YANKEE PLUCK
WHEN Tom Raymond sent one of his Hun opponents whirling down toward the
far distant earth he naturally experienced the glow that comes to a
victor in a stubbornly contested battle.
The gratification was all the more profound because of the fact that he
had taken on two adversaries at the same time. Any air pilot who was
capable of holding his own against an enemy numerically superior had
reason to feel satisfied.
He quickly saw, however, that this did not mean the end of the fight.
That other crafty Hun had swung unexpectedly and was now pouring in a
furious fire. Tom realized that his assistant had ceased firing. Had the
machine-gun become jammed? He was hanging partly from his seat. Was he
badly injured in the bargain? Still, despite all this handicap, Tom
would possibly have come through in good shape had not something
happened to his engine just then. After all, even a Liberty motor could
play a trick on its pilot master, just as that fine French engine on his
former Spad machine had done a few times.
The airplane started to shoot downward at frightful speed, leaving the
Hun far behind. Tom kept his head, and bent every energy to trying to
get the motor started again, meanwhile working also to keep on a fairly
level keel. He had passed through a similar experience on other
occasions, but never when hovering over the German lines with a battle
in progress under him.
A sickening sensation gripped his heart, for it flashed before his mind
that this might be the end. Like every other aviator, he had defied Fate
every time he went up, and at last the dreadful moment had come for him
to pay the price!
Not for a single second, even while feeling that queer sensation grip
him, did Tom cease working frantically to start his engine. He knew he
had one last forlorn chance left. A few seconds would tell the story,
and either he must be lucky enough to have his balky engine suddenly
start again in response to his frantic efforts, or else--well, he dared
not allow himself to dwell on what would happen to him when he struck
the ground with all the frightful momentum of his falling machine.
The air service boy lived ages in that brief period of time. Never could
he forget the agony that gripped his soul. There flashed before his
memory the faces of those he loved at home, those whom he might never
see again.
Then it was over. The engine had suddenly yielded to his frantic
efforts, and once more commenced to throb with renewed life. Tom, with
tremendous exertion, managed to right his tottering plane and steady it
on an even keel.
His observer lay in a huddled heap in his seat. But for the safety belt
he must have slid into space. Tom could not tell whether he was dead or
had simply swooned.
That was a matter for the future. Just now he must concern himself with
the task of extricating himself from his fresh perilous position. So
rapidly had he fallen that amidst the swirling smoke clouds he could
plainly see the Germans just below; and that he must be visible to his
enemies he quickly had reason to understand.
Even as he started to spin away, shrapnel burst close beside his plane.
Machine-guns also began to chatter underneath, and he saw that the wings
of his plane were being cut by the hail of missiles that came up in
swarms, like buzzing bees, each armed with a sting.
Dodging this way and that in eccentric lines, Tom brought into play all
his acquired knowledge of a pilot's tricks in order to avoid being made
a victim of this hot fire. He fully expected that, after all, the enemy
would get him, but he was grimly determined that it would be only after
he had exhausted every device possible.
He kept his head, and while dodging back and forth managed to follow a
general course that promised soon to carry him closer to the American
front. At one time he found himself above what seemed to be a very
inferno of destruction. The air palpitated with the shock of a terrible
explosion, as though a great mine had been fired. But Tom knew what it
meant.
That must be the Big Bertha which for some days now had played an
important part in shelling the rear of the American lines, even to
knocking a temporary field hospital into fragments.
How Tom wished just then that his had been a bombing plane. With what
savage joy would he have dropped his whole supply of air torpedoes down
upon that mighty engine of destruction, forever silencing its thunderous
voice and ending its power to do injury to the cause in which his whole
soul was enlisted!
After that his way became somewhat easier, for Tom had succeeded in
climbing higher, so that he was screened from the gunners below. Then he
found himself passing over the American front, with the open field in
sight where the temporary aerodromes could be seen, looking like dingy
patches of yellow earth.
