Several weeks passed, during which Don Hale became thoroughly familiar
with and accustomed to the work of the escadrille. The boy was surprised
to find how soon the unpleasant feelings which had assailed him on his
first day’s sortie over the lines had worn off. True, he did pass
through some harrowing moments—terrible moments, in which it seemed as
though he was doomed to destruction. But, in general, familiarity with
the dangers brought that indifference which a seasoned veteran in any of
life’s great games usually acquires.
By this time the young aviator had engaged in practically every kind of
work done by the squadron. He, in company with other pilots, had acted
as escorts to the big Caudron bombarding machines, the artillery
regulating planes, and those whose duty it was to travel over the
enemy’s country, observing and taking photographs.
During several of these trips he had been introduced to what the boys
pleasantly termed “flaming onions.” These are balls of fire sent in a
stream from a special gun, and they travel with tremendous speed.
Fortunately, however, these sportive attempts of the Germans did no
damage to either him or his machine.
During a vigorous attack when the French had succeeded in capturing and
holding several of the German trenches he learned a great deal about
contact patrol. This consisted of working in conjunction with the
infantry, keeping them informed of everything that was taking place on
the other side of “No Man’s Land,” guarding them in every way from
surprises and doing all that was possible to facilitate their “Going
over the top” by flying low over the ground and vigorously attacking the
enemy’s troops.
Contact patrol was the most dangerous work of all; for the pilots ran
not only the risk of being struck down by the shells from the east but
also by those sent by their own batteries in the rear.
Occasionally, too, he joined expeditions which set out to destroy the
big observation balloons which hung constantly in the sky, and on one of
these trips he had seen an unwieldy monster, somewhat suggestive of an
elephant with its trunk cut off, sent flaming to the ground.
But there was a sad, a tragic side connected with all the splendid and
courageous work accomplished by the combat pilots. There were some who
never returned, and who were listed in the official “_communique_”[8] as
being among the missing. There were others, too, whose planes, riddled
by the enemy’s bullets, were sent crashing earthward, to be smashed and
splintered and torn apart by the terrific impact.
Those were days of gloom and sorrow; but the inevitable had to be
accepted.
Two events which interested Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were the
arrivals, at different times, of Bobby Dunlap and Jason Hamlin. The
meeting between the latter and Victor Gilbert was of a nature no more
cordial than that at the training school.
Gilbert glared at the other, demanding gruffly:
“You seem to find it hard to keep away from my company. There are other
Franco-American Squadrons.”
“Thank you for your charming and subtle intimation,” rejoined Hamlin,
dryly. “Let me say, however, that I pulled every wire I could so that I
might have the pleasure of joining this squadron.”
“Frightfully agreeable, I’m sure!” muttered Gilbert, turning away.
“I say, Peur Jamais,” exclaimed Don Hale, some time later, “how is the
Sherlock Holmes business getting on?”
Bobby wagged his head mysteriously.
“Maybe I’m on the trail of something, and maybe I’m not,” he responded.
“What do I think it is? To quote a classical remark: ‘I have nothing to
say at this time.’ Bombs aren’t the only things that make explosions.
Now let us drop the mystery.”
“That’s better than dropping a bomb,” laughed Don.
“That depends upon where you drop it,” chirped Bobby. “But, believe me,
Donny, that Hamlin person is some flyer. He’d make an eagle so ashamed
of himself that he’d swear off flying and stay on the ground forever. I
believe he could almost fly by waving his arms in the air.”
“Wish I could!” sighed Don. “It would come in mighty handy if a fellow’s
plane were shot away from him while he was five miles in the air.”
Often pilots when off duty gathered in the bureau, or office, where
reports were turned in and other necessary routine work of the squadron
transacted. Hanging on the wall was a very large map of the sector,
amazingly complete, showing the location of German aviation centres and
even the points where their observation balloons were anchored.
Naturally, from time to time, there were changes in the map, and the
members of the squadron often found great interest in studying it and
speculating as to its appearance a few months hence.
As days succeeded days Don, George Glenn, T. Singleton Albert and Bobby
Dunlap frequently met in the bureau, and it was on one of these
occasions that Bobby took Don Hale aside, and, in a very impressive
manner, remarked:
“Do you remember those nights at the Café Rochambeau when old Père
Goubain told us a whole lot about German spies?”
“Yes,” answered Don.
“Well, I don’t think he was so very far wrong. I’m brighter than the
next person, and it looks to me as if the trail were getting warm.”
“What do you mean?”
Don spoke in a mystified tone.
