forbearance.
“Dublin Dan’s ahead in the race so far!” he exclaimed, laughingly, to his chum George Glenn.
“Never mind! The day isn’t over yet,” said George, with a smile.
Full of ardor, full of determination to retrieve himself, the élève pilot took the lead in marching back to the starting point.
There were always two things on the practice field which well testified to the hazardous nature of the work; a fleet of extra “penguins” and an ambulance. One of the former was very quickly rolled into place by the assistants. And Don, his ears assailed by a multitude of suggestions and words of advice, climbed at once to his seat.
By this time numerous other “penguins,” at widely separated points, were traveling over the field. Number twelve, Dan’s machine, could actually be seen racing toward them on the home stretch; and in an incredibly short space of time the dull gray wings loomed up strongly against the turf. Following a few extraordinary movements, the machine stopped abruptly, and from the occupant of the pilot’s seat there immediately came a series of loud and boisterous hurrahs.
“Maybe I didn’t have a bully trip!” he shouted. “Thought at first, though, I couldn’t stop the engine, and that I’d have to go clean around the whole earth and come back again. But say, old stay-in-one-place, I can almost feel, even now, the caressing touches of those wind-blown clouds on my cheeks.”
“Well, that’s a great deal better than feeling the caresses of the hard earth, as I did a few moments ago,” laughed Don.
“Allez, allez! En route!”[[2]] commanded the moniteur.
Don, experiencing the same measure of confidence he had had before, though it was now tempered by a much greater respect for the difficulties of the task, waited expectantly.
“Now!” he breathed.
The blades were revolving; the engine began its deafening roar—and, once more, Don was flying over the turf as though hurled from the mouth of a catapult. The new pilot had learned his lesson well. He realized that a firm though delicate movement of the controls is necessary to assure safety and success.
Faster, still faster, the “penguin” tore ahead; and though its movements were far from being smooth it kept to a comparatively straight course, only occasionally displaying an alarming tendency to turn over on its face.
Almost breathless from the effects of the violent wind which continually beat against his face, and as jubilant as a few moments before he had been in despair, Don Hale kept his eyes fixed intently on the flag ahead; and there grew in him a curious feeling that he was being carried along by some wild, unruly runaway. One moment the flag had appeared dim and small in the distance; the next it rose large and sharply defined.
The young pilot switched off the power, the “penguin” began to diminish speed and after running many yards beyond the goal stopped its headlong flight.
That was certainly a proud moment to the new candidate. The stain of his former defeat was now entirely wiped away. He was convinced that, after all, he had made an auspicious beginning.
“Much good!” exclaimed one of the Annamites, who was stationed in the field to turn the machines around. “One grand fly!”
“Thanks!” laughed Don. “And I’ll do better next time.”
He was, however, to have his confidence a little shaken on the return trip; for the “bird,” apparently without any reason at all, showed an almost irresistible tendency to fly off at a tangent, first in one direction and then another. And when this was finally overcome it seemed to display an equally ardent desire again to bury its nose in the turf. Several times Don had alarming visions of another inglorious smash.
It was, therefore, with the greatest feelings of relief that he again brought the machine to a stop.
And before this had been accomplished he heard George Glenn shout:
“Great—great! Well done, old chap!”
“Surprised, George?” asked Don, gleefully, when he could catch his breath.
“No; there are never any surprises on an aviation field,” laughingly rejoined the other.
“Vous avez fait de progres, mon ami,”[[3]] commended the moniteur. “Better take a few moments’ rest before starting in again.”
Don Hale thought so, too. Naturally, he hadn’t quite recovered from the effects of his exhilarating experience. His pulse was beating a trifle hard, and, unaccustomed to the rushing wind which had beaten so relentlessly upon him, there still remained some of its effects.
“I’m in a better position now to appreciate the feelings of Drugstore,” laughed Don to a little knot gathered about him. “Honestly, I think flying must be the greatest sport in the world.”
“It’s certainly the highest,” chirped Tom Dorsey.
“You’ve got the right idea, son,” chimed in Gene Shannon. “Treat the old birds gently, and you’ll soon be in a position to treat the Boches rough.”
For a while Don was content to watch the antics of the “penguins,” which were now swarming over the field in great numbers, and, as on every previous occasion, he found plenty of thrills in the sight—collisions narrowly averted and machines performing the “chevaux de bois,” as the French say, which, freely translated, means acting like a merry-go-round.
Some time later on he was off in the airplane again, and shot forth and back across the field a number of times, with generally fair success, before taking another welcome rest.
Equally pleased over the afternoon’s work was Dublin Dan; and he proclaimed his satisfaction in a loud and boisterous manner.
“You won’t find me encouraging the scrap heap industry,” he chuckled. “I’m going to tear right through this course and hit the next before I’m many days older.”
“Well, so long as you don’t hit me I’m satisfied,” said Don, with a laugh.
“Never mind. Don’t crow too soon,” interjected the pessimistic Ben Holt. “You chaps are a long way from the sky yet. It’s pretty blue up there; and I’ve seen a few fellows just as blue when they couldn’t make it.”
“I’ll see red if I don’t make it,” chirped Dan.
A few minutes later Dublin Dan was taxiing across the field, while Don leisurely prepared to follow his example—in fact, so leisurely that it was not until number twelve was seen returning that he opened the throttle and sent the “penguin” at full speed ahead.
Ever mindful of the danger of collision, the boy was particularly careful to give the oncoming machine plenty of room, for, owing to the tremendously high rate of speed at which they were traveling, it would be only a few moments before the machines were abreast of one another.
Don Hale noticed that number twelve had suddenly begun to act in the most wildly erratic manner—so much so, indeed, as to suggest that the pilot must have gone all to pieces.
What was the matter? How did it happen that the unusually promising pupil should have lost control of his machine?
And while these thoughts were flashing through his mind he suddenly became filled with a chilling sense of dismay and fear; for number twelve had deviated from its course and was bearing down upon him in a zigzagging line with almost the speed of a lightning express.
| [2] | “Go—on your way!” |
| [3] | “You have made progress, my friend.” |
CHAPTER VII—THE VRILLE
Uttering a half-inarticulate cry, the pilot of number thirty-five made a supreme effort to avert a catastrophe.
But, even as he did so, he realized, with a sickening sensation of terror, that it would be futile—that nothing he could do would be of the slightest avail. With eyes staring wildly, he had a quick vision of number twelve, as though its sole purpose on earth was to run him down, fairly hurling itself upon him.
Don Hale gave a loud yell, though the roar of the motor drowned the sound. In a wild panic, he attempted to rise. But the restraining strap jerked him back to his seat. Then he saw the frightened face of Dublin Dan right before his eyes.
And that was the last thing they took in for a moment. He found himself jerked high in the air, then hurled violently forward.
The next instant his head struck the ground with heavy force. A light seemed to flash before his eyes, and, with the dull consciousness that was still left to him, he heard supports, struts and planes of both machines smashing under the heavy blow. Blackness followed.
And then came a moment when he was neither quite conscious of where he was or what had happened. And when he presently opened his eyes it was with the feelings of one who has just awakened from a troubled, uneasy slumber. The sound of excited voices was ringing in his ears; he heard George Glenn loudly calling his name, but he neither answered nor stirred.
The latter was, of course, impossible. He was pinned to the earth on every side by the debris of the “penguin.”
As the boy’s faculties began to reassert themselves a shudder ran through his frame, and, for the first time, he became conscious of the fact that every joint, every portion of his body was racked with shooting pains. Had he been seriously injured? In his apprehension, he began to aid the rescuers in their efforts to release both him and Dublin Dan.
The vigorous workers soon completed their task, and Don felt strong arms on either side dragging him to his feet. Some one was feeling his pulse; some one was feeling his joints; and some one laid a hand across his brow.
“Badly shaken up; suffering from shock; not much injured, though,” he heard a voice exclaim.
An instant before Don Hale’s vision had seemed blurred—his consciousness strangely dulled, but, somehow or other, the words “suffering from shock” seemed to revive him in an astonishing degree.
“‘Suffering from shock!’ Well, who wouldn’t be?” he blurted out, almost angrily. He gently pushed aside the supporting hands. “I reckon, fellows, I don’t need any props to support me. But say, how is Dublin Dan?”
The young Irishman, surrounded by a crowd, was lying in a half-reclining position upon the turf, his usually florid face pale and drawn. But as Don’s query reached his ears he began to struggle up. It was a mighty hard effort, however, bringing many an exclamation of pain from his lips.
“Dublin Dan’s all right!” he exclaimed, in a voice quite unlike his own. “But don’t let me hear any one say I’m suffering from shock, or I’ll paste ’em. Hey, boy, why didn’t you get out of my way?”
“A comet couldn’t have gotten out of your way,” retorted Don, smiling faintly. “But why did you try to butt me off the earth?”
“I didn’t do it. It was the ‘penguin,’” said Dan. “I think I must have hurt the old bird’s feelings by running over a bad place in the ground; or else it got tired of life and decided to quit. And that’s where it isn’t like the Hagens. What train are you going home on to-night?”
“I’ll have to get a few more caressing touches from the earth before I do that,” said Don.
The boy was feeling very shaky; his strength seemed to have so far deserted him that it was with difficulty that he managed to stand erect. The pains and aches he was experiencing were so great as to still make him wonder if, after all, he had not sustained some injury which might keep him out of the game for days—that was the only thought bothering him now. Yet he was deeply thankful that the terrific smash-up had had no worse consequences.
Although it was a very important matter to the two principals, the incident was so trivial in the eyes of the older students of the flying field that as soon as it was discovered that neither of the boys was seriously injured they began to retrace their steps.
The moniteur rather sternly demanded from Dan Hagen an explanation of the cause of the mishap.
“Tell him there isn’t any explanation,” said Dan, when Don had translated the instructor’s remarks. “It just happened—that’s all. I reckon one of the great joys in this game is that it keeps a chap so perpetually thankful that he’s still alive that it makes up for everything else. Say, Don, where do you feel the worst?”
