When Don Hale saw the red planes of Captain Baron Von Richtofen behind
him he certainly received the shock of his life. The oncoming storm, the
sense of solitude and the great expanse above the clouds had all lulled
him into a sense of security.
A moment’s indecision nearly finished his career as a combat pilot.
Streams of bullets were flashing past, and one of them, crashing through
the little curved wind shield in front of his head, brought him to a
realization that only the quickest possible action could save his life.
He did then what many a flying fighter had done before him. A quick
movement of the control lever dipped the rear ailerons, sending the
plane almost vertically downward toward the earth. With the engine
stopped, he tipped to one side, and the machine entered the vrille, or
spinning nose dive.
With frightful velocity, turning on its axis, the Nieuport dove through
the agitated storm-clouds. The wind roared past him as it had never
roared before, singing and moaning, like the strains of some wild, weird
symphony as it beat against the plane’s wires and supports. Gasping for
breath, almost dazed by the fearful whirling motion, the boy,
nevertheless, felt the joy of triumph surging within him. He had cheated
the birds of ill-omen of their prey. He could laugh at their efforts.
They would never catch him now that he knew of their presence in the
sky.
Down, down shot the little biplane through an obscurity so dense that
nothing could be seen in any direction. And soon, while still surrounded
by the heavy vapors, it straightened out parallel to the earth, and,
shaken and rocked by the wind, sailed swiftly ahead.
But at that instant, just as all danger seemed to be passed, Don Hale
made another most alarming discovery—something had happened to his
motor, and though he strove with the utmost desperation to get it
started it persistently refused to work.
“Tough luck!” he burst out, aloud. “This is the worst ever! Here I am
miles over German territory.”
Filled with apprehension, with all sorts of dreadful fancies running
through his mind, and the dread and uncertainty of it all making his
nerves tremble and twitch, the young combat pilot volplaned through the
clouds.
Presently he skimmed through the thinner mists, and saw the darkened and
sombre-looking earth beneath him. His head was still aching from the
effects of the headlong plunge. His breath, too, came in short and
painful gasps. But all these physical manifestations were almost
unnoticed in the pilot’s excited state of mind.
Was there nothing that he could do to avert the fate for which he seemed
destined?
There must be. Surely his career as a combat pilot was not going to come
to such an inglorious end!
Feverishly—energetically, Don Hale continued to manipulate the levers
that controlled his motor. But there was no sign of it awakening into
life. And all the while he was gliding nearer and nearer the earth.
Now the vague, indefinite blurs of color were becoming definite forms
and shapes, and the meaningless patches of light and dark houses and
trees.
Sick at heart, feeling that everything was lost, with the direst fear of
an impending tragedy uppermost in his mind, the boy at length sat back
in his seat, and, for the first time, paid close attention to the ground
that seemed to be rapidly rising to meet him.
He had concluded that in the all-pervading gloom the Germans had not
discovered his presence, but almost immediately the anti-aircraft
batteries got into action and the surrounding air became suddenly filled
with exploding shrapnel shells.
Now he could hear their viciously-sounding detonations, and the steady
crackling of the guns which had sent them aloft.
Though faint and weak, the instinct of self-preservation asserted
itself, enabling him to turn the machine this way and that, in an effort
to dodge the hail of missiles. The Nieuport was wildly careening from
side to side or dropping short distances at lightning speed; and, to add
to his dismay, streams of “flaming onions,” like rockets of a greenish
hue, darted toward the helpless airplane, sparkling brightly in the
darkened atmosphere.
Yet, despite the terrible reality of the situation, it seemed to Don
that he was going through some strange, weird dream. Dumbly, he wondered
how soon the end would come. Only a miracle, it seemed, had saved him
thus far. He could not expect such good-fortune to continue. He seemed
to stand on the dividing line between life and eternity.
And when a strange, inexplicable calmness had taken possession of him
and he felt resigned to the impending fate, the resounding din of the
batteries below and the ear-splitting, appalling detonations of the
shells suddenly ceased, and he was gliding through the smoke-filled air
as unmolested as though on his own side of the line.
What did it mean?
The explanation was simple. The Germans below had at last realized the
truth. They were merely waiting for the machine to drop into their
midst. It was a galling thought. Not three hundred feet below he could
see them. And that picture of men gathering together in groups, of men
running and gesticulating, made a curious impression upon his
overwrought brain.
Many a time he had heard the boys jocosely referring to the words
“Kamerad, kamerad,” and for the first time he was in a position to
realize fully what that cry must have meant to some of those who uttered
it. And after the glorious, boundless freedom of the air—of the vast
spaces—how could he stand the horrors of a detention camp, where men,
penned in like sheep, were guarded and fed almost as if they were so
many captured animals!
