IN THE AIR
Bob Haines was the first of the Brighton boys to go up in an aeroplane.
It was due to no planning on his part. It was not to please him that
he was taken as a passenger. One of the pilots was trying a machine
new to him and came down complaining of its lack of stability on the
turns.
"Any little puff that catches her sudden makes her wiggle herself
in a way I have never seen another plane do. I suppose these chasers
have little habits of their own, but it would take my attention off
what I was doing, to have her monkeying around that way. What do you
think it is?"
The instructor addressed was unable to answer. "You have been up in
her. You know more than I do about her."
"Perhaps a passenger would help her," suggested another pilot.
"I don't see how." The flier shook his head. "Anyway, I would like
to see how she climbs with two up. From the little I tried her out,
I think she is the fastest climber I have been in anywhere. Come up
for a bit, John."
"Can't," said the pilot. "About ten minutes ago the major sent word
he wanted to see me at once. If I don't get a move on I will catch
it." He started off in a hurry.
"Come on, Fanshaw," said the pilot, turning to the instructor.
"Not me," was the reply. "I have a swat of work. There is ballast
for you, though, over there by the shed." Bob Haines was the ballast
indicated. He was putting the final touches on an aeroplane propellor
to which he had administered a coat of varnish.
"What lot?" queried the pilot.
"Bunch of young fellows from about here. Sort of volunteers. Idea
of the colonel's, I think. Nice lot of boys. Young, but getting on
fast. I have seen one of them, a French boy, quite a bit lately, and
if they are all as good at locating engine trouble as he is they will
go far in this game before they are old men. Ask the tall youngster.
He will be tickled to death. I don't suppose he has been up before,
but he will be a good passenger. Be careful and don't scare him.
Don't try any stunts. Shall I sing out to him?"
"I guess so. I don't much care who it is so long as he weighs up to
average, and that fellow looks pretty husky."
"Here, young fellow! You are needed here for a minute," called out
Fanshaw.
Bob trotted over to the plane at once.
"What were you at?" asked the instructor.
"Varnishing," replied Bob. "Just finished."
"This is Lieutenant Fauver. He is trying this new chaser. She is
the finest thing we have seen here, and he wants to give her a spin
with a passenger up. Hop in if you like."
The pilot smiled and shook Bob's hand, then added another invitation.
It was hardly necessary. Bob was overjoyed. Often the boys had
discussed going up, but a fair frequency of minor accidents made the
officers at the camp chary about any unnecessary risks. Consequently,
the Brighton boys had decided that their best plan was to say nothing
about flying as passengers until someone suggested it to them. That
one of them might be of any possible use as a passenger had never
entered their heads.
A few moments after, the new chaser was soaring upward with a roar
of engine exhaust that told of pride of power. Bob was in the snug
front seat undergoing an experience whose like he had never dreamed
of. His youthful imagination had often tried to picture what it
would be like to be up in a swift flying-machine, but the sense
of power and the exhilaration of swinging triumphantly through space
gave him a new sensation.
"This," he thought, "is the greatest game of all. This is what one
day I will be doing to some purpose."
His mind went out to that day when he would be guiding his own machine
on a hostile errand, over the enemy's country, perhaps. The fine,
high enthusiasm of youth rushed through him and his pulses beat faster
as he pictured himself, a knight of the air, starting forth on a
quest that might mean great danger, but would, with sufficient
foresight, care and determination, result in disaster for the
antagonist rather than for himself.
Higher and higher climbed the swift plane, no faltering in its stride.
The beat of the engines was as rhythmical to experienced ears as the
regular swing and lilt of some perfectly rendered piece of music to
the ears of a master musician.
Bob noticed the country below, but was too much absorbed with his own
thoughts to give much attention to details of the wonderful panorama
that stretched away for miles and miles, until they had soared to a
height that made blurred lines of roads and hedges far under them,
and caused even houses and outbuildings to grow increasingly
indistinguishable. Only the silver band of the little river, winding
in graceful curves and catching the afternoon sun, remained an unfailing
landmark.
