Americans, of course, enjoyed a great popularity all over France, and,
therefore, Don and George were welcome guests at the shops, which
resembled huge manufacturing plants. They immediately found themselves
surrounded by another kind of activity. The din and hum of machinery,
the clanging of hammers, the explosive reports of motors vibrated over
the air, all symbolizing, as it were, by means of sound, progress and
labor.
“They build airplanes here as well as repair them,” explained George.
As the two walked from one point to another Don Hale marveled at what he
saw. The framework of hulls and of main planes, the latter with their
strong but slender supporting spars, stood in long rows. Everywhere
skilled artisans, ordinary mechanics, and helpers worked on various
parts of the planes. In the assemblage department Don and George stopped
to watch the winged creations, one of the latest products of man’s
inventive genius, being put together. A foreman greeted them pleasantly.
“And what do the young Americans think of all this?” he inquired.
“Simply wonderful!” responded Don, enthusiastically.
“Very true!” agreed the men. “Ah! the art of airplane construction has
advanced amazingly since the great world war began, mes Americaines. It
is now a very exact science, where the laws bearing upon lateral and
longitudinal balance, as well as many other things, have to be
rigorously observed.”
“I believe that before 1914 the German equipment in the way of airplanes
and dirigible balloons was greatly superior to either that of the French
or English,” commented George.
“Yes, the Boches had been doing everything in their power to encourage
the development of both types of machines, while the other nations,
unmindful of the peril which menaced them, were satisfied to let the
course of events in that particular direction merely drift along.”
“The Germans are said to have had, in addition to a fleet of huge
Zeppelins, almost a thousand airplanes of the finest construction, while
their aeronautical factories were rushing work on others,” put in
George. “France possessed only about three hundred machines and England
still less, probably as few as two hundred and fifty.”
“The Germans at that time held the world’s record for height and
sustained flying,” declared Don Hale.
“Correct,” admitted the artisan. “They thought, too, that with the
supremacy of their navy of the air, the supremacy of Great Britain’s
fleet on the sea could be more than overcome and England invaded.
But”—the Frenchman clenched his fists—“our enemies—your enemies—the
enemies of the entire world realize at last their error. They failed!
They failed! The supremacy of the air now rests with the Allies.”
“And yet, for a while, the Germans had the best scouting and fighting
planes,” commented George.
“Yes; the Fokkers. But La France replied to that challenge by
constructing the famous Nieuport, the swiftest, the most easily
maneuvered airplane that flies. Come! Let me show you a sample.”
Don and George, smiling a little at the tremendous earnestness exhibited
by the Frenchman, followed him to another part of the great shop, where
the most skilled workers were putting the finishing touches to several
Nieuports of the latest model. They were delicate but staunch little
machines—their lines as graceful as those of any yacht; and each was
finished with a degree of care and attention to detail which scarcely
seemed warranted when the perilous nature of the career they were so
soon to embark upon was considered.
“What perfect beauties!” cried Don. “Crickets, George! Don’t I wish all
my training period were over, so that I could sail sky-high in one of
these little rockets!”
“The speed of a rocket, Don, wouldn’t do you very much good while flying
over the fighting front,” replied his chum, rather grimly.
Don, too impatient, too restless to remain much longer indoors, soon
started off with the other at his side. And all the while the obliging
artisan kept imparting interesting bits of information. He told them
something about the giant bi-motored Caudron, the Handley-Page and the
Caproni, each type of machine representing the highest achievement in
airplane building by the respective countries of France, England and
Italy.
“The Boches,” he added, with a scowl, “have the Gothas.”
“I remember reading that some of the Gothas which bombed London had a
wing-spread of seventy-eight feet, with motors of two hundred and sixty
horse power, and carried, besides three men, hundreds of pounds of
explosives,” remarked Don.
“Seventy-eight feet is nothing these days,” commented the Frenchman,
musingly. “A hundred and fifty is more like it. You and I, mes
Americaines, will live to see the time when huge flyers, with
comfortable accommodations for passengers, can cross the Atlantic,
linking still closer the old world and the new.”
Their volunteer guide now conducted the boys to another department,
where they saw many women engaged in sewing together breadths of fine
linen cloth destined to be stretched over the skeleton frames.