“All over,” replied Don.
“Hadn’t both of you better get back to the barracks?” asked George Glenn, solicitously.
Don almost indignantly declined the suggestion.
“No, indeed!” he declared. “I’m going to hang around here and watch the other smash-ups.”
“And I’m not suffering from shock so much that I can’t do the same,” said Dan, with a grin.
Both Don and Dan soon found, however, that they had been too much shaken up to enter very thoroughly into the spirit of the occasion. Nevertheless, they were of that age when the very idea of retiring from the field would have seemed like a deplorable surrender; so they remained until the majority of the pilots began their homeward march.
The boys were glad indeed to reach the Hotel d’Amerique. They removed the dirt and dust from their clothing and enjoyed a refreshing wash; and their feelings were then so far improved that each readily agreed to accompany the crowd, after supper, to Étainville and the club.
Thus the end of Don’s second day was passed very much as the first. They found Père Goubain, as usual, bubbling over with good-nature, and listened to the bits of philosophy which he expounded and to his tales of spies with the same interest as on the night before.
But there was something else which made their visit to the Café Rochambeau far more memorable than they had expected. While the rattle of tongues was in progress every one became aware of the fact that something was going on in the village street. The air was filled with the sounds of wheels jarring and rumbling over the cobbled highway, the steady tramping of horses’ hoofs and the voices of men.
Don and George were the first to rush outside. And what they saw gave them a thrill of pleasure and of exultation.
Yes, yes! The Yanks were not only coming but they had come. Actually!—an American battery was making its way over the lone street toward the front.
It was certainly a warlike scene over which the magic rays of the brilliant moon were playing. At the head of the procession rode the captain, mounted on a big bay horse. Close behind him followed the battery standard bearer carrying the red guidon, which lazily swayed to and fro. Silent and grim, the two horsemen suggested knights of old going forth to battle. Gun carriages and caissons drawn by long teams of mettlesome horses rattled and banged steadily past.
Now and again glinting lights flashed from horses’ trappings, or from the sinister, wicked-looking guns.
Often, from the wooden-shoed inhabitants of the village—men, women and children, who had flocked out into the street to view the interesting spectacle, there came the cries of, “Vive l’Amerique!” And to these salutations officers, cannoneers and postilion drivers sometimes responded with a “Vive la France!”
“What a glorious sight!” exclaimed Père Goubain, who, having managed to lift his ponderous frame from the rocking-chair, had joined the Americans outside.
“I reckon the Germans might as well fire all their spies and give them respectable jobs—eh, Père Goubain?” laughed Peur Jamais.
The old innkeeper shook his head.
“As long as there are Germans there will be spies,” he said, solemnly.
The crowd waited outside until the last gun carriage had become lost to view and only the faint sound of horses’ hoofs and grinding wheels came over the silent air.
Then, as the hour was getting late, the boys bade good-bye to Père Goubain and began their tramp toward the barracks.
Arriving at the aviation field, the students witnessed a spectacle which, to Don and Dublin Dan at least, possessed a singular interest and novelty. It was a dance executed by Annamites and dark-skinned Arabian Zouaves before several huge bonfires built in front of their quarters. With the firelight playing over the forms of the fantastically-moving dancers and the weird, monotonous notes of the native music, the scene was suggestive of some far-off, uncivilized quarter of the globe.
“Those chaps are certainly working hard for their fun,” remarked Dan Hagen.
“Wait till you see them get to fighting, which they sometimes do,” laughed Cal Cummings.
“Excuse me the night the scrap comes off,” chirped Don. “A little of that sort of thing is much too much.”
“Like our smash-up to-day!” chuckled Dublin Dan.
All the boys were pretty tired when they reached the barracks; for training in the flying school often produces a strain on the nerves more fatiguing than hard work. No time, therefore, was lost in turning in.
But Don Hale passed a most uncomfortable and restless night. The pains and aches, partially forgotten while in the midst of lively scenes, now became violent enough to prevent the boy from falling into the slumber which nature craved—in fact he had not slept at all when, after what seemed to be an interminable length of time, the clear, musical notes of the bugle, sounding the reveille, broke in upon his ears.
It was a relief. But, at the same time, Don, blinking-eyed and yawning, scarcely felt in the mood to enjoy the work as he had done on the day before. Out in the open air, however, he soon felt more like himself, and his natural enthusiasm soon overcame all bodily fatigue.
The new élève imagined that he had conquered the “penguin,” but the result of the day’s performance, to his great surprise, and equally great disgust, showed him that this was merely an illusion. Both he and Dublin Dan figured in several mishaps, the most serious of which caused Dan’s “penguin” to be towed to the repair shop. Both boys, too, received a varied assortment of bruises. And at night, when summing up the result of the work, Don grimly declared that it certainly was the end of an imperfect day.
A week passed, and then another, with Don and Dan still struggling to obtain a complete mastery over the unruly “birds.” There were several interruptions in the work due to thunder-storms. And after the artillery of the clouds had ceased the rain continued for hours. On such occasions the students amused themselves by getting up impromptu concerts; and sometimes, while the wind and rain beat relentlessly against the Hotel d’Amerique, the notes of such pleasing compositions as Schumann’s “Traumerei,” Schubert’s “Am Meer” and Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,” played on the piano by a former motion picture artist, mingled with the ominous blasts outside.
On certain days lectures were given; the students were taught the theories of aeronautics and the design and construction of various types of flying machines. They were obliged, too, to take motors apart and put them together again. Then, there were courses in map reading—a very important subject indeed for the aviators must learn to keep track of their aerial travels by such means.
About the middle of the third week Don and Dan were delighted to be informed by the instructor that their progress had been sufficient to entitle them to enter the second class. This did not mean that they were to be allowed to fly. It did mean, however, that they became pilots of real airplanes, though it was not possible to turn on sufficient power for the motors to take the machine off the ground.
The boys found the sensation very different from that experienced while trying to tame the “penguins.” There was a delightful lightness and buoyancy about these monoplanes, as they skimmed over the ground, exhilarating in the highest degree. They continually seemed about to defy the limitations set upon them and leave the terrestrial globe for the firmament above.
And during all the time that Don and Dan were wrestling with the new problems, T. Singleton Albert, the former drugstore clerk of Syracuse, was making the most astonishing progress. Many in the beginning had been accustomed to laugh at the thought of the pale, anemic-looking chap ever attaining his ambition of becoming an airman, but, as Peur Jamais put it, he was “leaving every one of them far behind.”
One evening, when the sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon and the advance-guards of approaching dusk were drawing a veil over the distance and little by little driving the color from objects near at hand, a crowd of boys of the first and second classes journeyed to the third flying field to watch the machines circling around in the sky.
“Won’t I be glad when I get to the real work!” sighed Don.
Dave Cornwells, who was standing by, remarked:
“Boys, do you see that highest machine? Well, the pilot is a certain daring young aviator named T. Singleton Albert.”
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Dan Hagen. “Why, that chap is certainly a bird!”
“You’ve said something,” drawled Roy Mittengale. “And he’ll never be satisfied until he gets so high that the earth looks like a rubber ball to him.”
As the shadows slowly deepened over the earth the flyers, one by one, returned to the grande piste.
There still remained one airplane high aloft—so insignificant in the vast field of graying sky that it seemed to lose all resemblance to a flying machine and become but a tiny, shapeless speck, so faint at times that the naked eye could no longer follow its varied evolutions. And every one on the grande piste seemed to know to whom that machine belonged—it was Albert’s.
“My, shan’t I be glad when I get into his class!” commented Don Hale, whose face was turned toward the sky.
And then, all of a sudden, he gave voice to a loud exclamation. Others did the same; for the faint speck in the sky had suddenly begun to behave in the most extraordinary fashion. First it dove, then soared upward again, not in the orderly fashion which one might expect of a machine piloted by a skilled aviator, but in a way which suggested that something was amiss.
And this impression was strengthened a few moments later when the machine began to volplane at terrific speed, at the same time swinging around and around as though on a pivot.
“The vrille![[4]] The vrille!” came from dozens of excited students.
“The vrille!” echoed Don Hale, huskily.
| [4] | “Vrille”—French for “falling leaf.” |
CHAPTER VIII—THE HERO
The boy had heard about the “vrille,” and he knew that it is one of the most difficult evolutions an airman can perform, and that it had sent many to their death.
For a few moments of tense and awe-stricken silence the onlookers kept their gaze fixed with agonized intentness upon the object which, like a wounded bird, was tumbling through space.
A sickening sensation of horror and despair gripped the spectators. The airplane and its pilot seemed doomed to utter annihilation.
Pale, trembling with apprehension, his throat dry and husky, Don Hale could not keep his eyes away from the spectacle of that frightful fall. He stood as motionless as though fastened to the turf by means of invisible chains.
Nearer and nearer came the still-revolving plane. Now the machine was so clearly silhouetted against the sky that even the supports could be faintly distinguished.
Don had seen many a terrible sight during his stay in the war zone, but perhaps none had ever affected him so acutely as this. He could not help picturing in his mind the awful fate of poor Drugstore.
Not a voice—not an exclamation was heard. That most awesome silence which sometimes holds sway over spectators when they are witnesses to a catastrophe which they are powerless to avert had settled upon the crowd.
Faces were beginning to be turned aside, and though Don Hale felt an almost irresistible impulse to do the same, an impulse still stronger kept his wide, staring eyes fixed upon the airplane.
But a few moments more, and the tragedy would be over. His nerves were quivering violently. The strain of those few terrible seconds was almost too hard to bear.
And then, just as he was preparing to steel himself for the sound of a sickening crash—for the sight of a machine, smashed and battered to pieces, bursting into flames—a wild, half-stifled cry escaped his lips.
What was the reason?
Because of an almost unbelievable, impossible happening.
The airplane had suddenly stopped its whirling evolutions, and was soaring majestically through the air not a hundred feet above their heads. Its engine had started and was sending a deep droning hum through the air.
