“I say, boy, wake up! Didn’t you hear the bugle sound? The reveillé!
Wake up, for goodness’ sake! You’ll be late. It’s almost three-thirty
now. You have that early morning feeling, eh?—a pippin of a feeling,
too! I know, because I know!”
The sense of this string of words, jerked out with extraordinary
rapidity by Roy Mittengale, was quite lost on Don Hale’s mental
faculties, but, nevertheless, they had exactly the effect the speaker
intended. With a start and a half-stifled gasp, the new student sat up.
Morning! Was it possible that morning had already come? Of course not!
He hadn’t before suspected Mittengale of being a practical joker.
Morning, indeed! He felt quite vexed—quite exasperated, in fact.
The effects his eyes took in were precisely similar to those he had seen
on retiring—the same glimmering yellowish lights, the same lurking
shadows, the long row of windows framing in the palish moonlight of the
outside world.
He was about to protest. But before he had time the big room, all at
once, became filled with noise and commotion—with the sounds of men
jumping out of bed, of men talking, of men hurrying and bustling about
as though their very lives depended upon the swiftness of their
movements.
So, after all, Roy wasn’t a practical joker.
“All right! All right!” mumbled Don. “I’ll get right up.”
“You’d better,” continued Mittengale, laughingly.
Don Hale certainly had that early morning feeling, besides being cold
and shivery; but, though he devoutly wished that he might enjoy a few
minutes more of repose, he slipped off the mattress and fairly jumped
into his clothes. By the time Don had finished dressing he was alone.
A swift dash for the door and a brisk run after leaving the barracks
enabled him, however, to overtake speedily the more tardy students.
It was still a calm, serene moonlight night, with the stars dimmed by
the greater lustre of the earth’s satellite, and no hint, no trace of
color in the eastern sky to herald the approach of another day.
The destination of the hurrying crowd Don found was the wash-house
situated not far away; and on arriving there he discovered that
certainly “all the comforts of home” appeared to be lacking.
A dash of cold water over his face and arms made the boy feel the need
of brisk exercise to counteract the effects of the damp, penetrating
chilliness of that early matinal hour. Moisture glistened and sparkled
on the tufts of grass, and low over the earth stretched long ghostly
streamers of mist. High up in the heavens a flock of unseen crows,
flying swiftly past, sent their cries far over the crisp, fresh air,
but, rapidly, distance softened and then stifled the unmusical chorus.
A rush back to the barracks with the rest of the students put warmth
into Don Hale’s shivery frame.
“Get in line, son, for the roll call,” commanded Tom Dorsey.
In an orderly double column the students ranged themselves alongside the
barracks, an officer appeared and the formality began.
Proudly, the new student answered “present” as he heard his name
pronounced by the officer.
“Now I suppose we’ll get a bite to eat,” he remarked to Mittengale, when
the men broke ranks.
“Your ‘suppose’ is all wrong,” chuckled the other. “Now you’ll learn
what you’re up against.”
“I suspect I’m up against a joker,” laughed Don.
But, again, his suspicion proved to be quite unfounded. The men were
forming in line, and a few minutes later the march for the flying field
began. The day for which Don Hale had looked forward so long—so
expectantly—actually had come. His nerves, responding to the emotions
aroused within him, were tingling, but tingling in a most delightful
fashion.
The very faintest trace of delicate color, announcing the coming of day,
now slowly began to suffuse itself in the eastern sky. It was a
cheerless and a gloomy hour, not an hour, surely, for drooping spirits
to be abroad; but, fortunately, there appeared to be no drooping spirits
among that semi-military line of marching men.
Gradually the long row of curved-roofed hangars, partially hidden by the
veils of mists, loomed forth more clearly. Before the head of the line
had reached the first of the immense flying fields—there were
three—numerous mechanics were rolling rather battered-looking little
monoplanes from beneath the protecting shelter of the canvas coverings
and placing them side by side in long lines.
“I say, my young knight of the air, cast your optics upon the
‘penguins,’” called Mittengale, who happened to be marching just ahead.
Don Hale, however, required no such invitation. He was already studying
the machines with the most intense—the most eager interest. “Penguins,”
he knew, are Bleriot monoplanes, the wings of which have been so
shortened as to render the machines powerless to lift themselves from
the ground; hence the rather curious appellation of “penguins,” birds of
that name not being able to fly.
Certainly the “penguins” had an extraordinary fascination for the new
candidate. To his active mind they suggested huge dragon-flies—all
ready to wing their way lightly to other parts.
A few moments later the boy was standing before the nearest machine. Now
every semblance to a military line had vanished. Students, moniteurs,
mechanics and laborers were all mingling together before the hangars.
Some time later, while he was still regarding the machines with an
absorbing degree of interest, the voice of the head instructor broke
sharply in upon his thoughts.
In loud tones he was calling out the names of various students and
designating the numbers of the machine they were to use. Immediately the
future airmen began jumping into their places, and before many moments
had passed every “penguin” in the long line had an occupant.
“Goodness! I certainly feel like an outsider,” murmured Don. “I reckon
I’d better hunt up the sergeant and——”
At that second the air became surcharged with a series of startling
staccato explosions, with roars, great crashes and bangs, quite
ear-splitting in their intensity—the motors were being tested.
Gradually the rising crescendo, suggestive of some strange, wild
symphony, reached its greatest climax, and then as slowly began to
subside. And presently, in its place, came the soft, pleasant drone and
hum of many smoothly-working motors and propellers.
Now the highly interested Don Hale saw the assistants removing the
blocks from beneath the wheels of the “penguins” and heard the moniteurs
giving their pupils a few final words of advice.
