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.