It took a few seconds for the strange and oppressive silence to be broken. It was as though the enthralled witnesses of the scene could not at first comprehend the evidences of their vision. Then frantic shouts and wild cheers rang forth over and over again.
Actually!—Drugstore was safe. What did it mean? Had he become such a master aviator that he had been simply giving an exhibition of his skill? It looked that way.
In their joy, the students slapped each other on the shoulder and yelled themselves hoarse.
Around and around the -piste flew the airplane, and it was not until a certain calmness had been restored among the students that it volplaned swiftly toward the earth, and, as easily as a bird alighting, struck the ground and presently came to a halt.
And the moment it had done so an excited crowd began rushing toward it from different parts of the field.
No conquering hero was ever acclaimed with greater fervor—with greater enthusiasm than T. Singleton Albert. Hands were thrust forward to shake that of the returned aviator.
The moniteurs praised and chided him at the same time. It was almost unbelievable, one of them declared, that a student with so little experience should have possessed sufficient courage to execute such a dangerous and daring maneuver.
And throughout it all Albert remained quite silent. The demonstration, indeed, seemed to embarrass him—to bring his natural modesty and reserve all the more to the front.
“Simply splendid, T. Singleton!” cried Don, enthusiastically. “Only, I wish to goodness you had notified us beforehand what was coming off. Honestly, my nerves are jumping like a jack-in-the-box. But didn’t the vrille make you dizzy?”
“Yes,” admitted Drugstore—“so much so that just now I wouldn’t be able to look in a mirror and see myself twice in the same place.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any occasion to fear Captain Baron Von Richtofen and his Red Squadron of Death,” chuckled Marlow. “If they ever get after you, son, just pull off the same trick, and it’ll mean a safe getaway.”
Albert clambered out of the machine, and, as though wishing to escape further attention, hurried rather unsteadily toward a camion standing by the side of the field. But such a sensational and unexpected event was not to be dismissed in so unceremonious a fashion. All the way to the waiting vehicle the former soda-water dispenser was obliged to listen to enthusiastic comments and reply to numerous queries.
And so it continued all the way to the Hotel d’Amerique, and even at the supper table later on.
Then it was that Sid Marlow started other demonstration, by exclaiming, in his big, booming voice:
“Sometimes a chap has no right to be modest. I’ve traveled over some pretty rough trails, fellows, and early discovered that modesty is one of the biggest stumbling blocks in the path of success. That’s the reason I haven’t any.”
“We’ve noticed it,” chirped Roy Mittengale.
“You’ll notice it some more, too, when I equal Albert’s record. Now, boys, I call upon our young friend for a speech. Who seconds the motion?”
Everybody did, and with an enthusiasm which brought warm flushes to the face of the embarrassed Albert.
He tried to resist, too, when those nearest at hand forced him to his feet. This time, however, the crowd was determined. They brushed aside the boy’s protestations, and presently Drugstore, finding that there was absolutely no chance to escape the trying ordeal, began to make a few stammering remarks.
For a moment the eyes of all in the room fixed intently upon him threatened to stop altogether his halting words. And then, suddenly, to the surprise of all, he collected his scattered wits and pulled himself together. It was as if a new spirit had entered into him. The flush left his cheeks and the tremolo in his voice was replaced by a firm and even tone.
But the first words he uttered when this changed condition had taken possession of him fairly astounded his hearers.
“Boys, I’m through with flying forever.”
“Through with flying forever!” cried Don.
Then came an almost riotous demand for explanations. The boys weren’t going to stand for any “joshing.” But, as cool and collected as before he had been the reverse, Albert voiced his declaration a second time.
“True as I’m standing here, boys, I mean it,” he declared. “I’m no hero. That wasn’t a joy ride to show what I could do in the way of handling the plane—oh, no! It was nearer to being a real tragedy. And I’m through with the game for all time.”
Drugstore’s assertions created another sensation. A babel of tongues prevented his next words from being heard.
Big Sid Marlow quickly restored silence.
“Now tell us all about it, Albert,” he commanded.
“It’s a mighty short story,” replied Drugstore. “I made up my mind to do the vrille, but somehow or other, at the very last moment, the idea of actually starting it had such an effect upon my nerves that I decided to leave it for another time. Even the thought, high up there in the air, was enough to send cold chills creeping through me and make me perform some bungling movements with the controls. Before I could regain the mastery over myself, almost before I could realize it, my plane was thrown into the vrille and I was shooting through space, with the machine absolutely out of control.” Albert’s voice faltered. An intense agitation seemed to grip him. “It was terrible—frightful!” He almost gasped. “Never had I the least expectation of coming through it alive. Never shall I forget those terrifying moments—the agony I suffered. That one experience, fellows, has taken away all the fascination of the game. Call it a yellow streak if you want; call it a case of downright cowardice—I can’t help that. I’m going to quit the flying school for good.”
And having uttered these words with a conviction which permitted no one to doubt his absolute sincerity, T. Singleton Albert abruptly turned away and made for the door.
“Well,” exclaimed Don Hale, “that chap may not think he’s a hero, but, all the same, I believe he is.”
And to this sentiment every one heartily agreed.
CHAPTER IX—THE ACE
Many of the students confidently believed that by the time another day had rolled around Albert would have so far recovered from the effects of his thrilling experience as to reconsider his determination. This, however, was not the case.
A few privately expressed the opinion that Drugstore was a quitter, but, somehow or other, the boy’s frank avowal had raised him in the opinion of the majority, who sincerely regretted that so promising a pupil should be lost to the school.
During the late afternoon another American arrived. Of course this was not a very important event. Students were always going and coming, some leaving for the École de Perfectionment[[5]] others being sent back to their regiments when it was found that they were not fitted by nature to become successful airmen.
But a little incident in connection with the appearance of the newcomer profoundly interested those of an observant or inquisitive nature. It was a rather dramatic meeting between him and the former college student, Victor Gilbert.
The latter, who was now in the third class and gave promise of being one of the best of the élève pilots, upon entering the room and coming face to face with the other halted as though almost petrified with astonishment, and exclaimed:
“Hello! You here, Jason Hamlin!” Whereupon the other answered, in a tone which showed no trace of friendliness:
“Yes, I am here, Gilbert. And one of the reasons I am here is because you are here. Does that disturb you?”
“Not enough for me to notice it,” returned Victor Gilbert, coolly.
“Flying is a dangerous game, eh?”
“There are other games just as dangerous.”
“There are other games just as dangerous”
At this remark Jason Hamlin’s face flushed perceptibly; his fingers twitched; a steely glare which plainly told of a spirit moved to anger came into his eyes.
But the interesting colloquy ended there.
“I say, wasn’t that mighty curious about Gilbert and Hamlin?” exclaimed Bobby Dunlap, otherwise Peur Jamais, to Don Hale, after the evening meal was over. “I wonder what Gilbert meant by saying: ‘There are other games just as dangerous.’”
“It’s too much of a riddle for me.”
“I tried to pump this Jason person a little,” declared Peur Jamais, “but he was as dry as an old well gone out of business. Strikes me there’s a little mystery which I’ll have to unravel.”
“I’ll let you have all the fun of the unraveling,” chortled Don. “Go to it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes the second.”
“All right!” chirped Bobby. “I hope I shan’t get a punch in the eye while I’m sherlocking. Our friend Jason looks as though he wouldn’t have much trouble in finding his temper.”
“Or losing it,” said Don, with a laugh. “But say, Bobby, I got a letter to-day from George Glenn. And what do you think he’s seen?”
“Break it to me gently.”
Thereupon Don Hale drew from his pocket the missive, and began to read:
“‘To-day I had a mighty exciting experience. It was during my two hours’ patrol over the enemy’s line, and the “Archies” were following my plane thick and fast.’”
“The ‘Archies’! What does he mean by ‘Archies’?” interrupted Bobby.
“It’s a name the flying fighters have given to the anti-aircraft guns,” replied Don. “Though I reckon no one knows exactly the reason why.”
He resumed:
“‘Don, I must confess that this afternoon I got a pretty big scare. I was just about to return to the encampment of the squadron when I saw something that made my pulse throb as it hasn’t throbbed even when I was engaged in a duel in the air. It was the sight of two crimson planes swooping down upon me from above—a part of Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron!’”
“Great Caesar’s bald-headed nanny-goat!” ejaculated Bobby. “Where’s my suit-case? I think I’ll go home with Drugstore.”
“I shouldn’t blame you,” laughed Don.
“‘By the time I made this startling discovery the foremost had opened fire with his machine gun. And the first thing I knew bullets were ripping through my plane.’”
“I don’t think I’ll wait for my suitcase, after all!” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “Whew! What did George do to them for that?”
“The next chapter is as follows,” said Don:
“‘I threw my plane into the vrille, and the next shots sped over my head. That might not have saved me, either, had it not been that some of the boys, seeing my predicament, literally sailed into the Germans.’”
“Poor child!” cried Bobby. “By this time I really ought to be half-way to the station.”
Don continued:
“‘From now on I expect things to be more dangerous than usual, which is saying a good bit. I will write again soon if—though I will say au revoir.’”
“I can’t say the prospect looks so very enchanting,” confessed Bobby. “But, as the French say, ‘C’est la guerre!’ And that means it isn’t any pink tea affair, eh?”
“I guess not; though I never drank any pink tea,” laughed Don.
Some time later T. Singleton Albert approached the two.
“I thought I’d say good-bye, fellows,” he announced. “I’m leaving during the forenoon to-morrow, and you chaps might not happen to be around.”
“It’s too bad!” said Don. “I suppose it’s no use of our saying a word, eh?”
“Not a bit,” declared the other, very emphatically. “That tumble in the air certainly did the business for me. Why, do you know, even the very sight of an airplane going aloft gives me the queerest kind of feelings. Take my advice—be a bit slow in making haste. Then you won’t have to pack your suit-cases and get out, as I’m doing.”
Albert spoke in the tone of one who felt that his ambitions had been rudely shattered—that the future held no hope.