“By Jove, don’t I wish I were in one of ’em!” he muttered. “Ah!”
The assistants were giving the propellers of some of the nearer machines
a swift turn; and as the whirling blades became but misty circles the
strange “birds” got into action.
“By Jove!”
This time Don Hale uttered the exclamation aloud.
A number of “penguins” had begun to “taxi” across the field, and were
soon traveling at a most tremendous speed. Some twisted and staggered
about, as though, every instant, they must topple over sideways and
smash their wings against the turf. Others exhibited every indication of
halting their onward rush and spinning around and around like a top,
while still others, as straight and true as a swift breeze tearing its
way across the countryside, kept rapidly growing smaller and fainter in
the distance.
Yes, it truly was a remarkable spectacle that Don Hale had before his
eyes. In the semi-darkness of that chill and early hour, the rushing
“penguins” seemed to resemble a flock of huge birds, full of life, full
of keen intelligence, rather than man-made machines.
There was a thrill and spice about the scene, too, which caused
involuntary gasps to frequently come from the mouth of the student. Now
and again, “penguins,” while traveling at a headlong pace, seemed about
to smash into one another. The boy almost held his breath.
“Ah!”
One was down. Another, hustling past the fallen “bird,” just graced its
broken wing. The game, even in the beginner’s class, was clearly not
without its dangers.
Now the most skilfully handled machines had reached their
destination—the flag at the other end of the field—and were returning
as though borne on the blasts of a hurricane. From faint, insignificant
whitish specks they became huge winged creatures in a moment of time,
seemingly intent upon crashing their tempestuous way into the groups of
moniteurs, mechanics and assistants and even through the hangars
themselves.
The tense-faced pilots, however, stopped the engines in time, and, one
after another, the “penguins” docilely came to a halt.
“Grand sport, sure enough!” cried Don, delightedly. He would have
imparted this thought to others, too, but for the fact that not one
among those all around him was paying the slightest attention to his
presence. It gave Don a rather unpleasant feeling, as though he was of
very little importance. It also served to make him decide to report to
the sergeant of the first class at once.
Accordingly, he began walking toward the nearest group; and then, for
the first time, he caught a glimpse of several of the Annamites attached
to the aviation camp. Picturesque-looking little chaps they were, and
unmistakably of the Orient from their yellow complexion and slanting,
beady eyes to their small and stocky stature. They were about to cross
the field. What was the meaning of that intrusion?
All at once Don Hale understood; and, instinctively, his eyes were
turned toward the fallen “penguin,” which, like a wounded bird brought
low by the huntsman’s bullet, lay where misfortune had overtaken it. A
little crowd was collecting, and soon he discovered three distant
figures moving slowly toward the hangars, the one in the centre
supported by those on either side.
“The pilot must have been injured,” thought Don, commiseratingly.
In what seemed to be a very short time to him the sun was almost on the
horizon, and eagerness to begin his task was gripping him with a strange
intensity; no small boy with a lively and joyous anticipation of a visit
to the “greatest show on earth” could have experienced more pleasurable
sensations, and a glance toward the flying fields beyond served to even
further increase them. Above the one adjoining, Bleriot monoplanes were
flying at low altitudes; still further in the distance he could see
airplanes piloted by more advanced members of the third and fourth class
momentarily mounting in the air. The flying fields were beginning to
show a pleasant warmth of color, and the Farnum and Caudron machines,
high aloft, catching the sun’s reflections, sent them constantly
flashing earthward. These planes possessed a certain grace, but they
were heavy and clumsy craft indeed compared to several
single-seaters—Nieuport or Spad machines. These far outclassing the
swiftest of the feathered tribe in their flight, darted in and out,
swooped downward from dizzy heights or climbed upward until their wings
appeared as the faintest gossamer lines against the soft, purplish tones
of the sky.
As Don set off in his quest for the sergeant the majority of the
“penguins” were racing and tearing about the field in the most
extraordinarily erratic fashion.
Sergeant Girodet was easily found, but, to Don Hale’s intense
disappointment, the officer informed him that he would have to wait
until the afternoon session, adding rather dryly:
“Monsieur will be safe and sound for several hours longer.”
Don laughed, rejoining:
“And for a good many hours after that, I hope.”
The Annamites were now bringing in the wrecked and battered plane,
headed for the repair shops, vast structures employing hundreds and
hundreds of skilled mechanics and helpers. As they were near by and the
night shift still at work, Don concluded to pay them a brief visit
before journeying to the field where the third class, of which T.
Singleton Albert was a member, flew in real airplanes to a height of no
less than twenty-five feet.
And just at this time the boy was overjoyed to hear a familiar, cheery
voice shouting:
“Hello, Don! Hello, old chap!”
Turning quickly, he spied his chum approaching.
“My, but I’m jolly glad to see you, George!” he called. “Playing the
part of a wallflower isn’t a pleasant outdoor sport.”
“Well, it’s good you don’t get up in the air about it,” replied George,
laughingly. “That’s right—always keep your feet on the ground.”
“I’ll try to, even when I’m a few miles high,” chirped Don.
George agreeing to Don’s plan, the two began traveling after the
guttural-speaking Annamites.
“It strikes me ‘penguins’ ought to be easily managed,” declared Don,
reflectively. “One just has to drive them in a straight line across the
_piste_.”
“Yes, that’s all,” replied George. A twinkling light shone in his eyes.
“But——”
“Difficult, eh, old chap?”
And though George nodded emphatically, Don, nevertheless, felt strongly
inclined to think that when once in the pilot’s seat he would surprise
not only his chum but a few others as well.
Shortly afterward the two reached the machine and repair shops.