THE FIGHT OVER ARGENTON
=BOB GORDON= was reading a letter from his mother as he sat in the
principal room of a little farmhouse outside of Cantigny. The place had
long been abandoned by its owners, and now sheltered a dozen American
airmen and as many mechanics, in spite of the serious damage it had
suffered when the town was taken. Bob was seated on a three-legged
stool, tilted dangerously as he propped his feet against the
chimneypiece—or what was left of it in a heap of brick and mortar
fragments. The morning sun streamed in on the earthen floor and fell
across his face as he read the closely written lines. His thin, brown
cheeks were tinged with healthy color, and his whole lean figure in its
well-worn khaki looked full of life and vigor. But just now his face was
serious and sad, and the eyes he raised from the letter toward the sunny
window were darkened with painful anxiety.
He could see his mother’s pale face before him as he read, her lips set
with that brave firmness that war-time women learned to keep in the
midst of fear and suffering. Even in her letter she tried to hide her
thoughts, and to write hopefully for Bob’s sake, though she spoke
frankly of the trouble they shared together.
“I can think of nothing but Lucy, Bob, wondering when the time will ever
come that I shall see her safe and beyond the power of the enemy. But
since that night you saw her with Elizabeth, I can find courage to hope
again. How strange things are—the dreadful and the good all mixed
together! For I feel so sure that your father would not have made his
wonderful recovery if dear little Lucy had not been there beside him.”
Bob looked up once more, pondering. His reveries these days were one
long rebellion against his helplessness. All his courage and strength of
purpose were not enough to bring his little sister out of
Château-Plessis across the hotly contested battle line. He and his
comrades had all they could do to hold back the German tide, without yet
advancing to retake the town. The success of the American troops at
Cantigny could be repeated at Château-Plessis—must be—but not without
adequate plans of attack and further reinforcements—those reinforcements
that every one wanted at once. “Thank heaven, our men are coming
overseas now at a good rate,” he thought with a sudden hope illuminating
his dejection. “And things seem just endurable in Château-Plessis. The
Boches are few enough there, except those who are flat on their backs.”
For Bob had news from inside the captured town of which Lucy never
guessed.
His restless and unsatisfactory thoughts were cut short by the sound of
a footstep on the stone threshold behind him. He swung around toward the
door, while the newcomer at sight of him exclaimed:
“Here you are, Bob! I’ve been looking for you on the field. We’re to go
up at once. The sergeant is running around with orders just telephoned
from up the line.” The speaker was a young aviator about Bob’s age, so
wrapped up in his leather helmet that little of his face could be seen
but a pair of twinkling blue eyes.
“What are the orders, Larry?” asked Bob, getting up and cramming his
letter into his pocket. “The guns don’t seem to be firing very heavily.”
“No, it’s the same old business. The French observers are trying to get
a peep at Argenton. The Boche scouts seemed to be asleep for a while and
the French made some bold swoops, but now the enemy has waked up with a
vengeance, and if the observers are to see anything they must have some
guards to engage the Boche. Where are your duds? I’ve got to go back to
my plane. You’re to go up with Jourdin, I think. He’s got two fine new
machine guns on his Spad—you ought to bring down half the German air
force with them. Well, I’m going.”
Bob slipped into his flying coat, put on his helmet, picked up half a
dozen things he needed, and went out just as the sergeant met him at the
door with the orders in his hand.
“All right, Sergeant; I’m off,” he said, returning the salute. “Where is
Major Kitteredge, do you know?”
“He’s on the field, sir, or was a minute ago. I think the Lieutenant
will find him near the stables.”
The sergeant pointed across the farmyard to a broad field behind it, and
Bob nodded to him as he started off. The sergeant was a friend of his,
and Bob never had a moment’s talk with him before his thoughts turned
with a pang at his heart to that other friend, Sergeant Cameron, whom he
had left behind in a German prison. He had sent him many packages of
food and comforts since then, and had even received a printed card of
acknowledgment from him, forwarded under Red Cross supervision. But what
were presents of food and tobacco—priceless as they were to the
prisoner—compared with freedom and a chance to strike a blow in the good
cause on such a day as this?