The daring young airman who had astonished the students by his rapid progress had become once more the drugstore clerk, the very antithesis of what an airman might be expected to appear.
Drugstore solemnly wished them the best luck in the world, hoped they might win fame and glory in the sky, and then, after shaking hands very heartily, wandered away to say his adieus to the others.
“I think, after all, the soda-water counter is his proper sphere in life,” remarked Dunlap, presently. “He’s more fitted to be reading about the exploits of other chaps than trying to do them himself.”
“I hope the weather is all right to-morrow,” broke in Don. “It was looking a bit threatening when we came in—all clouded over. Let’s take a look outside, ‘Fear Never.’”
“All right,” chirped Bobby. “Goodness, how I hate rainy days! I think I know, now, how a chicken in a coop must feel.”
The two walked outside the crowded barracks, and both at once gave voice to expressions indicative of disappointment.
The entire heavens was covered with a thick canopy of clouds.
“I don’t think Druggy need have said good-bye to-night,” remarked Peur Jamais, disconsolately. “If I issued a Weather Communique it would sound something like this: High and steady winds; heavy rains, with no intermissions between; lightning and thunder in equal proportions; life-boats and rafts in demand.’”
“Never mind,” sighed Don. “There are other days ahead of us.”
“If I didn’t think there were I’d never be standing here as calmly as this,” returned Bobby, laughingly. “Let’s go back to the smell of kerosene and dismal light.”
It was rather late when the crowd turned in; and the last one hadn’t been asleep very long before pattering drops of rain were heard falling upon the roof, while the wind, in soft and musical cadences, kept steadily blowing.
About two a. m. there came a veritable downpour and big, booming reverberations of thunder. Vivid flashes of bluish lightning filled each window with a dazzling glare and cast a weird and uncanny light throughout the room.
“It’s a wild night, all right,” exclaimed Dublin Dan, half sitting up.
“It means no flying to-morrow,” grumbled Mittengale.
“Such little trials have their usefulness.” It was Victor Gilbert who spoke. “It teaches, or rather, should teach one to be philosophical and accept the inevitable with resignation.”
“I don’t want to be philosophical,” complained Peur Jamais. “And I won’t be philosophical, either. Whew! Some big waste of electric light, that!”
No one made any reply, or if they did it was unheard; for the most appalling detonation shook and rattled the barracks. It seemed as if the structure must be shaken from its very foundations.
And thus the storm continued until the boys were routed from their beds by the musical notes of the bugle.
It was pitch dark and gloomy. The wind tore past with no soft and musical cadences mingled in with its angry whistling, and now and again a flurry of raindrops splattered noisily down.
The usual roll call was held, and then the boys were free to do as they pleased. Don Hale concluded to take a nap in his former place between the sheets.
When he once more opened his eyes the morning was well advanced.
Jumping out of his berth, with an exclamation of surprise, the boy hastily slipped on his clothes and walked outside.
Scarcely a hint of color could be seen in the landscape. Here and there pools had formed, reflecting the dull, leaden gray of the wind-driven clouds, the air was filled with moisture, and the dull and heavy-looking earth seemed to have absorbed all it could possibly hold.
Gazing at the landscape was not a particularly enjoyable pastime; so the boy reentered the barracks.
An hour passed, during which the crowd amused itself in various ways. Then a shout outside was heard. Although the words themselves were not understood, it was a call so clearly intended to bring the boys that a general stampede for the door was made.
And when they reached it, they perceived a biplane which, in utter defiance of the treacherous wind buffeting it about, was approaching the aviation grounds at tremendous speed, its graceful, rocking form outlined in lightish tones against the sinister-looking storm-clouds.
“I believe he’s going to land!” cried Don.
“Of course. Did you think he was condemned to fly forever!” chirped Dublin Dan.
Now the loud, droning hum of the motors and propellers, which had been filling the air, suddenly ceased, and the object darting swiftly through the sky began to volplane in graceful spirals toward the earth.
Realizing that the biplane, which all now recognized as a Nieuport machine, an avion de chasse, as the French call them, would alight some distance away, the crowd started running over the muddy field toward it.
And while they were on the way the pilot made the most perfect atterrissage[[6]] any of them had ever seen.
T. Singleton Albert, who had not yet left, was enthusiastic in his praise.
“Oh, boy, wasn’t that jolly fine!” he cried. “And——”
He got no further; for just then some one bawled out with much gusto and boisterousness:
“It’s a machine belonging to the Lafayette Squadron!”
“The Lafayette Squadron!” echoed a number of others, the rather shrill and falsetto voice of Drugstore being plainly heard.
Sure enough, the insignia of the famous flying squadron—the face of an Indian warrior, now faded and worn by the rains and snows which had beaten upon it, could be clearly distinguished on the body of the rakish-looking plane.
Don Hale forgot all about the dreary prospect ahead of him for the day in his absorbed contemplation of the visiting biplane. Then his glances fell upon the aviator just on the point of stepping from the nacelle, or cockpit.
“Hello!”
He uttered the word aloud and excitedly.
The appearance of the aviator was thoroughly familiar. He had seen pictures of him many a time. A curious thrill shot through the boy; for suddenly he realized that he was looking upon William Thaw, the famous American Ace, one of the most commanding figures of the Franco-American Flying Corps.
Others, too, among the crowd had recognized the renowned aviator, and a burst of enthusiastic cheering ending in a “Rah, rah, for Thaw!” rang out.
The famous ace smilingly bowed his acknowledgments, remarking:
“Many thanks, fellows! I thought I would just take a flyer over here to pay a brief visit to my old friend, the commandant.”
“But—but—you didn’t actually come all the way from the front, Lieutenant Thaw, did you?” almost stuttered T. Singleton Albert, whose eyes were fixed with strange intensity on the trim, though mud-bespattered little Nieuport.
“Oh, yes! Had quite a scrap, too, just before leaving. Did I get the Boche?” Lieutenant Thaw smiled genially. “No. I think that particular Teuton must have had faith in the old adage that ‘He who fights and runs away may live to fight another day.’ Now, boys, I suppose it’s quite safe for me to leave the machine here until I return?”
Being assured that it was, the aviator, with a wave of his hand, started trudging through the soggy field toward the commandant’s office.
By this time Don Hale and Albert were making a close examination of the Nieuport. Both took a look at the cockpit, beautifully finished in hard wood, and at the upholstered pilot’s seat, and studied the brightly-shining nickel-plated instruments which tell the pilot practically everything he needs to know while in the air.
There was something else, too,—an ominous-looking something else—which attracted and held their interest—a Vickers machine gun, the firing of which is so perfectly timed that the bullets fly between the whirling propeller blades.
To Don Hale, and, doubtless, to many others, that weapon, catching and reflecting numerous gleams of light, was almost awe-inspiring. And, to add to these feelings, they presently discovered several bullet holes in both the upper and lower planes, silent and eloquent testimonials of the perils which always face the intrepid and courageous fighters of the air.
At first Albert had been quite talkative—that is for him; then, as he walked around the machine, studying every detail with the same interest that a connoisseur might have displayed in the contemplation of a rare and priceless piece of statuary, he suddenly became silent. Finally his mild, unassuming air deserted him, and, straightening up, he exclaimed, loudly:
“Fellows, I’ve changed my mind. Nobody is ever going to call me a quitter. I’m not going to leave the school after all. No, sir! I’ll keep at the flying game; and, by George, I’ll get to the front, too.”
Following his sudden and almost vehement outburst, there came a silence.
But it was quickly broken. And as loud as had been the cheering for the visiting aviator it distinctly held second place to that which greeted T. Singleton Albert’s unexpected declaration.
The boys shook his hand and slapped him delightedly on the shoulder.
“Julius Cæsar! The Germans are going to pay dearly on account of this unexpected visit of Lieutenant William Thaw,” cried Roy Mittengale.
“Poor Baron Von Richtofen and his Red Squadron of Death!” laughed Bobby Dunlap. “Just think of all those gallons of red paint gone to waste! Drugstore, your nerve is simply grand!”
A little later, when the American lieutenant returned, the students told him about the incident, whereupon he, too, heartily congratulated Albert.
“We need young chaps like you at the front,” he declared. “The air service is of the greatest importance. It has been called the ‘Eyes of the Army.’ The game, too, is wonderfully thrilling—wonderfully interesting. Let me wish you much glory, success—and safety.”
As he spoke, he climbed into the cockpit.
Don Hale gave the propeller a whirl and, presently, amid a chorus of good-byes, the Nieuport started off. Faster and faster it moved over the field, sending streams of mud and water flying in every direction, and, at last, gaining sufficient momentum, it glided into the air.
The crowd watched the biplane until it had disappeared in the murky, moisture-laden air.
“Boys, I’ll never forget this day,” declared Drugstore. “It’s strange how little things may alter the whole course of a person’s life!”
And every one, quite as solemnly, agreed with him that it was.
| [5] | School for advanced students. |
| [6] | Atterrissage—landing. |
CHAPTER X—CORPORAL DON
Not long after this there came another very interesting day in Don Hale’s life. He had graduated from the first and second classes and was to make his first flight in the air.
Only those who have gone through a similar experience can understand Don Hale’s feelings when he seated himself in the cockpit of a much-used though sturdy little plane and laid hold of the controls. No veteran airman or famous “ace”[[7]] could possibly have felt more exultant or proud.
The school by this time had become very full, and many of the élèves were obliged to await their turn; so there were always plenty of spectators on the field; and these generally paid particular attention to the boys who were making their first trial spin in the air. This all added to Don Hale’s tremendous desire to make a good showing; for he still had vivid recollections of his preliminary experiences with the “penguins.”
“Now, remember, make no attempt to turn in the air,” commanded the moniteur in charge. “Perfectly straight flights only; fly no higher than thirty feet above the ground.”
“Get out your tape-measure, Donny,” giggled Roy Mittengale. “Remember, every foot adds to the jolt of the fall at the bottom.”