“Billions have been spent and are being expended in the airplane
industry,” continued the man. “Even piano and furniture factories and
many others have turned their attention to the fabrication of airplane
parts, such as struts, ribs and propellers. And all this, in connection
with aeronautic machinery, means work for thousands of mechanics. Vast
quantities of raw material are required. Airplanes must be housed:
therefore the erection of hangars and other types of buildings will
employ thousands more. Then, the training of aviators, too, is a pretty
expensive operation.”
“I suppose so,” laughed Don. “However, I’ll try to let ’em down as
easily as I can. Coming, George?”
After heartily thanking the obliging artisan for his courtesy the two
left the busy shops.
By this time the slowly-rising sun was casting its first pale and
delicate tints over the earth. And with these rays the gloom which had
taken possession of nature for so many hours began to lift. The dull and
lifeless landscape, freed from the embracing mists, took on an aspect of
quiet beauty and charm, and drops of dew shone and sparkled like “many a
gem of purest ray serene.”
At a brisk walk Don and George set out for the distant aviation field,
and before very long the ever moving “penguins” were left far to the
rear. Now Don and his chum had an excellent view of the real flying
machines, as they winged their way in straight flights from one end of
the _piste_ to the other, or taxied over the ground to rise in the air
with amazing ease and lightness.
Another crowd of moniteurs, students and mechanicians stood around, the
moniteurs following the movements of the planes with the most critical
attention.
One after another the flyers alighted, some with ease and precision;
some striking the earth sufficiently hard to have thrown the pilot out
had he not been buckled to his seat.
“Whew! I’ll bet lots of planes are smashed!” cried Don.
“You win,” said George, dryly. “Hello! Look at the machine which just
made that bully landing. Whom do you see on the pilot’s seat?”
“Goodness gracious! As I live, it’s Drugstore!” burst out Don.
But as Don, unmindful of the moniteurs or the crowd, left George’s side
and rushed up to congratulate him on his success, T. Singleton Albert’s
face didn’t have at all its usual half shy and modest look. Instead, it
rather suggested the expression worn by some mighty hero on the occasion
of his greatest triumph.
“Did you see me?” cried Drugstore, breathlessly.
“I should say so!” exclaimed Don.
“Flying!—Why, there’s nothing to it, son. Oh, boy! Only a perfect boob
couldn’t handle these ships.” Drugstore almost stuttered in his elation
and excitement. “But, take it from me, son, some of these chaps here
couldn’t learn to drive an ash cart. Hello! I say, Rogers”—he raised
his voice—“did you see me that time? I brought her down so easily I
didn’t even rumple the grass.”
“You’re up in the air right now, Singleton,” chortled Rogers.
Albert, who had a pretty good command of French, swelled up with even
greater pride as he listened to the moniteur’s “C’est bien fait, mon
ami—it was well done, my friend.”
“I’ll soon be bumping into the clouds,” he declared, a confident grin on
his face.
The machine was quickly turned around by several Annamites, and then
Drugstore, yelling loudly for every one to get out of the way, started
his motor full blast; whereupon the monoplane began to glide swiftly
ahead. As the machine attained a speed of about forty miles an hour it
gracefully left the terrestrial globe several yards behind, and, like an
arrow shot from the archer’s bow, cut through the still, silent air
toward its distant goal.
“Some flyer, that baby!” laughed Rogers.
And, indeed, his comments were just. Very few of the other students were
approaching Albert’s performance. Their landings were generally
faulty—so faulty, in fact, as to endanger the safety of plane and flyer
alike.
It was only a very short time before Drugstore’s plane was seen
returning. Don Hale watched the machine rapidly growing larger with
breathless interest, fearful that Albert’s great flush of enthusiasm
might have engendered so great a confidence in his ability as to
threaten his efforts with disaster. Exactly at the proper moment,
however, exactly in the proper way, the Bleriot dipped; and then,
exactly in the proper manner, it struck the earth, and, after rolling a
certain distance, came to a halt.
“Well, who said I couldn’t learn to fly!” shouted Drugstore,
hilariously. “Whoop! It’s easier than slopping soda-water over a shiny
counter. Oh, boy, I’ll soon be able to give an eagle lessons!”
