Many of the students confidently believed that by the time another day
had rolled around Albert would have so far recovered from the effects of
his thrilling experience as to reconsider his determination. This,
however, was not the case.
A few privately expressed the opinion that Drugstore was a quitter, but,
somehow or other, the boy’s frank avowal had raised him in the opinion
of the majority, who sincerely regretted that so promising a pupil
should be lost to the school.
During the late afternoon another American arrived. Of course this was
not a very important event. Students were always going and coming, some
leaving for the _École de Perfectionment_[5] others being sent back to
their regiments when it was found that they were not fitted by nature to
become successful airmen.
But a little incident in connection with the appearance of the newcomer
profoundly interested those of an observant or inquisitive nature. It
was a rather dramatic meeting between him and the former college
student, Victor Gilbert.
The latter, who was now in the third class and gave promise of being one
of the best of the _élève_ pilots, upon entering the room and coming
face to face with the other halted as though almost petrified with
astonishment, and exclaimed:
“Hello! You here, Jason Hamlin!” Whereupon the other answered, in a tone
which showed no trace of friendliness:
“Yes, I am here, Gilbert. And one of the reasons I am here is because
you are here. Does that disturb you?”
“Not enough for me to notice it,” returned Victor Gilbert, coolly.
“Flying is a dangerous game, eh?”
“There are other games just as dangerous.”
[Illustration: “There are other games just as dangerous”]
At this remark Jason Hamlin’s face flushed perceptibly; his fingers
twitched; a steely glare which plainly told of a spirit moved to anger
came into his eyes.
But the interesting colloquy ended there.
“I say, wasn’t that mighty curious about Gilbert and Hamlin?” exclaimed
Bobby Dunlap, otherwise Peur Jamais, to Don Hale, after the evening meal
was over. “I wonder what Gilbert meant by saying: ‘There are other games
just as dangerous.’”
“It’s too much of a riddle for me.”
“I tried to pump this Jason person a little,” declared Peur Jamais, “but
he was as dry as an old well gone out of business. Strikes me there’s a
little mystery which I’ll have to unravel.”
“I’ll let you have all the fun of the unraveling,” chortled Don. “Go to
it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes the second.”
“All right!” chirped Bobby. “I hope I shan’t get a punch in the eye
while I’m sherlocking. Our friend Jason looks as though he wouldn’t have
much trouble in finding his temper.”
“Or losing it,” said Don, with a laugh. “But say, Bobby, I got a letter
to-day from George Glenn. And what do you think he’s seen?”
“Break it to me gently.”
Thereupon Don Hale drew from his pocket the missive, and began to read:
“‘To-day I had a mighty exciting experience. It was during my two hours’
patrol over the enemy’s line, and the “Archies” were following my plane
thick and fast.’”
“The ‘Archies’! What does he mean by ‘Archies’?” interrupted Bobby.
“It’s a name the flying fighters have given to the anti-aircraft guns,”
replied Don. “Though I reckon no one knows exactly the reason why.”
He resumed:
“‘Don, I must confess that this afternoon I got a pretty big scare. I
was just about to return to the encampment of the squadron when I saw
something that made my pulse throb as it hasn’t throbbed even when I was
engaged in a duel in the air. It was the sight of two crimson planes
swooping down upon me from above—a part of Captain Baron Von
Richtofen’s Red Squadron!’”
“Great Caesar’s bald-headed nanny-goat!” ejaculated Bobby. “Where’s my
suit-case? I think I’ll go home with Drugstore.”
“I shouldn’t blame you,” laughed Don.
“‘By the time I made this startling discovery the foremost had opened
fire with his machine gun. And the first thing I knew bullets were
ripping through my plane.’”
“I don’t think I’ll wait for my suitcase, after all!” exclaimed Peur
Jamais. “Whew! What did George do to them for that?”
“The next chapter is as follows,” said Don:
“‘I threw my plane into the vrille, and the next shots sped over my
head. That might not have saved me, either, had it not been that some of
the boys, seeing my predicament, literally sailed into the Germans.’”
“Poor child!” cried Bobby. “By this time I really ought to be half-way
to the station.”
Don continued:
“‘From now on I expect things to be more dangerous than usual, which is
saying a good bit. I will write again soon if—though I will say au
revoir.’”
“I can’t say the prospect looks so very enchanting,” confessed Bobby.
“But, as the French say, ‘C’est la guerre!’ And that means it isn’t any
pink tea affair, eh?”
“I guess not; though I never drank any pink tea,” laughed Don.
Some time later T. Singleton Albert approached the two.
“I thought I’d say good-bye, fellows,” he announced. “I’m leaving during
the forenoon to-morrow, and you chaps might not happen to be around.”
“It’s too bad!” said Don. “I suppose it’s no use of our saying a word,
eh?”