“Don’t try to imitate Lieutenant Thaw so much that you’ll hurt yourself,” advised Ben Holt.
“Safety first in airplanes means not to go up at all,” chimed in another.
Don, however, wasn’t paying the slightest attention to these jocular remarks, for the mechanic had his hand on the propeller.
It certainly was a wonderful sensation to the young airman when he felt the machine suddenly begin to move, slowly at first, but rapidly gathering momentum, until, like a high power motor car, it was racing at a speed which made him almost gasp for breath.
Presently the boy gritted his teeth together, and, with a peculiar feeling suggestive of I-wonder-what-is-going-to-happen-next state of mind, pulled back gently on the control stick.
And then, abruptly, he realized that the monoplane was traveling ahead with a most wonderful smoothness. The wind rushed past, lashing and stinging his face with its terrific force, but the heavy goggles prevented his eyes from being affected.
Don Hale glanced over the side of the cockpit, and, a little to his dismay, discovered that he was just skimming a few feet above the surface of the earth.
A quick pull on the control stick sent the monoplane racing aloft, and before the boy, trembling with excitement, could bring it to an even keel he was far above the height limit set by the instructor.
At first Don Hale had been acutely nervous—even fearful and apprehensive. To him it was a very marvelous thing to be actually off the earth, the pilot of a real flying machine. And it scarcely seemed possible that the machine should require so little attention. Like a flash, all the unpleasant feelings that had disturbed him vanished.
Jubilant, exultant, almost ready to shout with the sheer joy of the exhilarating sensations he was experiencing, Don Hale once more looked earthward. How strange the ground looked flying beneath him at incredible speed! How high above it he appeared to be! If anything should happen to his machine a fall from that height might produce most serious results.
With one swift, comprehensive glance, his eyes took in the boys at various points on the field and the planes which, for one reason or another, were resting here and there on the turf. Then his greatest desire and ambition in the world was to descend—to return to that haven of safety.
Yes, flying was easy enough; but when it came to making a landing—that was where the difficulty began.
Nervously, Don switched off the current and pushed the control stick forward.
And, to his utter dismay, the plane seemed to be falling headlong at an acute angle—the ground to be fairly shooting up toward him.
For one brief instant he had a terrible vision of a fatal smash-up. Then, a pull of the lever in the opposite direction brought the nose of the machine upward again. And following this, to the boy’s intense surprise and relief, the monoplane dropped in the most gentle fashion to terra firma, taxi-ing across the field, its speed rapidly diminishing.
When it had come to a stop Don found his face bathed in perspiration and his pulse throbbing in a way that it had seldom done before.
“By George! Am I actually here!” he muttered.
Notwithstanding the fact that the boy had made a mighty good landing and could hear shouts of approval coming from the distance he was too honest with himself to be gratified with the achievement. He knew that it was simply a case of good luck.
“But just wait till next time!” he muttered, grimly. “By George, the earth never seemed so fine before!”
A number of Annamites presently appeared and turned the machine around.
It was not for some time, however, that Don’s nerves quieted down sufficiently for him to put his airplane into motion. With a fervent hope that fate would be as kind to him as it had been before, he switched on the ignition and once again faced the blasts of wind.
Then came the delicious moment of soaring upward—the ecstasy of feeling himself borne through the air as swiftly as the arrow from an archer’s bow and that sense of wonderful freedom which the airman alone can enjoy.
As before, he glanced downward, and a humorous thought came into his mind.
“Certainly I’m the biggest thirty feet that was ever known above the ground,” he murmured. “I hope I don’t fly to the moon.”
With astonishing rapidity the distant hangars, from hazy, indistinct objects, became strong and clear. He could see the students and instructors, watching, it seemed to him, with an interest and close attention that fired his spirit with the keenest determination to make a landing that would surprise them.
He did.
But the machine was not badly wrecked, nor was he himself injured by the fall of fifteen feet.
It was merely a case, Mittengale genially explained, in which the earth happened to be that many feet lower than it should have been.
Don said very little. It rather jarred his sensibilities to hear the mirthful laughter and bantering remarks and to see the Annamites towing an extraordinarily wobbling machine toward the repair shop. And, besides this, to add to his disturbed state of mind, the moniteur, a boyish chap named Boulanger, very loudly called attention to the error which had caused the accident, between times roundly scolding him.
“Quite a neat little bawling out!” chirped Dublin Dan, soothingly. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”
“I don’t include that word in my vocabulary,” exclaimed Don, with a half smile.
But though Don Hale’s start in the third class had not been particularly auspicious, nevertheless, by the end of the day he managed to gain sufficient mastery over the plane to receive a “Pas mal, Hale!”—“Not bad!” from the same moniteur who had chided him.
That evening, while lying in his bunk, he summed up the situation in regard to himself. There were other pupils who had made faster progress, but the boy felt sure that what he had learned he had thoroughly learned. He knew, however, that there was a tremendous amount of work ahead of him before he could possibly hope to equal the skill of the most humble flyer of the Lafayette Squadron—a squadron which he devoutly hoped to join.
Difficulties have the effect on some natures of spurring them to greater zeal and determination; so it was in the case of Don Hale. Each failure, each “bawling out,” each chorus of laughter only acted as a stimulus.
In a little less than a week he had acquired sufficient skill in driving the machine in straight courses across the field to be promoted another step—that is to the tour de piste, or tour of the aviation field at a height of about three hundred feet.
This was, of course, designed to teach the airmen how to make their turns in the air, an operation requiring the greatest accuracy and care. Up to this time Don thought he had enjoyed about all the thrills that it was possible to have, but the first tour de piste undeceived him. All the other experiences faded into insignificance when compared to this. In his splendid isolation from all mankind, he was filled with a certain sense of awe a little unnerving at first. He was in a situation where no power save his own could be of any avail, and on the first two or three occasions involuntary tremors shook his frame as the Bleriot monoplane banked, or swung around at an angle.
Happily, however, there was no tragedy to record. With increasing confidence, Don dared to rise higher, and within a few hours had reached the required altitude. From this elevation he viewed with absorbed attention the wonderful panorama, which, like a colored map, was outspread before him, revealing fields of various forms, shapes and colors, and patches of woods and hills. And dividing the landscape were light lines—the roads—running in all directions.
His first tour was satisfactory to himself and his instructors. The turns held no terror for him.
Following this several days of bad weather put a stop to the work of the school. During the enforced inactivity Bobby Dunlap had his curiosity and interest in Victor Gilbert and Jason Hamlin still further heightened by a violent altercation between the two, although neither he nor any one else was near enough to overhear the conversation. The fact, too, that the young chaps had evidently been just on the point of indulging in a physical encounter made the “Gilbert-Hamlin affair,” as Bobby termed it, decidedly interesting.
“I’m going to find out all about it some day,” he laughed, nodding his head emphatically.
“Bully boy!” chuckled Sid Marlow.
When the period of dull weather was over Don Hale started in with greater zeal than ever. He was doing his best to equal the record of T. Singleton Albert, who had so far recovered his nerve that he had no hesitancy at all in executing the vrille.
By gradual degrees, Don took his machine to greater altitudes, until, at length, he was making the tour de piste at a height of three thousand five hundred feet. Now feeling somewhat like a veteran, he was fully prepared when the order came for him to perform some of the simpler evolutions in the air. One of these consisted in spiraling down to the earth with the engine shut off and landing almost directly beneath the point at which he started. Another was to volplane swiftly downward, and then, while still several hundred feet in the air, bring the machine to a horizontal position and swing around either to the right or left.
These exercises proved to be a pretty severe test on his nerves, and at first affected his head and stomach in a truly distressing manner; but constant practice, combined with a determined will, finally enabled him to gain the mastery over them, and he began keenly to enjoy the great and thrilling swoops through space.
At length there came a time to which he had been looking forward most anxiously, and that was the beginning of his training in a big Caudron biplane, a rather slow but safe machine. This meant that Don Hale’s stay at the École Militaire de Beaumont was nearly at an end.
There were now but two tests before him, one known as the petit voyage and the other the grande voyage. The first was a sixty mile trip and return; the second a triangular journey, each side being about seventy miles in length.
By the time Don had passed these successfully T. Singleton Albert and Victor Gilbert had gone to the great finishing school located at Pau, in the southern part of France.
It was indeed a happy moment to Don when he received his “Brevet d’Aviateur Militaire” from the War Department, which made him a corporal in the French army. This merely meant, however, that he had graduated from the school at Beaumont, and, like the two who had preceded him, was sent to take a course in “acrobatics” at Pau.
Pau, he found, was very delightfully situated, and within sight of the snow-capped Pyrenees.
With even added zest, Don Hale entered into the work before him. It was more dangerous than anything he had attempted in the school at Beaumont; but the tactics he learned were of extreme importance, being precisely those used in air fighting on the front.
About the middle of his course Don Hale was ordered to report to the Mitrailleuse school at Casso, on the shore of a lake, where soldiers in all branches of the army are trained in the use of machine guns. In a two-seater, piloted by another airman, Don Hale practiced firing at captive balloons and moving targets on the lake.
At first it proved very difficult, but constant work soon enabled him to meet the requirements of his instructors.
After the completion of this training he returned to Pau for a short period. Following this he went to Plessis Belleville to add a few final touches before being assigned to combat duty in one of the escadrilles.
The boy’s greatest ambition was to join the Lafayette, where he might be near his chum George Glenn, and he passed through a period of much anxiety before the matter was finally settled in the affirmative by the military authorities.
Proud and happy indeed, in his neatly-fitting uniform, with the corporal’s stripes on his sleeve and the golden wings and star insignia on his collar, Don Hale set out on his journey to join the escadrille, then encamped not far from Bar-le-Duc, near the Verdun front.
| [7] | Ace—a pilot who has brought down five or more enemy planes. |
CHAPTER XI—THE LAFAYETTE
Of all the flying corps in France none performed more valiant deeds or became more renowned than the Lafayette, composed of Americans who journeyed across the sea to help the French in their struggle against the invading hosts. Whether it was in answer to the call of adventure due to the love of thrills and excitement, or to the fascination of a new and wonderful sport, or simply from a sense of duty, are questions of no particular moment—the members of the flying corps are to be judged solely by the remarkable work they accomplished.
