Of all the flying corps in France none performed more valiant deeds or
became more renowned than the Lafayette, composed of Americans who
journeyed across the sea to help the French in their struggle against
the invading hosts. Whether it was in answer to the call of adventure
due to the love of thrills and excitement, or to the fascination of a
new and wonderful sport, or simply from a sense of duty, are questions
of no particular moment—the members of the flying corps are to be
judged solely by the remarkable work they accomplished.
The fame of such combat pilots as Rockwell, Prince, Chadwick, MCConnell,
Lufbery, Hall, Walcott and numbers of others is of the kind which will
last as long as history itself. Never again, perhaps, will men be called
upon to repeat their triumphs.
The day Don Hale arrived was an epochal one in his life. George Glenn
and T. Singleton Albert met him at the station in a little village
crowded with soldiers and permissionnaires.
“I can’t tell you, Don, how glad I am to see you; and yet I’m almost
sorry to see you,” exclaimed Albert, enigmatically. “You’re in for
excitement that will make your days as an ambulance driver with the Red
Cross seem tame by comparison.”
“And they were plenty thrilling enough to suit me,” laughed Don. “What’s
the latest news?”
“That this little village was recently bombed.”
George Glenn pointed to a sign painted on the side of a building.
“‘Cave Voûté,’” read Don, aloud.
These caves, he knew, were underground retreats, where the soldiers or
inhabitants could find a refuge in case of a bombardment or a
bomb-dropping expedition of the enemy.
“One good thing—our camp is outside the range of the guns,” said
George.
As the boys walked through the little village, which, during the earlier
stages of the war, had been the scene of many an exciting event, Don
Hale could not help but remarking on the changed appearance of T.
Singleton Albert. There was a gravity and sedateness about him which he
judged to be caused by the dangers to which the airmen are constantly
exposed.
“Had any exciting adventures yet, Drugstore?” he asked.
“Plenty of them,” responded Albert. And then a light which Don Hale had
never seen before flashed into the young chap’s eyes. “Yet, in spite of
that, I wouldn’t have missed this experience for all the world. Flying
has all the joys, the thrills and excitement of every other sport beaten
a thousand miles. I certainly owe a whole lot of thanks to Lieutenant
William Thaw.”
The three found plenty to talk about, though they were often obliged to
let their lively tongues slow down on account of the lines of marching
troops and the almost endless procession of motor trucks passing in both
directions.
In about three-quarters of an hour they reached their destination—the
headquarters of the famous Lafayette Escadrille, which happened to be,
at this time, in a beautiful little villa, situated in the midst of
spacious grounds.
A number of the American pilots cordially greeted him, and Don was very
glad to see among them Victor Gilbert.
After meeting the courteous French captain of the escadrille the boy was
shown to a room on the second floor, which he was to share with several
others.
Outside of the hazardous nature of their occupation, the members of the
American Squadron, unlike the “doughboys” and poilus, lived a life of
ease and comfort. They had orderlies who attended to their needs,
comfortable feather beds to sleep upon, and their meals, prepared by a
French chef, were eaten in a dining-room which delighted the eye by its
most artistic furnishings and decorations.
It would have been very hard to analyze Don Hale’s feelings on this
particular occasion. Expectation, eagerness, happiness and impatience,
all seemed to hold sway over his thoughts, and though the reality was
before him he could scarcely believe that he actually had become a
member of the famous American Squadron.
After a substantial lunch, still in the company of George Glenn and
Albert, Don journeyed to the aviation field not very far away.
With the utmost eagerness, he gazed about him. He saw numerous hangars,
rest tents and various wooden structures. And, besides these, parked at
one side, were ponderous motor trucks, trailers and several automobiles.
Attached to the great encampment were mechanicians, chauffeurs,
telephone operators, Red Cross attendants and motor-cyclists—for the
business of flying has its prosaic side as well as its thrills. Somehow
or other it reminded Don of a country fair on a large scale, and it
would have seemed to him very natural indeed had his eyes alighted on a
barker, mounted upon a rostrum, exhorting a crowd of spectators to
enter. There was a certain air of grimness and sternness, however, about
the men whom they encountered that soon removed this impression. From
the east came the sullen rumble of countless guns. Sometimes it was low,
like the mutterings of distant thunder; sometimes it swelled into a
volume, as if a storm was about to burst, and then, like the sighing of
the wind, almost faded away.
