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.