During the following afternoon Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were
detailed, with eight other pilots, to act as an escort to a big Caudron
photographic machine, which was to make a trip to a point many miles
inside the German lines in order to take photographs of a railroad
centre.
Don Hale’s machine on this occasion was armed with eight rockets, with
dart-like heads, four on either side of the fuselage. These are designed
for the purpose of destroying observation balloons, bullets from the
machine guns not being sufficiently large for the purpose. The rockets
are projected into space at terrific speed by means of powerful spiral
springs, and ignite at the instant of departure.
The art of photography has been a great factor in the world war, driving
secrecy from its cover and enabling the opposing forces to make an
almost complete record of what was taking place on the other side of the
line.
The two-seater Caudron machine which the combat pilots were designated
to protect was armed with only one swivel gun. The cameras, pointing
downward, were attached to the sides of the fuselage, and in order to
take a photograph it was necessary only to pull a string.
It was rather late when the commanding officer gave the signal for the
departure. In a spiraling flight, the Nieuports rose in the air, and, at
an altitude of about six thousand feet, waited for the photographic
machine to meet them at their airy rendezvous.
Immediately arranging themselves in a V-shaped formation, with the big
Caudron at the apex, the fleet of planes headed for “Germany.” Very soon
some of the fighting Nieuports dropped below the machine they were
escorting, while others soared a thousand feet above.
The weather was hot and sultry, and frequently the swiftly-speeding
planes cut through patches of lazily-floating clouds, which left shining
drops of moisture clinging to spars and struts. They sailed high above a
long line of French observation balloons, and could see others belonging
to the enemy—faint yellowish dots in the distance. But Don Hale was
paying very little attention to them, for the famous town of Verdun,
responsible for some of the most desperate battles ever fought in the
history of the world, appeared before his eyes. Here and there were
great gaps among the red-roofed houses, showing where the high-explosive
shells of the Germans had shattered and torn and blown everything to
pieces. Faintly, he could see those mighty forts—Vaux and Douaumont
and, in another direction, the famous Mort-Homme, so valiantly defended
by the French.
And the same scenes which he had witnessed on all his trips over the
front were again before him—the haze of smoke floating high above the
battle-field, the batteries in action, the flashes of the exploding
shells, and the airplanes either hovering like flocks of birds or
patrolling the lines.
As they passed over the trenches the Caudron and its escorting Nieuports
rose to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet; for the air beneath them
was filled with the little balls of black smoke which told that the
“Archies” would have liked nothing better than to bring them crashing to
the earth. The pigmy and futile efforts of the gunners, however, only
served to amuse Don Hale. How harmless the exploding shells appeared!
Yet how terrible they were when viewed at closer range!
At various points, silhouetted against the blue of the sky or the
scintillating white of the clouds, he could make out hostile airplanes
which, as was often the case, were keeping well to the rear of their own
lines.
Would they be attacked?
Don Hale scarcely thought so, or, at least, not so long as the formation
kept together.
Thus, with his mind at comparative ease, he thoroughly enjoyed the swift
flight through the cool air high above the earth. Gazing over the side
of the little cockpit, he studied the territory occupied by the Germans
with an interest which familiarity never seemed to lessen. Occasionally
Don’s view of the network of roads, the tiny villages and the farms,
surrounded by their vari-colored fields, was blotted from view by the
constantly increasing layers of fleecy white clouds. Their shadows were
chasing each other over the warmly-tinted earth.
The wind was blowing straight into “Germany,” and, to Don Hale, the
weather conditions seemed to be fast becoming ominous and threatening.
This thought at length became a little disquieting. If anything should
happen to their planes while over the enemy’s country it might mean a
descent; and a descent would undoubtedly mean capture—an inglorious end
to a flying career—a fate particularly dreaded by the airmen.
“I won’t be sorry when this trip is over,” muttered Don to himself.
“This kind of life certainly gives a chap fifty-seven different kinds of
feelings.”
Owing to the great velocity of the flying flotilla, their destination, a
town of considerable size, soon afterward came into view, and the whole
formation volplaned to a lower level. Now they plunged through the
clouds. And on emerging Don could see many evidences of life and
activity going on below. Here and there were aviation fields bordered by
gray hangars. Almost directly beneath a column of troops on the march
suggested so many tiny ants creeping slowly over the ground. A long line
of moving dots on a white road indicated a convoy going up nearer the
line, while on a railroad leading into the town the eager and interested
young combat pilot espied a train traveling, apparently, with a strange
and sloth-like motion.