Then suddenly came an abrupt silence. Bob's heart leaped to his
throat. What had happened? No sooner had his inner consciousness
asked the question than his common sense had answered it. The pilot
had shut off the engine, of course. Already the powerful plane
was heading downward over the trackless path up which it had risen,
and was gliding with a soft rush of air which produced a floating
sensation.
"How did you like that?" asked Lieutenant Fauver.
"Great," said Bob. Great! He wanted to say more. He wanted to
explain that a new world had opened to him. That he had felt the
call that would leave him restless until he, too, had mastered one
of those marvelous steeds of the air, and was free to soar at will
wherever he chose to direct his mount. Great! The word expressed
so little. Bob thought of a dozen things to say, but heaved a big
sigh of genuine content, and left them all unsaid.
Fauver was of much the same mold as Bob. He caught something of the
younger boy's mood. He knew how the lad felt. His memory took him
back to his own first flight. How long ago it seemed! How impressed
he had been at his first real taste of the sweets of the air-game!
How utterly incapable of expressing his feeling!
So he respected the frame of mind of the lad in front of him and
volplaned down in silence, trying the stability of the plane by wide
spirals, banking it just enough to be delightful to a passenger,
without going far enough to cause the slightest apprehension or
nervousness.
It was proving a priceless experience to Bob. He seemed transported
to another existence. Then the earth began to come nearer. Things
below took quick form. Bob realized that soon they would be landing.
Just at the last he thought the ground was rising toward them at an
astonishing rate. Surely this was not quite right! They must be
dropping like a stone. Up, up, came the ground. Bob unconsciously
braced himself for the impact. They were going to come down with
a mighty smash. He held his breath and set his teeth. At the very
moment when all seemed over but the crash, the graceful plane lifted
its head ever so slightly, the engine started roaring again, and
they glided to earth and ran along so smoothly that for the life
of him Bob could not have told the exact moment the wheels touched
the ground.
When they stepped out of the machine Bob did something on the spur
of the moment that he laughed about afterward. He stepped to the
lieutenant and put out his hand. As Fauver took it in a friendly,
firm grasp Bob said: "That was the biggest experience of my life."
Again that similarity of temperament between the two told Fauver
something of the depth of Bob's feeling, and he said quietly: "I
am glad to have given you a chance to go up, and next time you happen
to be around when I am going up, if you can get away for a little
while, I would be glad to have you go along. One of these days I
will give you a good long flight, if I get a chance."
Bob went back to the hangar an older boy. The enthusiasm still held
him close. The days would drag, now, until he could begin flying.
He was sure of that.
When the other Brighton boys learned that Bob had actually been up
in the air, there was a natural desire among them all to do likewise.
Jimmy Hill made up his mind it would not be long before he had a
flight. Adams, one of the instructors who had recently arrived,
wanted a hand to help him tune up a new school machine that was
fitted with dual control, i.e., that had a double set of levers so
that the novice could guide the machine while the instructor had a
restraining hand on them in case of emergencies. Reece, Jimmy
Hill's great friend, was called away to make a test flight just
as Adams spoke to him about a good helper, and told Adams that he
could not do better than give Jimmy a chance to lend a hand.
"The boy will do what he is told," said Reece. "All you have to do
is to explain just what you want done. He is dependable. Try him.
He is a nice boy, too, and you will like to have him round."
So Jimmy worked that day and the next on the new school machine.
Finally it was ready.
"Wait till I take her up for a bit and see how she pulls and I will
give you a runaround in her," said Adams to Jimmy. The instructor had
been highly pleased with the way the boy had worked, and felt anxious
to give him a treat.
Thus Jimmy had his first flight. Further, he was shown by Adams how
to hold the controls, though he was careful to put no pressure on
them. Next day Adams said, "Come on. I will show you how we start
teaching flying where I come from."
Before half an hour passed Jimmy found he could "taxi," as Adams
called running along the ground, quite well. That was but a beginning.
Three times in the following week Adams took the boy out for a lesson;
and the practical experience, though limited, gave Jimmy a very good
idea of what was required of much of the adjustments and finer points
of tuning up that he had learned to see Reece do in the sheds.