The fame of such combat pilots as Rockwell, Prince, Chadwick, MCConnell, Lufbery, Hall, Walcott and numbers of others is of the kind which will last as long as history itself. Never again, perhaps, will men be called upon to repeat their triumphs.
The day Don Hale arrived was an epochal one in his life. George Glenn and T. Singleton Albert met him at the station in a little village crowded with soldiers and permissionnaires.
“I can’t tell you, Don, how glad I am to see you; and yet I’m almost sorry to see you,” exclaimed Albert, enigmatically. “You’re in for excitement that will make your days as an ambulance driver with the Red Cross seem tame by comparison.”
“And they were plenty thrilling enough to suit me,” laughed Don. “What’s the latest news?”
“That this little village was recently bombed.”
George Glenn pointed to a sign painted on the side of a building.
“‘Cave Voûté,’” read Don, aloud.
These caves, he knew, were underground retreats, where the soldiers or inhabitants could find a refuge in case of a bombardment or a bomb-dropping expedition of the enemy.
“One good thing—our camp is outside the range of the guns,” said George.
As the boys walked through the little village, which, during the earlier stages of the war, had been the scene of many an exciting event, Don Hale could not help but remarking on the changed appearance of T. Singleton Albert. There was a gravity and sedateness about him which he judged to be caused by the dangers to which the airmen are constantly exposed.
“Had any exciting adventures yet, Drugstore?” he asked.
“Plenty of them,” responded Albert. And then a light which Don Hale had never seen before flashed into the young chap’s eyes. “Yet, in spite of that, I wouldn’t have missed this experience for all the world. Flying has all the joys, the thrills and excitement of every other sport beaten a thousand miles. I certainly owe a whole lot of thanks to Lieutenant William Thaw.”
The three found plenty to talk about, though they were often obliged to let their lively tongues slow down on account of the lines of marching troops and the almost endless procession of motor trucks passing in both directions.
In about three-quarters of an hour they reached their destination—the headquarters of the famous Lafayette Escadrille, which happened to be, at this time, in a beautiful little villa, situated in the midst of spacious grounds.
A number of the American pilots cordially greeted him, and Don was very glad to see among them Victor Gilbert.
After meeting the courteous French captain of the escadrille the boy was shown to a room on the second floor, which he was to share with several others.
Outside of the hazardous nature of their occupation, the members of the American Squadron, unlike the “doughboys” and poilus, lived a life of ease and comfort. They had orderlies who attended to their needs, comfortable feather beds to sleep upon, and their meals, prepared by a French chef, were eaten in a dining-room which delighted the eye by its most artistic furnishings and decorations.
It would have been very hard to analyze Don Hale’s feelings on this particular occasion. Expectation, eagerness, happiness and impatience, all seemed to hold sway over his thoughts, and though the reality was before him he could scarcely believe that he actually had become a member of the famous American Squadron.
After a substantial lunch, still in the company of George Glenn and Albert, Don journeyed to the aviation field not very far away.
With the utmost eagerness, he gazed about him. He saw numerous hangars, rest tents and various wooden structures. And, besides these, parked at one side, were ponderous motor trucks, trailers and several automobiles.
Attached to the great encampment were mechanicians, chauffeurs, telephone operators, Red Cross attendants and motor-cyclists—for the business of flying has its prosaic side as well as its thrills. Somehow or other it reminded Don of a country fair on a large scale, and it would have seemed to him very natural indeed had his eyes alighted on a barker, mounted upon a rostrum, exhorting a crowd of spectators to enter. There was a certain air of grimness and sternness, however, about the men whom they encountered that soon removed this impression. From the east came the sullen rumble of countless guns. Sometimes it was low, like the mutterings of distant thunder; sometimes it swelled into a volume, as if a storm was about to burst, and then, like the sighing of the wind, almost faded away.
A patrol was just about to leave for the front, and Don watched the Nieuports taxi across the ground, rise one after another in the air, and, after gaining a high altitude, soar in a V-shaped formation toward the battle front.
The boy thrilled at the sight, and his eyes followed the fast-flying planes until they were lost to sight behind a thin veil of whitish clouds.
“Of course, I’m pretty sure you know just what kind of work we are doing here,” said George Glenn, “but, notwithstanding, I am going to tell you a few things. Our squadron belongs to what is known as the group de combat, and it has a definite sector to cover.
“A patrol is always kept over the enemy’s lines, not only to prevent the German pilots from entering ours but to make their lives as full of spice and adventure as we possibly can.”
“Still, we have a lot to do besides fighting,” put in Albert. “Sometimes our duty is to protect the two or three-seater bombardment planes, the avions de réglage, or airplanes used by those who regulate the artillery fire, and the observation and photographic planes. The mission of the big ‘birds,’ although they are armed with two guns, and sometimes three, is a purely defensive one.”
“Quite often,” chimed in George, “escorting bombardment and photographic planes, we travel quite a long distance into ‘Germany,’ as we call the other side of the barbed wire entanglements.”
“It must be wonderful!” cried Don.
“Some of our experiences are, I can assure you,” returned George, with a half smile. “Now, Don, here is something the captain is going to tell you, and if you value your life and my piece of mind you will implicitly obey his instructions.”
“Fire away!” said Don.
“It is to stick by the formation—always! The Germans have a habit of pouncing down upon stragglers, and unless the pilot combines skill, resourcefulness and courage in equal proportions, or sheer good luck intervenes, it is apt to be good-night.”
“You can trust me not to get lost,” said Don, with a serious look in his eyes. “But, boys, I want to see my plane—I must see my plane, and, as the captain is right here on the field, I reckon he’ll show it to me.”
In this view Don was not mistaken; and presently a mechanic rolled out of one of the hangars a small machine, slender of fuselage and beautiful in its proportions. On the tapering body was painted an Indian’s head similar to the one on Lieutenant Thaw’s machine.
“As you see, all of the planes are numbered,” remarked the captain, “and, in addition, each of the pilots has some special mark on the fuselage to distinguish his from the others.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Don, with a grin of delight.
“This machine has a motor of two hundred horse power and can travel at a speed of about one hundred and forty miles an hour,” continued the commander. “And at times you will need it all,” he added, dryly. “When may you go up? This afternoon. I will detail Sergeant Reynolds to accompany you in his plane. The German lines must not be crossed, under any consideration, for several days at least.”
“The German lines must not be crossed”
“Oh!” murmured Don.
This was a great disappointment to the boy; for he possessed that daring which youth is prone to indulge—a daring which may often lead to disaster, and, as often, be a means to safety.
The captain, after introducing him to the mechanic who was to look after the Nieuport, walked away.
The next half hour was one of unalloyed delight to Don Hale. He spent it in examining the plane, the various nickel plated instruments with which the cockpit was furnished and the Vickers gun, with its belts of cartridges.
To fire this stationary weapon the pilot would have no need to remove his hand from the controls. The instruments consisted of a compass, an altimetre to register the height, a speed indicator and several others. Then there was a map in a roller case.
The top of the plane was camouflaged by means of spots of a greenish and brownish color; and besides the concentric circles of blue, white, brown and red on the wings the end of the tail had been painted with the tricolor of France.
Though Don Hale, as a rule, was a pretty calm lad, he found it hard to conceal his nervous tension.
His preliminary flight that afternoon, however, was really nothing more than a repetition of those he had taken while in the training schools. A green pilot was not to be fed to the hungry Boches, and he stood in no more danger from that source than if he had been hundreds of miles away.
On the following days the sergeant led him a little further toward the fighting front. And then, having received all the protection which wise counsel and advice could afford, the young airman was pronounced ready to begin his career as a combat pilot.
CHAPTER XII—ABOVE THE CLOUDS
On a certain morning, just after sunrise, Don Hale, in his fur-lined combination suit, leather aviation helmet, and provided with heavy goggles and gloves, was strapped in his machine. It was one of a row of six, which, in almost perfect alignment, were ready to go aloft.
There was the greatest activity and noise about the flying field. The air was filled with the roar, the drone and the hum of many motors; and in this sea of sound the reverberations of the distant guns were, for the time being, completely lost.
Don had received his instructions to fly at the rear of a formation of six machines, following one another at a distance of fifty metres. This vol de groupe would patrol the German lines for a period of several hours.
Don Hale found himself murmuring over and over again: “At last!” And though he tried his best to still the rapid pulsations of his heart—to control a hand that had an extraordinary tendency to tremble, it was without avail. He was going up to face peril of the gravest sort.
Was anything going to happen?
Just then he felt almost afraid to think of what the fates might hold in store for him.
Presently he saw the captain wave his hand as a signal, and a moment later the leader of the patrol rose in the air. The others followed.
There was just an instant more of waiting for Don Hale, and then he, too, was rolling over the ground.
As readily as a leaf borne aloft by a gust of wind the Nieuport answered to the controls and began spiraling upward.
The six machines rose directly over the field, and at a height of about two thousand feet the leader headed toward the east, the others taking up their respective places in the formation.
Higher and higher the fleet of wonderful little machines ascended, and Don Hale glancing over the side of the cockpit, saw a wonderful panorama of the rapidly-receding earth, which the early morning sun was tinting with a soft and poetic glow. The most delicate tints of brown and green were broken here and there by darker notes of a purplish hue, indicating patches of woods. Crisscrossing the earth in all directions were the roads—thread-like lines of palish gray, and, as though some giant hand had scattered them carelessly about at widely distant points, were clusters of little glistening dots—villages, or what remained of villages. Now and again the boy’s eyes caught sight of pools, mirroring on their surfaces the delicate tones of the sky or the clouds above, and presently the river Meuse came into view—a faint and hazy line.