It was now another pupil’s turn to take the machine, and Albert,
releasing the restraining straps about his body, jumped stiffly to the
ground. His gait for several moments became so noticeably uncertain as
to bring forth a volley of humorous observations.
“Success has gone to his head!” cried one.
“To his feet, you mean!” chuckled a second.
“If that grin of his grows any wider his face may be seriously injured!”
chirped another.
“Speech, Drugstore, speech!” howled a fourth.
If Albert had been his usual self all this attention and good-natured
raillery would probably have brought a flush to his cheeks. At that
moment, however, Albert wasn’t quite himself. He forgot to stammer and
look embarrassed as he declared importantly:
“Let’s see some of you chaps beat it. Oh, boy, just a little while, and
I’ll be shooting up to hit the blue!”
Naturally Albert’s very excellent work fired Don Hale with an even
greater desire to begin his apprenticeship at the fascinating game of
flying. The sun had never seemed to ascend so slowly. Hours and hours
must pass before he could make his start. Really, it was quite a strain
on his nerves.
At nine o’clock work was over for the morning, and the students trailed
back to the barracks, where they were privileged to remain until five.
The particular crowd which occupied the Hotel d’Amerique found a
newcomer awaiting them. He was a very rosy-cheeked young chap; and from
his uniform, still showing plentiful traces of mud and hard usage, it
was seen that he, too, had once been a soldier in the famous Foreign
Legion.
“My name is Dan Hagen,” he announced, pleasantly. “I’m from Dublin.”
“Ah ha, boys, we now have with us Dublin Dan!” chortled Roy Mittengale.
And that was the way in which Dan Hagen received a new christening, and
one that he accepted with a boisterous, rollicking laugh.
“Call me anything; but don’t call me down,” he said. “I say, how’s
flying to-day?”
“As usual, up in the air,” laughed Tom Dorsey.
“Next to me, who’s the newest greeny?”
A half dozen or so fingers were pointed toward Don Hale; a half dozen or
so voices gave the desired information.
“Shake, old man!” exclaimed Dublin Dan, extending a big rough hand.
“It’s a race between us to see which shall be the first to feel the
caressing touches of the wind-blown clouds on our cheeks.”
“I’m on!” laughed Don.
“I say, did you see me land on my last trip?”
T. Singleton Albert voiced this query. It was addressed to no one in
particular; and as no one in particular paid the slightest attention to
it Drugstore became quite peeved.
“Jealous, eh?” he jeered, with unexpected bravado. “Jealous! Oh, boy!
but my cheeks’ll soon feel the caressing touches of these wind-blown
clouds. Some joyous expression that, eh?”
“It doesn’t beat yours at the present moment,” declared big Sid Marlow,
with a hearty laugh.
Don Hale soon discovered that there was little military discipline about
the camp. The students were perfectly free to amuse themselves in any
way their fancy dictated, though Cal Cummings informed him that on
lecture days absence from the classes was considered a pretty serious
offense.
“I’d never want to play hooky,” declared Don, smilingly.
The day, wearing on, brought with it plenty of heat; therefore the
shelter of the barracks was soon sought by the majority. Little comfort
could be found inside, however. Swarms of flies—“of every known
size—of every known species”—so Dublin Dan declared, also used it as a
hotel; and, not being of a bashful disposition, they made themselves
unpleasantly conspicuous. At one o’clock the little pests were sole
masters of the situation, while the crowd joined other crowds in the
spacious mess-hall.
During the meal T. Singleton Albert, having been heard to remark: “I
say, did you see that last landing I made?” was loudly and insistently
called upon to make a speech. Thereupon, he suddenly grew red in the
face, and when forced to his feet by strong-arm methods stammered and
stuttered to such a degree that the boys, perceiving that he had once
more become the old, timid, shy Drugstore, mercifully let him alone.
Following lunch a game of baseball was played between two well-matched
teams, one of them being captained by Victor Gilbert. Gilbert’s team
won, which Cal Cummings declared was not strange at all, considering the
fact that Victor had at one time been a crack player on a college
baseball club.
After the game was over, Don, George and Dublin Dan set out for the
aviation field together.