At last Adams made a short flight and let Jimmy handle the machine
for a few moments alone, the instructor removing his hands from his
control levers and leaving the job to Jimmy. It was a simple enough
little flight, but Jimmy had the knowledge that he had been actually
flying the machine for a time, all by himself, which pleased
him beyond measure.
One of the red-letter days the Brighton boys were long to remember
was that on which they first watched a new arrival to the airdrome,
an experienced flier, loop the loop and nose-dive on one of the fast
chasers. The whirling, darting plane seemed so completely at the
mercy of the pilot that the boys were rapt in silent wonder. That
exhibition of what the birdmen of to-day call real flying was a
revelation to them.
It held out promise of long study and careful practice far ahead
before they could hope to equal or excel the cool, modest young
aviator who came down so gracefully after a series of side loops
that made most of the spectators hold their breath.
Summer days passed rapidly. Joe Little and Louis Deschamps were
sitting in a hangar one Sunday afternoon, chatting about a new type
of battle-plane that had arrived that week.
"I could fly that bus," said Joe, "if I had a chance."
"That is just the trouble," commented Louis. "Getting the chance is
what is so hard. I am tired of fussing around on those school
machines they let us on now and then. What is the good of trying to
fly on a plane that won't rise more than a couple of dozen feet? I
have never had a chance to fly anything else. I get to thinking,
working so much on real planes, that those school machines for the
infant class are not fliers at all. They are a sort of cross between
a flying machine and an auto."
"You are in too much of a rush," Joe admonished. "I think we are
lucky to get a go in one of those now and then. Jimmy Hill goes up
in that old dual-control bus with Adams, but to my mind that sort of
thing is out of date. I have got the idea of lateral control as well
on that school bus that Parks let me out on, as I could have got it
from any of the chasers. Another go or two and I will get horizontal
control down fine, and then I am ready for a real go. I can land the
school bus like a bird. I am getting swelled up, Louis."
"All right. But don't get so swelled that you play the goat, Joe.
I know you won't, for that matter. You are one of the careful ones,
all right. But this does not get us any nearer flying a real machine."
"I wish I had a machine of my own," said Joe mournfully.
"Wishing won't get it, Joe."
"I wonder why we can't get hold of a machine that has been finished
off by one of these cheerful student chaps, and still has some good
stuff left in it, and get Parks to let us patch it up and get a flight
on it?"
"Parks can't be all that generous of government property, old man.
If a plane is worth fixing up the chief wants the rest of the use of
it. If it is no good to him it would not be worth anything to us;
that's the rub there."
"I've got it!" exclaimed Joe, slapping his knee. "Why not hit Parks
for that old 'bad bus' that gave the young fellow the broken leg the
last time it smashed? There is plenty of life left in that old girl.
I wonder they haven't taken the engine out of her if they don't
intend to fix her up, The engine is all right."
"Maybe the engine is out of her. Where is she?"
"Down in number twelve hangar, covered up in the corner."
"Let's go and have a look at her."
The two lads trotted off to inspect the damaged plane, which they
found under a pile of canvas, just where it had been brought the day
a bad side-slip had resulted in smashing it up.
"The engine is in her, sure enough," said Louis, "and it is by no
means a bad type of engine either. It might have more power, but it
is reliable enough. What was the matter with this bus, anyway, that
made them decide to shelve her?"
Someone told me that she side-slips badly at times. I never heard
why. Planes don't do things like that without there being a reason,
Louis. Maybe she needs a bit of fixing that she has never had. It
would be fun if we could rig her up so that she would fly properly,
wouldn't it? Wonder if there is any use asking Parks?"
"Parks could only ask the colonel, I suppose. He is a real good
fellow, and always seems willing to help us in every way he can.
I don't see, if he does not intend to repair the 'bad bus,' why
he wouldn't let us do it in our spare time, I know he would trust
me to do the engine. He said the other day I could tune up an engine
as well as anyone he had under him."