Now he was one hundred feet nearer the earth—one hundred feet nearer
the clutch of his enemies—and, with the smoothness of a toboggan, the
machine was still gliding downward. Yes, the journey would soon be over!
He began to think of what the boys of the escadrille would say. In his
mind he pictured them sitting around the supper table, speculating as to
his unhappy fate.
How strange—how remarkable it seemed to be right there among the enemy!
Still held in the grip of an unnatural calmness, he gazed indifferently
at those gray-clad figures whose upturned eyes were fastened upon the
descending machine.
Now only seventy-five feet separated him from the ground. He would be
glad when all was over.
“There won’t even be any chance to set fire to the machine,” he groaned,
aloud. “The Germans will capture it intact. And who knows to what use
the crafty Boches may put it! But they’ll hear no ‘Kamerad, kamerad!’
from me.”
Suddenly a revulsion of feeling swept over the boy. The sight of the
Germans crowding around seemed to fill him with an anger he could not
repress. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in impotent wrath.
And with this fierce rebellion against the cruel fate that awaited him
his thoughts flashed back to Captain Baron Von Richtofen and his scarlet
planes. How little he had thought when hearing about them in the Café
Rochambeau that that selfsame Squadron of Death was destined to play a
part in his own career!
For hardly a moment had Don ceased his efforts to get the engine
running, and though it seemed useless—a futile task—he renewed them
once again. And just as he was about concluding that nothing remained to
be done but make a landing on a field toward which he had been heading,
his ears caught a sound which fairly electrified him.
“At last!” he gasped.
With a preliminary cough, one of the cylinders of the motor started to
work. Could it actually be possible?
A fierce, wild hope, painful in its intensity, seized upon Don Hale. It
was an agonizing moment—a moment in which he suffered all the torture
of a mind agitated by the most violent conflict between hope and fear.
And while the combat pilot was vaguely wondering if he had received just
another cruel stab the old familiar, deafening roar, with startling
abruptness, began to resound.
Uttering a shrill whoop of joy, Don Hale sent the Nieuport upward.
No music composed by the world’s greatest masters could have sounded
more sweet to him than the steady reverberations of the engine. It still
seemed unbelievable—something that could not be. All the joys of a man
who, having given up hope, is unexpectedly granted a reprieve were his,
as the airplane buffeted its way against the teeth of the
ever-freshening wind.
The disappointed Germans immediately sprang to the attack, and the
little Nieuport was running the gauntlet of rifle and revolver fire.
Fast as it flew, the bullets sped faster, and though the combat pilot
could not hear their wicked hum and zip he knew that leaden missiles
were flashing all about him, for several holes again appeared in the
upper plane.
“Can I make it! Can I make it!” he kept repeating.
Sometimes that wild race against such heavy odds seemed hopeless. He
dared not rise too high, for that would give the antiaircraft gunners a
chance of bringing him crashing down to the earth. True it was, that
many of the infantrymen seemed so paralyzed with astonishment at the
sight of a wildly-speeding Nieuport right over their heads as to forget
to fire.
As moment succeeded moment, and Don Hale remained unscathed, he peered
cautiously over the side of the cockpit. Now he was flying above a
little village fairly swarming with the troops of the Kaiser. He could
see the heavy camions rumbling through the streets and all the sights
typical of military operations which he had observed on the opposite
side of the trenches.
The thumping of his heart having in a measure subsided, and the chilling
tremors almost disappeared, he found this flying over the enemy’s
country, in spite of the bullets that continually sped toward him, a
strangely fascinating game.
The little village was presently left far to the rear, and the speeding
plane was again over the open country, with its whitish roads and green
fields dotted here and there with farms and houses.
All at once he saw something in the distance which caused him to turn
his plane in a northwesterly direction. It was a faintish, elongated
yellowish spot suggestive of a giant caterpillar, lying close to the
ground.
“A balloon—an observation balloon which has just been pulled down!”
cried Don Hale to himself. “I’ll get a closer look at it. Great Scott!”
From some totally unexpected quarter he was once again being fired at,
and a sharp metallic ring told him that some portion of his engine had
been struck by one of the marksmen below.
Once more he passed through an instant of overwhelming anxiety.
But the steady droning roar of the powerful engine brought cheer to his
heart.
“No—no; not yet!” he muttered. “I still have a chance to cheat the
Boches.”
The thrilling adventures and narrow escapes through which Don Hale had
passed instead of lessening his courage and determination had increased
them, though he fully realized how strangely the elements of chance had
favored him. That sharp ping of the bullet striking the engine acted on
his nature like a spark applied to gunpowder, arousing all his
combativeness.
As the plane neared the giant observation balloon a sudden and daring
idea flashed into the young combat pilot’s mind, and then, almost for
the first time, he thought of the part he had played in preventing the
destruction of the photographic machine. Why couldn’t he add another
feat to his credit?