Bob crossed the farmyard and vaulted the fence into the hay-field. The
old barn had been converted into a workshop, and near it stood a dozen
men preparing for flight. Six biplanes were waiting on the field, to
some of which the mechanics were giving a last careful inspection. Bob
found Major Kitteredge beside one of them.
“Good-morning, Major,” he said, saluting. “Any further orders for me?”
“You are to go up as gunner to-day, Gordon,” said the officer, looking
up from the papers he held. “We’re short one gunner, and Jourdin wants
you. He has received all the orders I have here, so he will pass them on
to you. Get off as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Kitteredge had known Bob when Bob was twelve years old and he, the
Major, was a lieutenant in his father’s company. In their most formal
intercourse there was an undercurrent of friendliness never quite
hidden. He watched Bob keenly for a second now, as the young officer
crossed the field to Captain Jourdin’s side.
“You are here, eh, Gordon?” said the Frenchman, throwing away his
cigarette with a smile of welcome. “Then we will lead the rest and be
the first off the field.” He drew on his gloves and shouted orders to
his French mechanics, who shouted back “_Oui, mon capitaine!_” through
the whirling of a propeller close by.
The big biplane in which Bob now took the front, or gunner’s seat,
strapping himself in behind the two machine guns, was a far different
craft from the little thirteen-metre monoplane in which he had landed
behind Château-Plessis. Foreseeing, that night, that he might have to
dodge and fly for his life, he had chosen one of these swift, strong
little hornets, capable of performing the most breakneck evolutions at
incredible speed. But this morning he and Jourdin were out to face and
force back the enemy, and the heavy-armed Spad was built for combat.
Jourdin gave him the plan of operation in a few quick sentences. The
biplanes were to act each one independently, attempting to drive off as
many as possible of the enemy planes from their own scouts. At the same
time they must keep a sharp lookout for whatever information they might
be in a position to pick up.
“We will fly north to Château-Plessis, then on to Argenton,” he
finished. “Try the speaking-tube, Gordon. All right? _Eh, bien!
Partons!_” he shouted to his mechanic, who responded by giving a twirl
to the propeller which sent it spinning.
Jourdin opened his throttle and pressed forward on the control stick.
They were off down the field in a buoyant, bounding rush. Bob settled
himself comfortably, fastening the flap of his helmet. Jourdin pulled
back his stick, and the machine steadied to a glide, swaying ever so
little. The rushing grass disappeared from alongside and in a moment the
earth had grown a distant scene below.
In ten minutes they were flying swiftly northward at a height of four
thousand feet. Two other flyers had risen from the field after them and
were in close pursuit. No enemy planes as yet disturbed the solitude,
and Bob fell to looking over his machine guns, the cold air of these
high spaces blowing pleasantly against his face. Jourdin led the way
confidently for the little squadron, and where he led any airman was
well content to follow. In half an hour they were over Château-Plessis,
while below them the German trenches spouted fire from long-range
anti-aircraft guns. The bombardment at this point was not heavy, the
enemy’s persistent attempt to push the French and American line further
west having met with dismal failure. A few German airplanes darted up
from their guard over the trenches, but Jourdin had no desire to engage
in battle here. He pointed his machine upward, and Bob had no more than
a glimpse of the little town that meant so much to him, before they had
mounted to five thousand feet, just below the clouds which hung under
the deep blue arch in soft fluffy piles. Below them the enemy planes had
given up the chase. The town was only a little square made up of dots
and lines. Before it, where the trenches ran, rose little smoky puffs
that hung in the still air. Even the bursting of the shells was deadened
to a dull roar. Captain Jourdin spoke through the tube.
“We’ll go a little higher, Gordon, and hide behind those clouds. We
shall sight the enemy any moment now, and shall have the advantage if we
take him unawares.”