"You could fix up the engine easy enough," said Joe "It is the rest
of the machine that would take some doing. She is in pretty rocky
shape, an would want a lot replaced. Harry Corwin could help us
with her. He has had a lot of work with frames lately. For that
matter, I guess all the lot would help. We could come in early and
get some time on her before work starts, stay a bit later at night,
and most Sunday afternoons we could hammer away at her without
interruption. It would be rather fun to have the seven of us trying
to show what we have learned and putting it into practice that way.
If we got the old bus right I don't think they would mind our having
a flight or two on her now and then, do you?"
"Sure not," replied the French boy. "But will the colonel give us
the chance?"
"We will know before many days have passed."
Parks shook his head at first when the boys broached the project to
him. "I don't think the colonel will agree," was his comment.
"I had better wait for a good time to introduce the idea. There
is no telling what he might think of it. Personally, I was undecided
what to do with that machine. I have just let it set there waiting
till I made up my mind. I can't recommend scrapping a plane merely
because it has the reputation of being unlucky. That is about all
the bad name of the 'bad bus' amounts to, after all. I am not sure
that you boys would not turn her out in better shape than the repair
men turned her out last time. I can't see the harm in the plan."
Parks generally got his way about the hangars. Colonel Marker depended
greatly on Parks' judgment, which the colonel was fond of calling
"horse sense." So when the head instructor spoke to the colonel about
the proposal the Brighton boys had made to repair the "bad bus" in
their own time, and obtain, as a special reward for good work,
permission to do a little flying on the machine when opportunity
occurred, Colonel Marker felt inclined to leave the matter to Parks,
and said so. That really settled it, for Parks had decided to plead
the cause of the boys.
The weeks that passed were very full ones for the Brighton boys, who
worked like Trojans on the machine they had undertaken to put in
order. They made some mistakes, and more than once had to apply to
Parks for help and advice. These he gave cheerfully. Louis and
Macpherson overhauled the engine, and pronounced it in A-1 condition
when it left the test bench. Every one of the boys learned much
about aircraft construction, at least so far as that type of biplane
was concerned, before they were through with the job.
Finally the day came when the "bad bus"---rechristened the "boys'
bus "---was wheeled out for its trial flight after the completion of
the repairs. Adams was chosen to make the trial trip, which went
off without incident. He flew the big biplane six or seven hundred
feet above the green carpet of the airdrome, and came down with a
graceful volplane that caused the boys to feel like applauding.
"Who is next?" asked Adams as he sprang from the seat and the biplane
came to rest beside the little group.
The honor was voted to Joe Little, as the originator of the idea
of getting hold of the machine. Joe was not very eager to go up
when it came to an actual trial of the plane. He thought he would
have no difficulty in flying it, for the controls were very familiar
to him, and a straight flight, or even a wide circle of the flying
ground proper, offered no apparent difficulties. Joe was naturally
a shy and retiring lad, and felt that he was very much in the limelight
as he climbed into the seat of the biplane.
Joe got off well enough to suit the most critical instructor, and
after rolling until he was quite sure of himself, he raised the
elevator slightly and the machine left the ground in a most satisfactory
manner.
Joe did not try to fly at a great height, but once well clear of
the ground settled into his seat and started to gently turn to the
left, commencing a wide circle that would land him, should he choose
to come down at the end of one circuit of the grounds, at the point
where the Brighton boys and Parks were watching him.
There was so little wind that it had no noticeable effect on the
plane. The controls worked perfectly, and Joe felt increasingly
at his ease. When he had made the first circuit he decided to continue,
rise to a somewhat greater height, and come down with a nice, simple
volplane at the feet of his fellows.
All continued to go well. Nothing was necessary but to watch that
no sudden gust caught the plane and found its pilot unprepared. The
plane was banked so slightly that he had no need to fear side-slip.
He concentrated all his powers on making a fine landing. When he
was ready to come down he shut off his engine and dipped the
biplane slightly. She answered like a bird, and started gliding
earthward delightfully, planing at a perfect angle.
While Joe was not far up, he had never flown a machine before at that
height, and consequently his volplane seemed to occupy a longer
time than it should have done. His fingers itched to start the
engine again and raise the elevator just enough to arrest the downward
swoop, and transform it into a soft glide, nicely calculated so
that it would bring the wheels of the chassis into contact with
the ground without any shock. He was over-keen on that landing,
realizing that so many pairs of eyes were on him.