“Spies—spies!” chuckled Bobby.
“But where are they? Maybe you think I’m a spy?”
“If you are you’d better be careful of little Sherlock,” chirped Peur
Jamais.
Some time later, the pilots were rather surprised and amused to see an
old French peasant standing out front and gazing in evident wonder at
the aviation fields. He was a typical son of the soil, wearing wooden
sabots, or shoes; and his faded blue garments showed many traces of his
labor in the fields. Almost primitive in appearance, and suggesting the
uncouth, illiterate peasants which the French painter Millet loved to
depict, he seemed so out of place amidst that most modern of all
scenes—an aviation centre—that many of the boys found it rather hard
to stifle an inclination to laugh.
“Hello, what’s the news from your section of the universe?” asked Bobby
Dunlap, waggishly.
The peasant glanced at him rather stupidly for a moment and then
drawled:
“There aren’t enough people left in the place where I come from to be
any news. There’s an awful big war going on, isn’t there?”
“Goodness! So you’ve discovered it, too!” laughed Bobby. “Where do you
live?”
“Not so very far away.”
“Are you thinking of changing your vocation and becoming an aviator?”
The stolid-looking peasant, evidently seeing no humor in the remark,
shook his head and mumbled:
“No.” Then, in a half-embarrassed manner, he inquired: “May I take a
glance inside the house?”
“To be sure!” exclaimed Jason Hamlin.
“The world owes everything to the farmer. He is the foundation upon
which the world leans. Without him——”
“We’d have to become farmers ourselves,” giggled Bobby.
The peasant, evidently feeling awed by his surroundings, entered the
bureau.
Once inside he gazed about him with a sort of abstracted air, uttered a
few observations which caused titters of laughter to run around the
room, and, presently, remarked to Jason Hamlin:
“This war hasn’t done any good to farming. Pretty big map on the wall.
What’s it there for?”
Repressing a smile, T. Singleton Albert attempted to explain, in his own
peculiar style of French, whereupon the visiting farmer exclaimed:
“Too bad! But I don’t speak any language except that of my own country.”
A loud laugh went up at the expense of the furiously-blushing Drugstore.
And then Don took it upon himself to impart the information.
“I see!” exclaimed the peasant, musingly.
He walked over to the map and began to examine it, his expression,
however, indicating an utter lack of comprehension.
Victor Gilbert, who happened to be among the crowd, remarked in English:
“It’s too bad that the laboring classes should be so uneducated. And the
lack of training dwarfs what intelligence they have, so that their minds
fail to grasp even simple things.”
The others agreed with him.
But, at any rate, they found the visit of the farmer a pleasant
diversion, and all were really sorry when he said good-bye and started
for the door.
“That old chap is about the limit,” growled T. Singleton Albert. “Talk
about ignorance! It’s a positive wonder he has enough sense to find his
way home.”
“And just think!—the poor fellow understands only French,” chirped
Bobby Dunlap.
Drugstore was about to retort, when the entrance of several pilots
stopped him.
The newcomers had something to tell, too, which aroused a great deal of
interest—several of them had had thrilling encounters with Captain
Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.
“I feel sure the Baron was there himself,” declared one. “The way those
planes were handled was simply marvelous. I thought I had certainly
winged a Boche when he went into the vrille; and I swooped down after
him for about two thousand feet, intending to make sure of it. But, in
some extraordinary manner, he got his plane under control, and before I
could realize it I was shooting below him and his bullets were humming a
tune past my ears.”
“Oh, boy, that is music I don’t like to hear!” said Bobby, with a
perceptible shiver.
“I reckon all of us prefer symphonies of a less dangerous kind,”
remarked Gilbert, adding, rather reflectively: “I haven’t had the
pleasure yet of meeting that Baron and his pirate crew. Perhaps some day
I shall.”
“Then let us hope it will be a red letter day for you,” cried Don.
That night the escadrille was once more saddened by the disappearance of
one of its members, and all telephone queries to the observation posts
failed to reveal what had come of him. It was feared, however, that he
had fallen behind the German lines and been either killed or captured by
the enemy.
Many of the pilots remained late in the bureau discussing their fellow
aviator’s possible fate, and while they were busily talking the sound of
an anti-aircraft gun brought all who were sitting to their feet.
“I wonder if that means a Boche bombing raid!” cried Don Hale,
excitedly.
The next instant a frightful din of crashing guns rent the air.
With a common impulse, a rush was made for the door.
-----
Footnote 8:
Communique—Bulletin.