And now the peaceful character of the voyage came to an end. The
“Archies” were at work again, and on every side, and dangerously near.
Don Hale saw the wicked, lashing little balls of black smoke, though the
explosions of the shells could scarcely be heard. Nor were the flying
men threatened by the anti-aircraft batteries alone: Albatross and
Fokker machines were approaching. And, in order that the enemy planes
might not gain too great an altitude and be in a position to dive down
upon them, the leader of the flotilla gave a prearranged signal;
whereupon several of the convoys began following him to a higher level.
Don Hale, however, had been instructed to remain below, while the
photographs were being taken, and the prospect was not altogether a
pleasant one. He well knew that the Caudron would take all sorts of
risks in order to obtain the desired pictures; and the protecting
Nieuports, to fulfil the duties imposed upon them, must all expect to
run a fiery gauntlet of shrapnel.
Down—still further down, as though unmindful of their spiteful
presence, the big Caudron flew in a circling flight directly over the
town.
Now in light, now in shadow, the collection of buildings made a pleasant
picture. The golden cross surmounting the spire of the lone church
occasionally reflected the mellow rays of the sun, and, like a jet of
fire, sent its light into the sky.
But these were things to which Don Hale paid not the slightest
attention: his mind was wholly wrapped up in the work ahead of him. He
was playing a game in which life and liberty were at stake, and, as the
Nieuport rocked and shook in the currents of the air disturbed by the
almost continual explosions of the shrapnel shells, he warily watched
the movements of the enemy planes.
Somehow or other, now that the perilous moment had come, he felt neither
excited, apprehensive nor alarmed. An almost unnatural calmness seemed
to have a hold upon him; and even when he saw a hole suddenly appear on
the left-hand side of the upper plane, which meant that a piece of
flying lead had pierced it, he did not lose his steadiness of hand or
presence of mind.
He seemed to be fairly surrounded by the bursting shells. In every
direction he turned they were there to meet him. The “flaming onions,”
too, were beginning to cut their fiery passage through the air; and as
they traveled with terrible swiftness the danger from them was even
greater than that from the anti-aircraft guns.
Around and around soared the photographic machine; and around and around
soared the Nieuports, both above and below. It was a veritable ride of
death, with a chance that some of the combat pilots would pay the
penalty for their daring, and be recorded in the brief official
communique as among the missing or the dead.
Suddenly the photographic machine darted downward. Don Hale, with his
eyes fixed upon it, almost held his breath with suspense and
apprehension. It seemed scarcely possible that the pilot could rise
again.
However, just as this gloomy thought was becoming fixed in his mind, the
airplane began to ascend.
Intuitively, the boy realized that the dangerous mission of the
photographer and his pilot was over; for, like a captive bird escaping
from its imprisoning cage, the Caudron shot steadily upward, and was
soon far beyond the reach of the guns below.
The lower escorting planes, which many times had come close to
destruction, immediately followed.
And then Don Hale, strange to say, began to feel the effects of a
reaction. The hand, so steady in the midst of terrible peril, now
trembled slightly. He found it hard to shake off a curious foreboding—a
foreboding that sometimes sent chills along his spine—that much might
happen in that perilous return journey over a hostile land.
To show that his fears were entirely justified, when once again the boy
gazed aloft he discovered that some of the bolder enemy scouts, now
assembled in a formation as formidable as their own, were hot on the
trail of the fast retreating Americans.
“Looks like a scrap,” murmured Don.
The pilot cast a look at his machine gun and belt of cartridges, all
ready on the instant.
Should he have to use them? He hoped not; yet it looked that way.
And all the time the wind was steadily increasing in force, making
necessary the closest attention and most extreme care in handling the
biplane. Thus, with the elements against him and surrounded by the
gravest danger, Don Hale decided that by the time he reached the
aviation field, if he ever did, he should be able to recount a tale as
interesting as any of those he had often heard.