The earth came up toward him just a shade too fast to suit him.
Then he decided that the right moment had come, lifted his elevator
slightly, started the engine for a few turns, and wondered if he
had done the thing well.
He had not.
Joe, in his anxiety and inexperience, had pulled up his machine a
little too quickly. Its headway stopped, as it was still a dozen
feet from the ground, along which Joe had hoped to glide gracefully
to rest. The biplane hung a moment in the air, as if undecided
what to do. Fortunately Joe had shut off the engine when his intuition
told him all was not right. He could not tell what distance the
wheels of the chassis lacked before they would rest on terra firma,
but hoped against hope that they were nearer than they seemed to be.
The machine, losing all impetus, simply sat down with a bump. The
chassis and the under plane smashed with a sound of ripping canvas
and splintering wood. Joe had a good bump, too, but was none the
worse for it physically. He stepped out of his seat before the
boys could run to the wrecked biplane. They were all sympathy and
eagerness to see if Joe was hurt. He had not dropped far, but had
come down with such a thud that even Parks was anxious. Bob Haines
was the first of the Brighton boys to reach the machine. "Are you
all right, Joe?" he called out as he came up.
"Guess so," was the reply. "I feel jarred---but look at the poor old
bus! How did I do it? After all our hard work, she is completely
wrecked again, and I did it." Joe felt that it would be a relief to
get away from the scene of the smash, and had to down a temptation to
walk off by himself. He was almost heartbroken when he thought of all
the work that his mistake had undone.
"Never mind," said Parks. "Everyone has to learn. I will bet that
you don't pull up short when landing another time."
Joe was not to be thus easily comforted. Sensitive to a degree, his
heart entirely in his work, he was utterly disgusted with himself
for having had the temerity to try the flight. What hurt most was
the knowledge that the plane the Brighton boys had so looked forward
to having for practice flying they could hardly hope to get otherwise
for a long time to come, was _hors de combat_, and possibly beyond
another repair.
Recognizing Joe's frame of mind, the boys grouped round the broken
biplane in silence, searching their minds for a word that would give
a crumb of comfort to their comrade. The more they looked over the
wreck, the less they knew what to say.
As they stood there, watching Parks poking round the smashed machine,
Colonel Marker came up with Major Phelps. They had not been far away
when Joe had started on his experimental round of the airdrome, and
had witnessed the whole episode.
"You did not do so badly until you landed," said the colonel pleasantly.
"You should have stayed up."
The boys had never before heard the colonel essay a joke, and were
by no means sure that his first remark was not the preface to serious
condemnation of Joe. Colonel Marker had often been heard to treat
the subject of smashed machines in a manner decidedly uncomplimentary
to the luckless aviator who was responsible.
Poor Joe felt his heart in his throat. A very deep feeling of shame
came over him and his eyes filled with tears. His face showed real
distress.
The colonel turned to Joe from an inspection of the plane and as he
did so saw the boy's eyes. Colonel Marker was a kindhearted man,
for all his gruff exterior, and he had, too, a great interest in
the Brighton boys and their progress. He felt, the moment he
realized how much to heart Joe had taken the accident, a sense of
sincere sympathy for the lad.
Placing his hand on Joe's shoulder, he said: "My boy, what counts
most is the way you have worked to get that old machine into flying
shape, and the fact that you were ready and willing to have a shot
at flying her, with all your inexperience. Those things show keenness,
enthusiasm, and pluck. A flying man has to possess nerve. He has to
take chances sometimes. You did the best you could do. The fact
that you were inexperienced was against you, but in failing to get
through without accident you gained experience. I do not care half
so much about the machine as you might think. I might have left it
unrepaired if you boys had not taken on the job. Don't feel so
badly, my boy."
Joe had difficulty in finding his voice. "But, sir," he said in
a low tone, "the boys had looked forward so much to getting a chance
to learn to fly on the old bus. Now that is all knocked into a
cocked hat. I feel that I have robbed them of something I can't
give them again. They are too good to say so, but every one of them
feels the disappointment as much as can be."