“Not a bit,” declared the other, very emphatically. “That tumble in the
air certainly did the business for me. Why, do you know, even the very
sight of an airplane going aloft gives me the queerest kind of feelings.
Take my advice—be a bit slow in making haste. Then you won’t have to
pack your suit-cases and get out, as I’m doing.”
Albert spoke in the tone of one who felt that his ambitions had been
rudely shattered—that the future held no hope.
The daring young airman who had astonished the students by his rapid
progress had become once more the drugstore clerk, the very antithesis
of what an airman might be expected to appear.
Drugstore solemnly wished them the best luck in the world, hoped they
might win fame and glory in the sky, and then, after shaking hands very
heartily, wandered away to say his adieus to the others.
“I think, after all, the soda-water counter is his proper sphere in
life,” remarked Dunlap, presently. “He’s more fitted to be reading about
the exploits of other chaps than trying to do them himself.”
“I hope the weather is all right to-morrow,” broke in Don. “It was
looking a bit threatening when we came in—all clouded over. Let’s take
a look outside, ‘Fear Never.’”
“All right,” chirped Bobby. “Goodness, how I hate rainy days! I think I
know, now, how a chicken in a coop must feel.”
The two walked outside the crowded barracks, and both at once gave voice
to expressions indicative of disappointment.
The entire heavens was covered with a thick canopy of clouds.
“I don’t think Druggy need have said good-bye to-night,” remarked Peur
Jamais, disconsolately. “If I issued a Weather Communique it would sound
something like this: High and steady winds; heavy rains, with no
intermissions between; lightning and thunder in equal proportions;
life-boats and rafts in demand.’”
“Never mind,” sighed Don. “There are other days ahead of us.”
“If I didn’t think there were I’d never be standing here as calmly as
this,” returned Bobby, laughingly. “Let’s go back to the smell of
kerosene and dismal light.”
It was rather late when the crowd turned in; and the last one hadn’t
been asleep very long before pattering drops of rain were heard falling
upon the roof, while the wind, in soft and musical cadences, kept
steadily blowing.
About two A. M. there came a veritable downpour and big, booming
reverberations of thunder. Vivid flashes of bluish lightning filled each
window with a dazzling glare and cast a weird and uncanny light
throughout the room.
“It’s a wild night, all right,” exclaimed Dublin Dan, half sitting up.
“It means no flying to-morrow,” grumbled Mittengale.
“Such little trials have their usefulness.” It was Victor Gilbert who
spoke. “It teaches, or rather, should teach one to be philosophical and
accept the inevitable with resignation.”
“I don’t want to be philosophical,” complained Peur Jamais. “And I won’t
be philosophical, either. Whew! Some big waste of electric light, that!”
No one made any reply, or if they did it was unheard; for the most
appalling detonation shook and rattled the barracks. It seemed as if the
structure must be shaken from its very foundations.
And thus the storm continued until the boys were routed from their beds
by the musical notes of the bugle.
It was pitch dark and gloomy. The wind tore past with no soft and
musical cadences mingled in with its angry whistling, and now and again
a flurry of raindrops splattered noisily down.
The usual roll call was held, and then the boys were free to do as they
pleased. Don Hale concluded to take a nap in his former place between
the sheets.
When he once more opened his eyes the morning was well advanced.
Jumping out of his berth, with an exclamation of surprise, the boy
hastily slipped on his clothes and walked outside.
Scarcely a hint of color could be seen in the landscape. Here and there
pools had formed, reflecting the dull, leaden gray of the wind-driven
clouds, the air was filled with moisture, and the dull and heavy-looking
earth seemed to have absorbed all it could possibly hold.
Gazing at the landscape was not a particularly enjoyable pastime; so the
boy reentered the barracks.
An hour passed, during which the crowd amused itself in various ways.
Then a shout outside was heard. Although the words themselves were not
understood, it was a call so clearly intended to bring the boys that a
general stampede for the door was made.
And when they reached it, they perceived a biplane which, in utter
defiance of the treacherous wind buffeting it about, was approaching the
aviation grounds at tremendous speed, its graceful, rocking form
outlined in lightish tones against the sinister-looking storm-clouds.
“I believe he’s going to land!” cried Don.
“Of course. Did you think he was condemned to fly forever!” chirped
Dublin Dan.
Now the loud, droning hum of the motors and propellers, which had been
filling the air, suddenly ceased, and the object darting swiftly through
the sky began to volplane in graceful spirals toward the earth.
Realizing that the biplane, which all now recognized as a Nieuport
machine, an _avion de chasse_, as the French call them, would alight
some distance away, the crowd started running over the muddy field
toward it.
And while they were on the way the pilot made the most perfect
_atterrissage_[6] any of them had ever seen.
T. Singleton Albert, who had not yet left, was enthusiastic in his
praise.
“Oh, boy, wasn’t that jolly fine!” he cried. “And——”
He got no further; for just then some one bawled out with much gusto and
boisterousness:
“It’s a machine belonging to the Lafayette Squadron!”