Occasionally he glanced over the side of the fuselage, to see the big
Caudron, now considerably below him, sometimes skimming close above the
clouds and sometimes enveloped in masses of vapor. He very well knew
that if an attack were made the photographic machine would be the
principal object sought for, owing to the value of the records it was
carrying.
And while Don was busily reflecting upon this he suddenly realized that
action both above and below him had begun. He could see several planes
whirling and darting about, and though the rapid reports of the machine
guns were unheard amid the roar of his motor he caught sight of narrow
lines of smoke left by the passing tracer bullets.
“Great Julius Cæsar!” he muttered. “I am in for it. I wonder when my
part in the show begins!”
It came much sooner than he had expected. While several of the Lafayette
machines below and to the rear of the Caudron were engaged in deadly
combat by the enemy a fighting plane with the ominous Maltese crosses on
its wing flashed past Don Hale, diving vertically toward the tail of the
Caudron.
The crucial moment had arrived. Don Hale’s heart was throbbing fast
again; his lips were compressed; his eyes flashing. Then, without a
second’s indecision—without a thought of the consequences—he, in turn,
began a headlong swoop through space.
In a moment or two he shut off the motor; for he was about to execute
that evolution taught in the acrobatic school at Pau known as the
“Russian Mountain.” Although he had performed it many times under
different circumstances, the terrific downward rush never failed to make
him gasp for breath. It was the same on this occasion, and his ears
seemed to be almost bursting. The rushing wind beat fiercely against
him, its whistling notes, ominous and threatening, ringing out loudly.
Like a plummet dropped from the clouds, he still plunged in a vertical
descent. Now he dashed past, dangerously close to some of the fighting
machines, and through an air filled with tracer and flaming bullets.
By this time the Caudron was desperately trying to avoid the enemy in
the rear. But it seemed impossible that it could escape from the
marvelously swift and brilliantly maneuvered German plane. This machine
had just succeeded in gaining an advantageous position when Don Hale
swept by.
Now he pushed the control stick away from him, which, raising the
ailerons, caused the machine, with startling abruptness, to end its fall
and come out on an even keel.
Though jarred and dizzy, the combat pilot lost not a second in starting
the engine. Another movement with the control lever, and the Nieuport
was shooting upward directly toward the tail of the German plane. Its
pilot was already busily engaged in pouring a hail of bullets in the
direction of the Caudron.
Don had gone through some thrilling experiences in the war zone, but
there had been nothing like this. He realized that the fates had decreed
that through his efforts alone the safety of the photographic machine
depended. Never before had he fired a Vickers gun in actual combat, and
for the briefest interval of time an overwhelming sense of agitation—of
excitement gained a hold upon him; and before it had passed, and while
the perspiration stood out on his face, he took aim, operating the gun
with his left hand, and fired.
He could hear the spitefully-crackling reports; he saw the bursts of
smoke spreading outward and upward. Then his machine swept past, in an
ascending flight, at a distance of not more than fifty yards.
It was a strange sensation to be gazing upon an enemy’s machine so close
at hand, and, in his instantaneous glance, the details seemed to be
indelibly impressed upon his mind. He saw the helmeted pilot turn; and
for the fraction of a second the two gazed into each other’s faces.
Before Don Hale could maneuver his plane, in order to renew the attack,
he passed through some instants of terrible suspense.
Had his shots taken effect? Or was the photographic machine doomed,
after all?
But what the boy saw when he looked again made him feel like uttering a
shout of joy. The machine with the black crosses on its wings was
descending abruptly, with erratic movements.
“I got him!” breathed the boy.
Triumphant, with his fighting blood aroused to the highest pitch, the
young combat pilot, yielding to the now irresistible call of battle,
shot toward another _avion de chasse_ which bore the enemy’s markings.
He had not gone very far, however, when he was startled by a fusillade
of flaming bullets, passing close to his wings on the right.
A German pilot had stolen upon him from the rear, and Don was in the
worst possible position to defend himself.
Instantly he sent the nose of the Nieuport upward, gave the control
lever a swift jerk forth and back, and, like a flash, the machine
described a complete backward somersault, while its pursuer shot past
beneath.
