THE DUEL
Every time Frank Sanderson soared upward in an aeroplane he fully
realized that danger rode with him. That was why he was so successful
as a pilot. The "ace" is not the man who refuses to recognize the
imminent peril of his calling. Sanderson merely did not allow this
knowledge, this realization of danger, to influence him in the
performance of his duty.
Besides, the young American possessed a quick mind. In connection with
his work as an aviator his brain was always alert. He was ready for
anything at any time.
This accident, however, was entirely outside the realm of the usual
perils of his calling. The unreleased bomb, entangled in the wires of
the airplane's chassis, offered a problem that even Sanderson's brain
could not instantly solve.
The machine was but a few hundred feet above the ground. Below was the
French aviation camp. In a few moments, if Lefevre proceeded, they
would make their landing--and then----
Sanderson tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "Wait!" he shouted. "Take
a sweep around before you land. There's something we must do first."
"What's that?" demanded Lefevre.
The aeroplane was shooting along on a level again before Sanderson
ventured to tell him. The pilot was quite as cool an airman as
Sanderson himself, but he, too, was startled.
"Good-_night_!" he ejaculated. "A bomb caught? Who ever heard the like
of that? Why--Sandy!--we're up in the air for good!"
"Looks so," agreed Sanderson, jerking it out, "unless we can make our
landing on a nice, soft cloud."
"Humph! And they'll have hard work serving us breakfast up here."
"Quite so, old scout," declared Sanderson. He felt easier now that
Lefevre was taking it calmly.
"Well," the latter added, "my will's in father's safe. Willy may have
my skates and my red mittens. By Jove, Sandy, it'll be some finish!"
"Not _our_ finish," declared Sanderson vigorously. He thought of
Belinda. If she had fallen a victim to the Prussians he would not have
cared much what became of him; but he was optimistic enough to believe
that both Belinda and he would finally escape from their perils.
"What shall we do?" staccatoed Lefevre.
"Be Flying Dutchmen, and roam about the air forever more," suggested
Frank.
"Like Noah's first dove--not finding any rest for the soles of our
feet. But our gas is going to give out some time, if nothing else."
"Our patience is going to give out first," declared Frank.
These opinions had been shouted, of course, for the roaring of the
motor and the wind whining through the stays of the aeroplane made an
ordinary tone of conversation impossible.
"See here!" exclaimed Lefevre at last. "Isn't there anything you can
reach it with and unhook the bomb?"
"Of course. Mother's clothes pole. Wait till I get it," scoffed
Sanderson. "And if it could be unhooked, what then? It wouldn't do a
bit of good down yonder," and he gestured toward the aviation camp in
plain view. "Dropping bombs on one's own camp isn't done, you know,
Lefevre--it really isn't done!"
"No. Quite true," and the pilot nodded. "But what----"
"Just one thing to do. Hold steady and don't rock the boat. I'm going
over the side, Captain," and Sanderson unhooked his belt.
"Great heavens, Sandy! You can never do that!" yelled the pilot.
"Don't--tell--me--what--I--can't--do," was the reply as the young
American clambered out on the wing.
Lefevre almost held his breath. He dared not look around again. To
climb down and unhook the bomb was like mounting to the main truck of a
ship in the teeth of a hurricane.
From the wing Sanderson swung himself down upon the running-gear. He
held on with one hand and carefully loosed the bomb. To drop it might
cause disaster below. He had, therefore, to climb back to his seat with
the explosive projectile, which was a greater task than getting down
into the chassis, for he had to hang on literally with one hand and his
teeth.
But he did it! He came in safely to his seat in the rocking aeroplane
and again Lefevre spiraled earthward. As they drifted over a hollow in
the hillside beyond the camp, Sanderson dropped the bomb where it would
do no harm as it exploded.
"Some boy!" was Lefevre's only comment when they landed. Nor did either
of the young men talk much about the adventure. There are too many
hair's-breadth escapes in flying for one peril to be marked much above
another.
From Captain Dexter, Sanderson heard that the army corps headquarters
had again sent out feelers to learn, if possible, Belinda Melnotte's
fate. On his own part the shipmaster had communicated with the American
embassy in Paris, and efforts would be made through friendly sources at
Berlin to trace the lost Red Cross nurse.
Diplomatic relations had been recently broken between the United States
and the German Government and the two countries, it was believed, were
verging toward war. The threat of unrestricted U-boat warfare had
roused a fever of indignation in America. Germany might intern any and
all Americans found within her lines--Red Cross workers not excepted.
Her friends, however, desired to be assured of Belinda's safety, if
nothing more.
"I'm havin' the devil's own time, and that's a fact, stavin' off
Mam'selle Roberta's inquiries," Captain Dexter declared. "I write such
poor French and she such poor English that it gives me a chance to
dodge a lot of her questions. But, by Hannah! she isn't goin' to be
fended off for long, boy. You can bet your last dollar on that."
Sanderson went back to piloting his repaired Nieuport within a day or
two after the successful bombarding of the railroad, and almost his
first assignment was to transport a man for reconnaissance to a certain
point behind the enemy's lines. He had done such work before, and with
success, recovering his man at the place and time appointed.