"Well," said the colonel, "there is no need for too much downheartedness
on that score. Maybe I can play fairy godmother along that line.
You Brighton boys have worked hard and studied hard. I have watched
you. I am pleased with you. You are all big enough now to begin
the game, I think, or at least you will be soon. What do you think,
Major?"
"I think you are right, sir," replied Major Phelps quietly. "If any
boys deserve to be taken into the service these surely do. They may
be a bit on the young side, but they will be quite old enough by the
time they get to France."
To France! The Brighton boys could hardly believe their ears. That
casual sentence quickened every pulse. To France! The bare
suggestion made them glow with anticipation.
"How do you feel about it?" asked the colonel, turning to the seven.
"Every one of us is ready to go into the service the very first day
we can be taken in," answered Bob Haines. "We started with that
idea in view. We all hoped some day to join up, and we think we
could be of more use in the Flying Corps than anywhere else. I don't
mean by that that we want to pick our jobs, sir, but we would like
to get into the air service for choice."
"And a very good choice too," commented Colonel Marker. "Major
Phelps, suppose you look into the individual work that each of these
boys has been doing lately, and see if those under whom they have
worked recommend them all. Is this the lot of them?"
"One more, sir," spoke up Bob. "Benson, sir, in the stores."
"Benson has proven to be mightily useful," said the major.
"All right," concluded the colonel. "Come on, Phelps. We must look
over the ground for those new hangars. You can tell me what you find
about these Brighton boys when you have finished your inquiries."
They walked away together, leaving seven of the proudest and happiest
boys in the world.
"Give a hand to get this wreck into the shed," said Parks. "You
fellows are all right now. The old man knows well enough you boys
have been doing well. That is just his way. You had better find out
what your folks are going to say."
Each of the boys felt confident that the news would be well received
at home. They fell to with a will and soon had the biplane moved into
the shed. That night they went home in high spirits. They were boys
no longer; they had become men. They pictured themselves in real
service uniforms, and longed for the day when, as Major Phelps had
said, they would "get to France."
Harry Corwin and Joe Little lingered for a moment at the gate of the
Hill home for a final word with Jimmy, who was very much excited. "It
all came out of your smash, Joe," said Harry. "The colonel might not
have thought of us for a long time yet but for that. You could not
have done it better if you had planned it."
Joe had gotten over the worst of his chagrin. He smiled. "I am
glad it has taken the minds of you fellows off of my smash, anyway,"
he said.
Each family into which that news came that evening took it differently.
None of the parents of the Brighton lads who heard of the colonel's
promise were quite prepared for it. All thought the boys might be
taken in some day, but it had seemed a long way off. Bob Haines'
uncle was very proud of Bob, and telegraphed Senator Haines that
Bob was going into the army as a matter of information rather than
a request for permission.
Mrs. Mann was anything but glad to hear Dicky's "good news." She
was a timid little woman, with a horror of all fighting. Mr. Mann
took Dicky by the hand, however, and said, "God bless you, son,"
in a way that made Dicky feel closer to his father than he had ever
been before. Jimmy Hill's mother was away from home.
Mr. Hill took the information as a matter of course. "I thought
they would take you in one of these days," he remarked. "You boys
ought to prove a credit to us all. I would give a lot to be as
young as you are and have your chance, Jimmy. You will have to
represent the family, though, I guess. They won't take men of my
age, at least yet." Jimmy made up his mind then and there that he
would represent his father, of whom he was intensely proud and very
fond, and represent him to the very best of his ability.
Harry Corwin's folks seemed little surprised. Grace kissed him very
tenderly, and his mother drew his head down and pressed his cheek
close to hers. "That will take both of my boys," she said quietly.
In the conversation that followed at the dinner table Harry was
struck with the familiarity with which they all spoke of the
possibility that the boys would be taken into the service at once.
They had not discussed the matter in such detail before in his
presence. Grace mentioned more than once something that "the major
said," and Harry finally came to the conclusion that his people
had been closer in touch with the matter than he had been. Major
Phelps saw a good deal of Grace. Perhaps that had much to do
with it.