“By George, I’ll make a good try!” he cried, his pulse beginning to
tingle anew.
The Nieuport was now almost upon the huge, unwieldy monster, and Don
could plainly see the details on its smooth and shining surface.
The balloon, anchored to a heavy motor tractor, swayed gently from side
to side as the cable to which it was attached was drawn down by a
windlass. Dozens of men, too, were aiding in its descent by pulling on
smaller ropes.
A touch on the control stick sent the Nieuport climbing upward. Then,
precisely at the proper moment, Don Hale put an end to the ascending
flight, and turning the nose of the machine downward, he shut off the
engine and dove straight for the great gas bag.
He had a vision of soldiers scattering in every direction—and they ran
like men who were seized with all the mad and unreasoning panic of
animals fleeing before a forest fire. There was something
ludicrous—almost absurd—in the picture they made which, even in that
intensely dramatic moment, involuntarily brought a half smile to the
face of the stern, grim-visaged boy in the pilot’s seat.
Don Hale knew that he was running a most appalling risk—indeed tempting
fate in a way he had never done before, and staking his life upon his
ability to make a success of his daring venture.
The instant for action had come. His machine was pointed directly toward
the slick, rounded surface of the balloon.
It made a most alluring target.
Don pushed a button, and by this action fired the eight rockets fastened
to the sides of the fuselage.
Instantly there came a resounding, awesome roar, and eight fiery trails,
each headed by a brilliant greenish light, were flashing toward the
balloon.
Before the pilot could come out of his dive several of the rockets
pierced the silken envelope, and from as many points there came vivid
bursts of flame—the days of usefulness of that particular “sausage”
were certainly over.
Elation was in Don Hale’s heart. And then, just as he redressed[9] the
machine, he caught a quick glimpse of a mighty burst of flame, which,
enveloping the balloon from end to end, rose in ruddy viciously-curling
and leaping tongues high in the air. In a moment the Nieuport had passed
far beyond.
Casting a look over his shoulder Don saw an extraordinary
spectacle—masses of flaming gas swept off by the breeze and
illuminating the surrounding gloom.
Triumphant—proud indeed, the boy decided to take no more risks, but
make straight for the aviation ground, and, if good fortune still held
sway, perhaps reach it before the rapidly gathering storm had burst in
all its fury.
Notwithstanding the whirl of excitement, the young pilot had vaguely
impressed upon his mind the disturbing truth that the lightning was
steadily growing brighter—the reverberations of thunder heavier. To
handle the Nieuport successfully in the wind and rain he knew would be a
most difficult task.
The boy began to feel, now, the inevitable reaction.
He was seized with a consuming anxiety to be away from the midst of
danger. But the rushing currents of air being dead against the Nieuport
it seemed to be just crawling along.
For the first time the pilot dared to rise higher. He was passing over
one of those desolate stretches which told most eloquently of the
terrible conflicts which had taken place. Everywhere great shell-holes,
in places overlapping one another, pitted the earth, and the bottoms of
many were partly filled with muddy water left by recent rains. Of all
the desolate, depressing sights which the eyes of man could look upon
this seemed one of the worst. It was as though a blight had descended
upon the earth, to wither and destroy everything which lay in its
sinister path. Not a village—not a house remained; all were in
crumbling ruins. Even the streets themselves could not be traced; and of
the trees and patches of woods there remained but grotesque, gaunt
trunks, entirely stripped of branches and leaves.
Of course this was not a new sight to the boy, and, under the
circumstances, he paid but little attention to it. Thoughts of the
trenches over which he must pass, and of the flying “Archies” the plane
would be sure to encounter were in his mind. He must ascend still
higher.
“This has been a trip, sure enough!” muttered Don. “But if I get through
safely I’ll never regret it. To-day, I feel that I have done my bit for
the Allied cause.”
Continually, he glanced in all directions. Vigilance was the price of
life. Many an airman had been stealthily approached from behind and
brought down without ever knowing what had struck him, and in the gloomy
shadows cast by the heavy storm-clouds it was doubly necessary to search
the heavens for every sign of the foe.
But, in spite of all the pilot’s extreme care, he was destined to make
presently another discovery—a discovery which once more set the blood
throbbing in his temples. It was the sudden appearance, at about his own
altitude, of another of Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s planes. It had
approached dangerously near, too, before he was aware of its presence.
It took Don Hale an instant to recover his wits. One moment he had
seemed to be alone in the vast expanse, and in the next he was
confronted by one of the scarlet enemy.
With lightning velocity the Boche bore down upon the Nieuport, and
before Don Hale could make a move to alter his course luminous bullets
were cutting a fiery trail through the gloom about him.
-----
Footnote 9:
Redressed—Straightened out.