“The Lafayette Squadron!” echoed a number of others, the rather shrill
and falsetto voice of Drugstore being plainly heard.
Sure enough, the insignia of the famous flying squadron—the face of an
Indian warrior, now faded and worn by the rains and snows which had
beaten upon it, could be clearly distinguished on the body of the
rakish-looking plane.
Don Hale forgot all about the dreary prospect ahead of him for the day
in his absorbed contemplation of the visiting biplane. Then his glances
fell upon the aviator just on the point of stepping from the nacelle, or
cockpit.
“Hello!”
He uttered the word aloud and excitedly.
The appearance of the aviator was thoroughly familiar. He had seen
pictures of him many a time. A curious thrill shot through the boy; for
suddenly he realized that he was looking upon William Thaw, the famous
American Ace, one of the most commanding figures of the Franco-American
Flying Corps.
Others, too, among the crowd had recognized the renowned aviator, and a
burst of enthusiastic cheering ending in a “Rah, rah, for Thaw!” rang
out.
The famous ace smilingly bowed his acknowledgments, remarking:
“Many thanks, fellows! I thought I would just take a flyer over here to
pay a brief visit to my old friend, the commandant.”
“But—but—you didn’t actually come all the way from the front,
Lieutenant Thaw, did you?” almost stuttered T. Singleton Albert, whose
eyes were fixed with strange intensity on the trim, though
mud-bespattered little Nieuport.
“Oh, yes! Had quite a scrap, too, just before leaving. Did I get the
Boche?” Lieutenant Thaw smiled genially. “No. I think that particular
Teuton must have had faith in the old adage that ‘He who fights and runs
away may live to fight another day.’ Now, boys, I suppose it’s quite
safe for me to leave the machine here until I return?”
Being assured that it was, the aviator, with a wave of his hand, started
trudging through the soggy field toward the commandant’s office.
By this time Don Hale and Albert were making a close examination of the
Nieuport. Both took a look at the cockpit, beautifully finished in hard
wood, and at the upholstered pilot’s seat, and studied the
brightly-shining nickel-plated instruments which tell the pilot
practically everything he needs to know while in the air.
There was something else, too,—an ominous-looking something else—which
attracted and held their interest—a Vickers machine gun, the firing of
which is so perfectly timed that the bullets fly between the whirling
propeller blades.
To Don Hale, and, doubtless, to many others, that weapon, catching and
reflecting numerous gleams of light, was almost awe-inspiring. And, to
add to these feelings, they presently discovered several bullet holes in
both the upper and lower planes, silent and eloquent testimonials of the
perils which always face the intrepid and courageous fighters of the
air.
At first Albert had been quite talkative—that is for him; then, as he
walked around the machine, studying every detail with the same interest
that a connoisseur might have displayed in the contemplation of a rare
and priceless piece of statuary, he suddenly became silent. Finally his
mild, unassuming air deserted him, and, straightening up, he exclaimed,
loudly:
“Fellows, I’ve changed my mind. Nobody is ever going to call me a
quitter. I’m not going to leave the school after all. No, sir! I’ll keep
at the flying game; and, by George, I’ll get to the front, too.”
Following his sudden and almost vehement outburst, there came a silence.
But it was quickly broken. And as loud as had been the cheering for the
visiting aviator it distinctly held second place to that which greeted
T. Singleton Albert’s unexpected declaration.
The boys shook his hand and slapped him delightedly on the shoulder.
“Julius Cæsar! The Germans are going to pay dearly on account of this
unexpected visit of Lieutenant William Thaw,” cried Roy Mittengale.
“Poor Baron Von Richtofen and his Red Squadron of Death!” laughed Bobby
Dunlap. “Just think of all those gallons of red paint gone to waste!
Drugstore, your nerve is simply grand!”
A little later, when the American lieutenant returned, the students told
him about the incident, whereupon he, too, heartily congratulated
Albert.
“We need young chaps like you at the front,” he declared. “The air
service is of the greatest importance. It has been called the ‘Eyes of
the Army.’ The game, too, is wonderfully thrilling—wonderfully
interesting. Let me wish you much glory, success—and safety.”
As he spoke, he climbed into the cockpit.
Don Hale gave the propeller a whirl and, presently, amid a chorus of
good-byes, the Nieuport started off. Faster and faster it moved over the
field, sending streams of mud and water flying in every direction, and,
at last, gaining sufficient momentum, it glided into the air.
The crowd watched the biplane until it had disappeared in the murky,
moisture-laden air.
“Boys, I’ll never forget this day,” declared Drugstore. “It’s strange
how little things may alter the whole course of a person’s life!”
And every one, quite as solemnly, agreed with him that it was.
-----
Footnote 5:
School for advanced students.
Footnote 6:
Atterrissage—landing.