His practice in the school at Pau had taught Don how to preserve his place in the vol de groupe, which, when the tremendous speed of the Nieuport is considered, is far from easy, and he had never made a better effort than at the present time. The new member of the Lafayette Squadron remembered vividly the stories he had heard concerning the fate of youthful and venturesome pilots who had disobeyed the commander’s orders.
Eagerly, he kept his eyes open for enemy planes. He could not see any, but he did perceive, far below him, on both sides of the line, numbers of grotesque-looking observation balloons, or sausages, as they have been jocularly christened.
Now the altimetre registered a height of over ten thousand feet—they were approaching the battle-front. Don Hale was about to get his first view of “Germany.”
The boy, however, was too excited—too absorbed in the contemplation of the singular scene below him, and, at the same time, so occupied in handling his plane that he did not feel any tingling sensation of fear.
The battle-ground was covered with a thin veil of purplish smoke, and where the delicate shadows lay thickest on the earth he could occasionally distinguish the flashing lights of the guns or of exploding shells. But it all seemed very distant—very remote. The clouds of smoke from the bursting projectiles and innumerable batteries were but tiny spots amid the surrounding haze. Don realized that a vigorous bombardment from both sides was going on and that a devastating hail of missiles was creating havoc and destruction in the opposing trenches and far to their rear. Then he had a swift glimpse of that irregular brownish stretch of land running between the hostile forces—“No Man’s Land,” the most sinister, the most barren, the most mutilated strip of earth that has ever existed since the world began.
The patrol leader was now mounting higher, and the reason became almost instantly apparent. The air straight ahead had become filled with round puffs of viciously-spurting black smoke. The “Archies” were according the early morning visitors their usual warm reception.
A second more, and not so many yards away there suddenly appeared the largest and wickedest-looking puff of all, and, above the roar of the motor, the startled Don Hale could hear the explosion of the shrapnel shell launched by the German gunners.
The next instant he felt a terrifying thrill. His airplane was falling through space.
Almost stifled by the air rushing past, with a horrifying vision of impending catastrophe, the boy, nevertheless, managed to keep his wits about him. But escape seemed impossible. A perfect hail of “Archies” popped up in the air to the rear, to the side and to the front of the falling machine, the control of which he was desperately trying to regain.
Though his agony of suspense seemed long drawn out it was but a moment when the terrifying descent was over and the machine again flying parallel to the earth.
It was almost miraculous that it had not been riddled with the fragments of the bursting shrapnel shells. The din of their almost continuous explosions was ringing in the aviator’s ears, and in the violently-disturbed air the Nieuport was rocking and plunging like a boat in a heavy sea.
“Never fly in a straight line” was the advice which had been given to Don before setting out on the expedition, and after the first few moments of suspense had passed Don Hale managed to sufficiently calm his jumping nerves and follow this instruction. He turned the nose of his machine upward, and, in a zigzagging flight, shot like a rocket into the blue depths above.
A little later he found an infinite relief in seeing the black thunderbolts exploding hundreds of yards below.
But where was the rest of the patrol? They seemed to have utterly vanished. A strange sense of loneliness such as he had never known before took possession of him. And then, like a flash, he recalled George Glenn’s words: “The Germans have a habit of pouncing down upon any stragglers they may happen to see.”
Were there any enemy scouts about?
He cast a swift, comprehensive glance over the vast expanse of sky.
A number of planes were to be seen far to the rear of the German lines, but whether friends or enemies the new combat pilot could not possibly determine. At any rate, he was sure his companions must have ascended to the cloud level, now close overhead.
Still thrilled at the thought of his narrow escape, he sent the biplane climbing higher aloft. Nothing in his school days could be compared to this flight, a flight in which danger threatened every moment
Plunging into a cloud, the machine became enveloped in soft and fleecy masses of vapor. Not a thing could Don see in any direction. It was a most weird and curious sensation, he found, to be sailing so far above the earth, in the midst of the fog; and though he experienced a certain sense of freedom from danger he had an unpleasant feeling of half suffocation, which impelled him to escape as soon as possible from their enfolding embrace.
Now, through a jagged opening he caught a glimpse of the earth, and just a moment afterward something happened which gave him the greatest scare he had yet had in his brief flying career.
A shadowy object—so faint as to be scarcely discernible—flashed into view to his right, and, while he gazed toward it as though fascinated, in a second of time it had grown into an object of seemingly gigantic proportions, though still so faint in outline that he could scarcely take in its exact form.
Another instant and the phantom-like plane had swept past with lightning speed, leaving in its wake powerful currents o wildly swirling vapor, while the airplane, caught in the eddy, staggered and shook.
“Whew! That was another close call!” breathed Don. “Sure enough!—this isn’t a game for weak nerves. Hello—goodness gracious!”
The Nieuport had shot above the strata of clouds.
Even though his nerves were still tingling, his pulse throbbing violently, the combat pilot could not repress a gasp of admiration as he gazed out over the immense expanse of billowy forms that stretched in every direction in a vast circle against the soft blue field of sky.
It was still early, the sun had not risen high, and its rays, falling upon the clouds, tinted them with the most delicate of rosy hues.
“I almost seem out of the world,” murmured Don, a trifle awesomely.
“And how perfectly safe it looks I—just as though one could float about on the clouds and be in no danger of taking a header to the earth. But where am I in this curious world above? And, more important than all, where are the other planes? I’d be in a nice position, shouldn’t I, if some of Captain Richtofen’s Red Squadron should happen to come along! What shall I do?”
The boy found that skimming close to the fleecy, ever-changing billows, sometimes dipping into them, was a fascinating sport. Up there everything was peace, loneliness and quietude. It seemed almost incredible that only a few miles below, on the earth he had just left, a terrible war was being waged and that every moment tragedies and horrors were taking place.
But the time for decisive action had come.
Boldly, though not without some trepidation, he plunged back into the clouds. Then came a brief period of dense obscurity, followed by a weird, spectral illumination, as the daylight struggled to pierce the masses of moisture-laden air; and presently the Nieuport was again in full view of the shell-torn, battle-scarred earth, far over a hostile country.
Many planes could now be seen, some below, some faint and hazy in the distance, others comparatively near
And while Don was scanning each in turn, hoping to recognize the familiar Indian’s head on the fuselage, he suddenly became conscious of the fact that not very far away a fight in the air had begun. Probably half a dozen or more combat pilots were engaged; and, almost forgetting, in his interest and excitement, the danger of his position, Don Hale watched the wonderful spectacle, with his nerves at the keenest tension.
Every acrobatic performance which he himself had learned at the advanced school at Pau was being used by the rival airmen.
Now and again one or another went down in a spinning nose dive, as though the machine were totally out of control; but instead of crashing to the earth it would right itself, and, with almost incredible speed, rise again to the attack. Fairly leaping over one another, flashing this way and that, narrowly avoiding collisions, they soared upward or swooped down, as a flock of enraged birds fighting among themselves might have done, and, faintly, the enthralled Don Hale could hear the vicious crackling of the machine guns, steadily spurting forth their messenger of death, and see the faint smoking lines left by the tracer ballets.
Were any members of the Lafayette Squadron engaged in the conflict?
The boy mentally voiced this query over and over again as he flew around in a sweeping circle, keeping far above the contenders.
He felt an almost irresistible impulse to join in the fray, and but for the fact that the squadron commander had explicitly ordered him to act only on the defensive probably would have done so. He had seen many a fight from the ground, but then the thrills were of a decidedly different nature from those which came while he was in the pilot’s seat of an airplane.
A moment more, and, just as suddenly as the battle had begun, it ended. One of the combat planes began to fall, turning over and over in the air, now and then the dull gray wings with the Maltese crosses clearly outlined against the floating masses of smoke below.
Into these it plunged and disappeared from view.
Thankful that neither his compatriots no any of the Allied airmen had been the victim, yet shuddering at the thought of the human life which had been sacrificed to the greed of the God of War, Don Hale headed for the west, having satisfied himself that the Allied planes, now rapidly retreating, belonged to a French air squadron.
The black, sputtering “Archies” were beginning to burst beneath him again, one coming so dangerously near that once more a sort of consternation gripped him.
“This won’t do at all!” he muttered. “A little bit nearer the ceiling for me!”
He was approaching the lines and “No Man’s Land” and following its tortuous course with his eyes he observed in many places the sudden bursts of smoke which told of the explosions of high-calibre shells. All about him the atmosphere was hazy and the distance entirely obscured.
Now rapidly becoming familiar with the new game, Don began to feel more like himself. For the first time he could understand how it was that the experienced pilots learned to treat with comparative indifference the angry shrieks of the attacking “Archies.”
At length Don Hale discovered the patrol of Lafayette machines flying in a perfect formation just over the enemy’s line.
After facing the dangers of the sky alone the sense of relief and pleasure that the sight of friends near at hand afforded him was delightful indeed. He felt like uttering a whoop of joy.
“Considering all such experiences as I’ve just had once is too much!” he muttered to himself. “And this time you can just bet I’ll not get separated.”
Nor did he. The patrol, which was only policing the air, led him into no further danger, and, consequently, when the two hours was over and they headed for the aviation field, nothing had occurred to add more thrills to those he had already received.
Don Hale, however, was thoroughly glad to see the great encampment coming into view; and equally glad when he had spiraled down to the earth and made an almost perfect atterrissage.
Waiting machinists helped him out of the cockpit; and as he answered the questions fired toward him the boy felt as proud and happy as any of the “aces” whose fame has spread throughout the world.
His first reconnaissance over the enemy’s line was something he could never forget
CHAPTER XIII—THE FARMER
Several weeks passed, during which Don Hale became thoroughly familiar with and accustomed to the work of the escadrille. The boy was surprised to find how soon the unpleasant feelings which had assailed him on his first day’s sortie over the lines had worn off. True, he did pass through some harrowing moments—terrible moments, in which it seemed as though he was doomed to destruction. But, in general, familiarity with the dangers brought that indifference which a seasoned veteran in any of life’s great games usually acquires.