He was returning from dropping the spy, without rising very high, for
he was above the wedge in the battlefront, and the danger point was
several miles ahead--or so he thought.
His intention was to pass over the locality of the hospital station
where Belinda had served before the retreat of the French.
Not that he could hope to see her or learn anything about her while
crossing this territory. That was too great a miracle to expect. He
knew the Germans held all this land now. Indeed, he could glance down
and see the supply trains and marching columns on their way to the
front. He was so much interested in what went on below, in fact, that
he forgot to keep a sharp outlook for what might be in the air.
It was an unpardonable error. He had swooped to a level little more
than five hundred feet above the earth. He knew the country thoroughly
and saw that the grove of open timber ahead was the small wood which
stood to the northeast of the hospital station.
He meant to ride over it, swoop low over the abandoned station to see
what was going on there, and then rise a couple of thousand feet before
risking the passing of the battleline.
On his mission to leave the spy he had been relieved of his
mitrailleuse, for the Nieuport was not supposed to carry more than
two hundred and twenty pounds, and his passenger, Renaud, was a heavy
man. Therefore his only weapon at the moment was the automatic pistol
strapped at his side.
Suddenly the pop of a machine gun warned him of danger. It was not an
anti-aircraft gun shooting from the earth, but a weapon being used
above him! The bullets hailed all around his airplane.
Sanderson speeded up his motor before even looking to see whence the
bullets came. He hated to run away as much as would any man; but he was
not armed for a pitched battle with a German aviator.
The pursuer was swooping with determination. As Sanderson shot toward
the grove of timber he realized that the enemy was coming down upon
him so swiftly and with such recklessness that collision was almost
inevitable, unless he mounted higher and at once.
The German was evidently willing to accept death himself if he could
but bring the American to earth.
The rain of bullets soon ceased, but Sanderson realized that his
propeller was riddled as though by a hailstorm. He felt a smart along
one cheek, where a bullet had plowed, and there were innumerable shot
holes in the wings of his biplane.
He started to mount. The shadow of the enemy aeroplane fell across his
own. It was near sunset, and the shadow was huge. It was as though he
were being smothered by a giant blanket dropping from the skies.
Sanderson was inured to peril, but he suddenly felt that he was in a
very serious situation. A minute more and his course on earth, as well
as in the air, might be run. His brain worked alertly. He used a trick
he had learned and practised often while over the aviation field on
Long Island.
Raising the nose of the Nieuport, he began to climb sharply, intending
to loop the loop and so, if possible, pass over his enemy.
The German was right at hand. The two aeroplanes passed each other
like veritable coursers of the air--the one soaring upward, the other
swooping downward. Sanderson and his enemy opened fire simultaneously
with their pistols.
What damage, if any, he did the German aviator the American did not
know, but before he had accomplished the upward curve of his loop he
saw that a bullet had punctured his gasoline tank.
Flames burst forth, fanned by the swift passage of the air. Sanderson
righted his machine quickly. He knew he would be _grille_, as the
French flying men call it, before he could arrive at any safe anchorage.
Shifting the nose of his airplane swiftly, Sanderson plunged directly
upon the German, who, likewise, had changed his course. The two
machines rushed together at frightful speed--a speed of nearly two
hundred miles an hour.
No wonder the spectators in the hospital enclosure, of whom Belinda
Melnotte was one, cried out in their horror as they beheld this duel to
the death.
Sanderson whispered the name of the girl who was, by chance, watching
him. Perhaps a woman's name was on the German aviator's lips. But
neither man faltered.
The two machines interlocked and fell through the treetops. Sanderson
kept his head, although expecting an instant and awful death. He
unhooked his belt and was flung from his seat into the top of a low,
well-branched evergreen. It was his salvation.
The wreck of the two aeroplanes reached the ground, his brave
antagonist in the midst of the ruin. Flames sprang up and threatened to
destroy the wreckage at once.
Wounded and bruised as he was, Sanderson hurried to reach the ground.
He hoped to save the German aviator; but when he drew the man out of
reach of the flames he was dead.
Night had fallen. No searchers came to the spot. Sanderson, far from
friends and in the enemy's country, realized that he was in serious
danger. In spite of a shoulder that pained him frightfully and his many
bruises, he managed to disrobe, strip the dead man, and garb himself in
the German's uniform. Then, with horror at the necessity for the act,
he thrust the dead body and his own garments into the burning wreck of
the two aeroplanes.
He could not travel. Indeed, it would aid him not at all to leave the
vicinity of the fallen machines, for he could not pass the enemy's
lines even in the borrowed uniform.
He sank, in the darkness, upon a bed of leaves. He had but a dim
remembrance of that night, or of being found in the morning by the
searchers and his transportation in the ambulance to the hospital
station.
When he really awoke it was to a belief that he was again in the
hospital back in New York. He opened his eyes to see the Herr Doktor
Franz Herschall standing beside him and Belinda Melnotte leaning
solicitously over his cot, saying in German:
"Doctor, here is one who has just been brought in. A very brave man,
they say. He fell last night in a duel in which he destroyed his
antagonist, a French flying-man."