A patrol was just about to leave for the front, and Don watched the
Nieuports taxi across the ground, rise one after another in the air,
and, after gaining a high altitude, soar in a V-shaped formation toward
the battle front.
The boy thrilled at the sight, and his eyes followed the fast-flying
planes until they were lost to sight behind a thin veil of whitish
clouds.
“Of course, I’m pretty sure you know just what kind of work we are doing
here,” said George Glenn, “but, notwithstanding, I am going to tell you
a few things. Our squadron belongs to what is known as the group de
combat, and it has a definite sector to cover.
“A patrol is always kept over the enemy’s lines, not only to prevent the
German pilots from entering ours but to make their lives as full of
spice and adventure as we possibly can.”
“Still, we have a lot to do besides fighting,” put in Albert. “Sometimes
our duty is to protect the two or three-seater bombardment planes, the
_avions de réglage_, or airplanes used by those who regulate the
artillery fire, and the observation and photographic planes. The mission
of the big ‘birds,’ although they are armed with two guns, and sometimes
three, is a purely defensive one.”
“Quite often,” chimed in George, “escorting bombardment and photographic
planes, we travel quite a long distance into ‘Germany,’ as we call the
other side of the barbed wire entanglements.”
“It must be wonderful!” cried Don.
“Some of our experiences are, I can assure you,” returned George, with a
half smile. “Now, Don, here is something the captain is going to tell
you, and if you value your life and my piece of mind you will implicitly
obey his instructions.”
“Fire away!” said Don.
“It is to stick by the formation—always! The Germans have a habit of
pouncing down upon stragglers, and unless the pilot combines skill,
resourcefulness and courage in equal proportions, or sheer good luck
intervenes, it is apt to be good-night.”
“You can trust me not to get lost,” said Don, with a serious look in his
eyes. “But, boys, I want to see my plane—I must see my plane, and, as
the captain is right here on the field, I reckon he’ll show it to me.”
In this view Don was not mistaken; and presently a mechanic rolled out
of one of the hangars a small machine, slender of fuselage and beautiful
in its proportions. On the tapering body was painted an Indian’s head
similar to the one on Lieutenant Thaw’s machine.
“As you see, all of the planes are numbered,” remarked the captain,
“and, in addition, each of the pilots has some special mark on the
fuselage to distinguish his from the others.”
“Yes, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Don, with a grin of delight.
“This machine has a motor of two hundred horse power and can travel at a
speed of about one hundred and forty miles an hour,” continued the
commander. “And at times you will need it all,” he added, dryly. “When
may you go up? This afternoon. I will detail Sergeant Reynolds to
accompany you in his plane. The German lines must not be crossed, under
any consideration, for several days at least.”
[Illustration: “The German lines must not be crossed”]
“Oh!” murmured Don.
This was a great disappointment to the boy; for he possessed that daring
which youth is prone to indulge—a daring which may often lead to
disaster, and, as often, be a means to safety.
The captain, after introducing him to the mechanic who was to look after
the Nieuport, walked away.
The next half hour was one of unalloyed delight to Don Hale. He spent it
in examining the plane, the various nickel plated instruments with which
the cockpit was furnished and the Vickers gun, with its belts of
cartridges.
To fire this stationary weapon the pilot would have no need to remove
his hand from the controls. The instruments consisted of a compass, an
altimetre to register the height, a speed indicator and several others.
Then there was a map in a roller case.
The top of the plane was camouflaged by means of spots of a greenish and
brownish color; and besides the concentric circles of blue, white, brown
and red on the wings the end of the tail had been painted with the
tricolor of France.
Though Don Hale, as a rule, was a pretty calm lad, he found it hard to
conceal his nervous tension.
His preliminary flight that afternoon, however, was really nothing more
than a repetition of those he had taken while in the training schools. A
green pilot was not to be fed to the hungry Boches, and he stood in no
more danger from that source than if he had been hundreds of miles away.
On the following days the sergeant led him a little further toward the
fighting front. And then, having received all the protection which wise
counsel and advice could afford, the young airman was pronounced ready
to begin his career as a combat pilot.