The Bensons and the Foxes took the news less seriously. "I guess
it will be a long time before you boys see France," said Mr. Fox.
"It is the right thing, though, and if you get a chance, take it."
Louis Deschamps was to receive a bigger piece of news from his mother
than he gave to her.
"Next week we leave for France, both of us," said Mrs. Deschamps.
"I have not told you, Louis, for you were so happy with your work
at the airdrome I wanted you to enjoy it while you could do so.
You are French, my son, and thank God you are becoming old enough
to take a hand in the war. When we get home I will see what can
be done to place you at once in our own flying service. If you
have learned much here, as I think you have, it will all come in
well when you are fighting for France."
Louis was overjoyed. He liked his comrades of the school, but he
was, after all, a French boy and had a French boy's heart. More,
he had a French mother, with a French mother's devotion to her country
and her country's cause.
"For France!" an expression often heard in the Deschamps' household,
meant more than mere words could utter. All the fine, high resolve;
all the passionate belief in the justice of the French cause; all
the stern determination that the war must be won, whatever the cost---all
that went to make the magnificent French women of to-day the splendid
heroines they have shown themselves to be, was deeply rooted in
Mrs. Deschamps. Her husband in the trenches, she might well have
begrudged her only son, so young and such a mere boy in all his ways.
Not she. She was a true mother of France. The highest sacrifice
was not too great to make for the republic.
So Louis was soon to leave the Brighton boys, to go on to France
ahead of them, and to be enrolled in his own army, by the side of
which his American school chums hoped one day to be fighting a common
enemy.
Another mother of one of the Brighton boys was of the same heroic
mold as the brave French woman. Joe Little's widowed mother took
the news calmly. She had felt it would come one day. Her mind
went back, as it had done frequently after the boys had commenced
their work at the airdrome, to the days of the short Spanish-American
war. Joe's father, impulsive, had joined the colors at the first
call and gone to Cuba. Mrs. Little's only brother, very dear to
her, had volunteered, too, and was in the First Expedition to the
Philippines. Neither had come back. War had taken so much from
Mrs. Little, and left her so hard a bed to lie upon, that it seemed
cruel that she should be asked for still more sacrifice. She had
fought it all out in the quiet of her bedchamber, where, night after
night, she had prayed long and earnestly for guidance and strength
and courage.
Well Mrs. Little knew that if she told Joe the truth about her finances
and what his going would mean to her she could doubtless influence
him to stay and care for her. There were many others who could be
sent, who did not, could not, mean so much to those they would leave
behind. Joe was all she had. She was growing old, and her little
store of money was dwindling surely if slowly.
By the time Joe came home that night and told her of what the colonel
had said, Mrs. Little had steeled herself to give her boy to her
country and humanity. It cost her dear, but she set her teeth and
placed her offering on the altar of what she had come to believe
her duty, with a brave, patient smile in her eyes, in spite of the
clutch at her heartstrings.
"Splendid, Joe," she said with what enthusiasm she could put into
her words. "You are glad, aren't you, dear?"
"Not glad, mother darling." Joe placed his arm around her slender
waist tenderly. They were very close, these two. "Not glad. That
does not express it. I couldn't be glad to go away and leave you.
Though, for that matter, you will be all right. I feel sort of an
inspiration I can't explain. It is all so big. It seems so
necessary that I should go, and I felt that I should be so utterly
out of it if I did not go one day. When the colonel spoke that
way it seemed like a sort of fulfillment of something that had to
come, whether or no. I might call it fate, but that does not describe
it quite. It is bigger than fate. It sounds silly, mother, but
it is a sort of exaltation, in a sense. It had to come, and I feel
it is almost a holy thing to me."
Joe's mother put her two hands on his shoulders. Her eyes were moist,
but her courage never faltered. "Joe, such boys as you are could not
stay at home. You are your father's son, dear."
"And my mother's," said Joe soberly. "It is from you I get the
strength to want to do my duty, and I will not forget it when the
strain comes. I will always have your face in front of me to lead
me on, mother."