The almost breathless Don Hale realized that his escape had been of the
narrowest sort—that he was still in the gravest peril. Other machines
were speeding toward him. The odds were entirely too great for an
inexperienced combat pilot. Moreover, he had caught a glimpse of three
new French planes coming to the rescue. Don’s own safety lay in the
clouds just above, and he flew toward them with all the speed of which
his Nieuport was capable.
And in that upward journey, brief though it was, he sensed rather than
saw that the air close about him was filled with fiercely contesting
planes, darting, swirling, almost tumbling over one another. The
atmosphere, too, was literally criss-crossed by the multitude of faint
bluish lines left by tracer bullets.
When the clouds closed about Don Hale and he found the view completely
obscured, he experienced a wonderful sensation of relief. Yet his nerves
were pretty badly shaken. Like the game hunter who has momentarily
escaped the lion’s claws yet knows that the mighty animal is lurking
near to renew the attack, his thoughts of what the immediate future
might have in store for him sent renewed tremors through his frame.
War is a cruel and pitiless thing, in which compassion and the kindlier
impulses of the human heart have no place. He himself could give no
quarter, nor could he expect any.
And now there was something else besides the relentless foe which began
to cause him anxiety—even alarm. The weather conditions had been
becoming steadily worse, and the force of the wind, still blowing
steadily into “Germany,” made the movements of the Nieuport like that of
a boat wallowing in the trough of a heavy sea. Sometimes, without an
instant’s warning, he found himself dropping like a shot, and the next
moment, as though raised on the crest of a mighty billow, sent shooting
upward.
The clouds were growing thicker; the curious, half luminous light was
being replaced by a deep and forbidding gloom, not like that of night or
of anything else he had ever seen. And through this weird and seemingly
unnatural darkness there occasionally came gleams of spectral bluish
light which told him that the greatest artillery in the world was
rapidly getting ready for action, and that before long it might be
expected to break loose in all its majestic power.
Where was he?—far over the German territory? He could not tell; yet it
seemed very likely that such was the case. At any rate, he must make for
home. How?—below the clouds? No. There are limits to which one’s nerves
can be subjected. He must climb through them and fly above.
Single-handed it would not do to face those lying in wait below. He felt
terribly alone—terribly friendless.
The darkness was suddenly torn asunder by a brighter flash and, for the
first time, he heard a sullen rumble, which, beginning like the roll of
muffled drums, rapidly increased until it was sounding in a crashing
crescendo.
“Great Scott! This is about the worst ever!” muttered Don. “Yes, I
certainly shall have something to talk about—only, it will be too much!
I never expected that I’d be witnessing a storm from a balcony seat.”
He tried to impart a little jocularity to his tone, but the attempt was
unsuccessful.
It was a pretty awesome thing to be amid the storm-clouds, with the
coppery colored and bluish gleams now playing almost constantly about
him; and this singular situation conjured up all sorts of strange
fancies.
Now the wind was buffeting the Nieuport wildly about, tearing against
the fuselage and planes in heavy gusts.
But at last Don Hale’s heart was gladdened by the sight of a circular
patch of misty light; and presently shooting through a ragged opening in
the clouds he saw the illumination spreading out on every side and
caught a glimpse of blue in the great expanse above. Probably the most
inspiring thing he had ever seen, it lifted a load from his mind. As the
shadows produced a depressing effect, so the light seemed to radiate
optimism and cheer.
Presently the flying Nieuport carried him to another world equally as
strange as the one through which he had just passed. Just below him, to
the limits of vision, there extended, like a soft and moving blanket,
the billowing forms of the wind-swept clouds.
And skimming across their surface was the grotesquely-shaped shadow of
the speeding aeroplane.
Then it suddenly occurred to Don that his situation wasn’t so very much
improved after all. During the mêlée and his subsequent experiences he
had totally lost track of his bearings. In which direction was the
aviation camp? That was a question he could not begin to answer. One
thing alone cheered him—he was, at least, headed for the French lines.
And while debating in his mind how soon he might dare to make a plunge
through the vapor he happened to glance behind him. And that single
glance was the means of causing him to make a discovery—a discovery
that was so startling, so terrifying that the blood seemed to almost
freeze in his veins.
Bearing down upon him, and almost within firing range, were two great
Albatross planes—both of a scarlet hue.
There could be no doubt about it—they belonged to Captain Baron Von
Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.