By this time the young aviator had engaged in practically every kind of work done by the squadron. He, in company with other pilots, had acted as escorts to the big Caudron bombarding machines, the artillery regulating planes, and those whose duty it was to travel over the enemy’s country, observing and taking photographs.
During several of these trips he had been introduced to what the boys pleasantly termed “flaming onions.” These are balls of fire sent in a stream from a special gun, and they travel with tremendous speed. Fortunately, however, these sportive attempts of the Germans did no damage to either him or his machine.
During a vigorous attack when the French had succeeded in capturing and holding several of the German trenches he learned a great deal about contact patrol. This consisted of working in conjunction with the infantry, keeping them informed of everything that was taking place on the other side of “No Man’s Land,” guarding them in every way from surprises and doing all that was possible to facilitate their “Going over the top” by flying low over the ground and vigorously attacking the enemy’s troops.
Contact patrol was the most dangerous work of all; for the pilots ran not only the risk of being struck down by the shells from the east but also by those sent by their own batteries in the rear.
Occasionally, too, he joined expeditions which set out to destroy the big observation balloons which hung constantly in the sky, and on one of these trips he had seen an unwieldy monster, somewhat suggestive of an elephant with its trunk cut off, sent flaming to the ground.
But there was a sad, a tragic side connected with all the splendid and courageous work accomplished by the combat pilots. There were some who never returned, and who were listed in the official “communique”[[8]] as being among the missing. There were others, too, whose planes, riddled by the enemy’s bullets, were sent crashing earthward, to be smashed and splintered and torn apart by the terrific impact.
Those were days of gloom and sorrow; but the inevitable had to be accepted.
Two events which interested Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were the arrivals, at different times, of Bobby Dunlap and Jason Hamlin. The meeting between the latter and Victor Gilbert was of a nature no more cordial than that at the training school.
Gilbert glared at the other, demanding gruffly:
“You seem to find it hard to keep away from my company. There are other Franco-American Squadrons.”
“Thank you for your charming and subtle intimation,” rejoined Hamlin, dryly. “Let me say, however, that I pulled every wire I could so that I might have the pleasure of joining this squadron.”
“Frightfully agreeable, I’m sure!” muttered Gilbert, turning away.
“I say, Peur Jamais,” exclaimed Don Hale, some time later, “how is the Sherlock Holmes business getting on?”
Bobby wagged his head mysteriously.
“Maybe I’m on the trail of something, and maybe I’m not,” he responded. “What do I think it is? To quote a classical remark: ‘I have nothing to say at this time.’ Bombs aren’t the only things that make explosions. Now let us drop the mystery.”
“That’s better than dropping a bomb,” laughed Don.
“That depends upon where you drop it,” chirped Bobby. “But, believe me, Donny, that Hamlin person is some flyer. He’d make an eagle so ashamed of himself that he’d swear off flying and stay on the ground forever. I believe he could almost fly by waving his arms in the air.”
“Wish I could!” sighed Don. “It would come in mighty handy if a fellow’s plane were shot away from him while he was five miles in the air.”
Often pilots when off duty gathered in the bureau, or office, where reports were turned in and other necessary routine work of the squadron transacted. Hanging on the wall was a very large map of the sector, amazingly complete, showing the location of German aviation centres and even the points where their observation balloons were anchored. Naturally, from time to time, there were changes in the map, and the members of the squadron often found great interest in studying it and speculating as to its appearance a few months hence.
As days succeeded days Don, George Glenn, T. Singleton Albert and Bobby Dunlap frequently met in the bureau, and it was on one of these occasions that Bobby took Don Hale aside, and, in a very impressive manner, remarked:
“Do you remember those nights at the Café Rochambeau when old Père Goubain told us a whole lot about German spies?”
“Yes,” answered Don.
“Well, I don’t think he was so very far wrong. I’m brighter than the next person, and it looks to me as if the trail were getting warm.”
“What do you mean?”
Don spoke in a mystified tone.
“Spies—spies!” chuckled Bobby.
“But where are they? Maybe you think I’m a spy?”
“If you are you’d better be careful of little Sherlock,” chirped Peur Jamais.
Some time later, the pilots were rather surprised and amused to see an old French peasant standing out front and gazing in evident wonder at the aviation fields. He was a typical son of the soil, wearing wooden sabots, or shoes; and his faded blue garments showed many traces of his labor in the fields. Almost primitive in appearance, and suggesting the uncouth, illiterate peasants which the French painter Millet loved to depict, he seemed so out of place amidst that most modern of all scenes—an aviation centre—that many of the boys found it rather hard to stifle an inclination to laugh.
“Hello, what’s the news from your section of the universe?” asked Bobby Dunlap, waggishly.
The peasant glanced at him rather stupidly for a moment and then drawled:
“There aren’t enough people left in the place where I come from to be any news. There’s an awful big war going on, isn’t there?”
“Goodness! So you’ve discovered it, too!” laughed Bobby. “Where do you live?”
“Not so very far away.”
“Are you thinking of changing your vocation and becoming an aviator?”
The stolid-looking peasant, evidently seeing no humor in the remark, shook his head and mumbled:
“No.” Then, in a half-embarrassed manner, he inquired: “May I take a glance inside the house?”
“To be sure!” exclaimed Jason Hamlin.
“The world owes everything to the farmer. He is the foundation upon which the world leans. Without him——”
“We’d have to become farmers ourselves,” giggled Bobby.
The peasant, evidently feeling awed by his surroundings, entered the bureau.
Once inside he gazed about him with a sort of abstracted air, uttered a few observations which caused titters of laughter to run around the room, and, presently, remarked to Jason Hamlin:
“This war hasn’t done any good to farming. Pretty big map on the wall. What’s it there for?”
Repressing a smile, T. Singleton Albert attempted to explain, in his own peculiar style of French, whereupon the visiting farmer exclaimed:
“Too bad! But I don’t speak any language except that of my own country.”
A loud laugh went up at the expense of the furiously-blushing Drugstore.
And then Don took it upon himself to impart the information.
“I see!” exclaimed the peasant, musingly.
He walked over to the map and began to examine it, his expression, however, indicating an utter lack of comprehension.
Victor Gilbert, who happened to be among the crowd, remarked in English:
“It’s too bad that the laboring classes should be so uneducated. And the lack of training dwarfs what intelligence they have, so that their minds fail to grasp even simple things.”
The others agreed with him.
But, at any rate, they found the visit of the farmer a pleasant diversion, and all were really sorry when he said good-bye and started for the door.
“That old chap is about the limit,” growled T. Singleton Albert. “Talk about ignorance! It’s a positive wonder he has enough sense to find his way home.”
“And just think!—the poor fellow understands only French,” chirped Bobby Dunlap.
Drugstore was about to retort, when the entrance of several pilots stopped him.
The newcomers had something to tell, too, which aroused a great deal of interest—several of them had had thrilling encounters with Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.
“I feel sure the Baron was there himself,” declared one. “The way those planes were handled was simply marvelous. I thought I had certainly winged a Boche when he went into the vrille; and I swooped down after him for about two thousand feet, intending to make sure of it. But, in some extraordinary manner, he got his plane under control, and before I could realize it I was shooting below him and his bullets were humming a tune past my ears.”
“Oh, boy, that is music I don’t like to hear!” said Bobby, with a perceptible shiver.
“I reckon all of us prefer symphonies of a less dangerous kind,” remarked Gilbert, adding, rather reflectively: “I haven’t had the pleasure yet of meeting that Baron and his pirate crew. Perhaps some day I shall.”
“Then let us hope it will be a red letter day for you,” cried Don.
That night the escadrille was once more saddened by the disappearance of one of its members, and all telephone queries to the observation posts failed to reveal what had come of him. It was feared, however, that he had fallen behind the German lines and been either killed or captured by the enemy.
Many of the pilots remained late in the bureau discussing their fellow aviator’s possible fate, and while they were busily talking the sound of an anti-aircraft gun brought all who were sitting to their feet.
“I wonder if that means a Boche bombing raid!” cried Don Hale, excitedly.
The next instant a frightful din of crashing guns rent the air.
With a common impulse, a rush was made for the door.
| [8] | Communique—Bulletin. |
CHAPTER XIV—THE BOMBARDMENT
By the time the excited crowd had piled outside powerful search-lights were reaching up into the starlit heavens, lifting out of the gloom with strange and fantastic effect the thin veil of clouds which here and there stretched across it.
Even amid the booming of the anti-aircraft batteries and the sharper staccato reports of the machine guns from various parts of the field, all blending into an unearthly din, the droning of the motors high in the air could be distinctly heard. Like a pyrotechnic display, luminous bullets, searching for the invaders, shot up into the sky, often piercing the low-hanging clouds; and mingling in with them were vicious little spurts of fire which told of the explosion of shrapnel shells.
The majority of the pilots, familiar with the dreadful danger which menaced them, made a wild dash for the underground shelters. But Don Hale and a few others, fascinated by the awe-inspiring scene and situation, remained.
“Isn’t this awful!” cried Bobby Dunlap, with a distinct tremolo in his voice. “Great Scott!”
At that instant a loud, though dull boom from the explosion of a bomb had added its quota of noise to the raging inferno of sound.
It hadn’t landed so far away, either, and, as Don Hale, in the grip of fear and excitement which he found impossible to control, strove to pierce the gloom, three reports, even louder, followed one another in quick succession.
“Great Cæsar!” cried Bobby Dunlap. “It seems as though they are going to wipe the aviation camp off the map. It’s time for us to run for our lives.”
And with these words, jerked out so fast that they were scarcely intelligible, he started off on a headlong sprint to join those who had sought a haven of safety.
But even then neither Don, George nor Albert could tear themselves away from the singular scene that was passing before their eyes. Every search-light—every gun was being used. Dazzling streams of whitish light crossed and criss-crossed or swept in wide circles over the sky—the darkness of night seemed to be rent asunder. Flaming bullets were rising by the thousand.
Notwithstanding the terrific defense of the French batteries the German bombs continued to fall. Their appalling detonations seemed fairly to shake the ground.