Of course there was nothing to do but to return immediately. His
observer was injured, if not dead, and would need looking after; while
Tom felt that his machine could hardly be called in trim for further
work, as it needed a thorough overhauling after the recent rough
treatment accorded to it by the fighting Boches.
Despite his crippled machine, the young air service boy managed to make
a fairly good landing, with the help of several orderlies and
attendants. They had come on the run, understanding that something was
wrong, because the observer hung part-way over the side, and it could be
seen that the plane itself had been in action.
Tom's first thought was of his comrade. He himself had received only one
small cut in the arm from flying shrapnel splinters, though it persisted
in bleeding profusely, and would have to be tied up at the nearest field
dressing-station.
He breathed easier when he discovered that his observer, while badly
injured, would have more than a fighting chance to pull through. A
doctor was quickly on the spot, and managed to give temporary treatment,
so as to stop the bleeding. The poor fellow waved his hand to Tom as he
was being taken away on a stretcher to the nearest field hospital for
treatment.
"Here, let me have a look at that left arm of yours, Raymond, while I'm
about it," said the surgeon, noticing that the pilot kept wiping drops
of blood from his fingers with a handkerchief that had begun to assume a
gory appearance.
This satisfied Tom, and the wound was speedily attended to, a bandage
being bound in place. The only thing that was troubling the young airman
was a haunting fear that he might be kept out of the fighting for
several days; and at this exciting stage of the advance that would seem
like a real calamity to so ambitious a pilot.
"I suppose you'd kick like a steer," said the surgeon, with a smile, "if
I advised you to keep quiet for a day or two, because I know your breed;
but if you must join in, be easy on that arm, Raymond. It might give you
some trouble if inflammation should set in."
"Oh, I've had much worse scratches than that and never been laid up,
Doctor," Tom remarked with the assurance that goes hand in hand with
youth and abounding good health. "But I will favor it all I can.
Couldn't keep me out of this riot unless you chained me to earth.
There's something that keeps calling me up there, some thing that's
mighty hard to resist."
"Yes, I know. You're all alike, you daring air pilots," said the other,
shaking his head disapprovingly. "But you're splendid, splendid! And
I'm certainly proud to be an American these days. You boys have set a
pace that every British and French aviator will have to hustle to equal.
Your coming has been the turning point of the war. The Hun is already
whipped, only he doesn't wholly realize it just yet."
Tom, instead of seeking his quarters at once for rest, "loafed around"
watching all that went on. Never a plane that came back but he was there
to receive the comrade with enthusiasm. Some had been in the fight and
bore signs of the experience through which they had passed. One
especially was burning with disappointment because he had lost his
"prize."
"Had him going, too, when this motor of mine went back on me and started
in to miss fire so often that he got away," he spluttered. "Never was so
mad in all my life as when I had to turn and sneak back home like a dog
with his tail between his legs. But me for another machine, and back to
the game again. I'll get that Hun yet, see if I don't!"
Often did Tom strain his eyes trying to pick out the plane of his chum
among those that from time to time could be seen far distant, some
engaged with the enemy, while others were seeking to gain information of
value to the American commander.
When a whole hour had gone and there was still no sign of Jack, he
began to feel worried. Vainly he questioned some of the returning
pilots; for as the battle waned both above and below they were now
coming in by shoals, tired, yet full of enthusiasm over their recent
exploits.
From one Tom managed to secure the only tip that seemed of value; and it
was hardly encouraging.
"I am sure I saw Jack having a lively circus with several Boches about
an hour back," this man informed Tom. "Don't know how the jig ended,
because I found myself in a mix-up soon afterwards, and it kept my hands
full. But let's hope the boy came through O K. I saw you drop your man,
Tom; and it must have been a close shave for you in the bargain."
The man went on about his business, and Tom again took up his weary
watching and waiting. The minutes dragged by, but still no Jack, nor did
there come any further word of him. Finally, weary and discouraged, Tom
turned back toward his temporary quarters.
On arriving there, however, he found something that for the moment took
his mind off the uncertain fate of his chum.