While he spoke Château-Plessis was left behind. Argenton was only
fifteen minutes distant. Again he pointed the big plane upward another
thousand feet, into the midst of a great enveloping, smothering bank of
cloudy vapor. The soft, cottony mass gave way, dissolving into clinging
wisps of fog that trailed along with them like streamers. Then they
burst through a hole in the cloud roof into the upper sunlight—a world
of celestial loveliness. Often as Bob had risen above the clouds, he
could never do it without marveling anew at the strange beauty around
him when the airplane pushed its way through the last foggy barriers. No
sky, however beautiful, seen from the earth could compare with the
absolute clearness of the dazzling blue about them. Below, the clouds
were banked again into close, white masses, tinged here and there with a
gold edge where the sun struck them. A mile behind came following two
growing dots—a part of the squadron which, it seemed to Bob, had laid
aside for the moment all thought of battle and, like themselves, were
idly exploring this upper dreamland.
A rift in the clouds below put an end to these thoughts, for through it
he saw eight airplanes darting back and forth, maneuvering for position.
Beyond and below them, near the narrow line of the Avre River, lay the
town of Argenton, and, another mile to the west, the old medieval fort
behind the fortified ridge. Bob turned his binoculars upon the moving
planes, and as he focused the glass he spoke to Jourdin. “Do you see
them? Go down a thousand feet.”
“All right,” returned the pilot promptly. He pushed the stick and the
machine dropped swiftly. Bob could see the Allied emblems now on the
tails of three of the planes. They were French scouts, and the other
five were German Taubes, distinguished by their shape as well as by the
great black crosses painted on their wings. At a little distance another
group was swaying in combat. He shifted his glass to these and saw that
here Allies and enemies were equally matched. Two French scouts and one
American battle-plane were fighting three German fliers.
Jourdin seemed to divine his thoughts, for, without waiting for a
signal, he bore swiftly down upon the Taubes which had surrounded the
three Frenchmen just below and were pouring a deadly fire upon them. The
scouts were willing enough to run away but, unable to do so, were
fighting gamely against impossible odds. Another moment and Jourdin had
brought his plane and its weapons into range. Bob turned the trigger
handle of his machine gun and pumped a hail of bullets into the wing of
the Taube nearest him. He saw the German aviator dart a glance upward as
he tried to get his plane out of range in a quick climbing turn. But,
before he could sheer off, his wing hung warped and crippled, the silk
out almost to ribbons. The pilot pointed downward, making a try for a
landing on one wing, three thousand feet below. Bob saw no more of him.
He turned his gun on a Taube which had abandoned the scouts and was
firing at him with furious and accurate aim. The bullets whizzed about
the big battle-plane, but Jourdin did not remain an easy target. He took
a tail-spin, dropped in short circles for a thousand feet, then came up
again behind the enemy. Two more Americans had now arrived to engage the
Taubes, and the scouts were out of danger. Jourdin spoke into the tube
at Bob’s ear. “We’ll go on west. We’re not needed here. I should like to
follow our scouts, who are making for the defenses.”
As he spoke they mounted a little and flew off toward the edge of the
town marked by the German trenches. A second plane of the squadron
followed them as they crossed the French lines and flew over the enemy’s
trenches, above the fortified ridge. Below, the anti-aircraft gunners
were sending up a continuous fire of shells to hinder their further
descent. Around them hovered the French scouts, vainly endeavoring to
catch a glimpse of the camouflaged defenses through the curtain of fire
and smoke spread out beneath them.
“It isn’t a bit of use,” Bob thought bitterly, after half an hour of
this useless watching. “What can we see from here? We are keeping the
Boches from sending more planes after our scouts, but What does that
amount to?”
As he fumed in helpless impatience, scheming a desperate attempt to
penetrate that curtain of fire, Jourdin’s calm voice, in its
deliberate-sounding English, came to him with a shock of reality.
“We’ll go down now, Gordon. I have orders to report at noon through the
field telephone station near here, behind our lines. Our squadron can be
called together, and at least put some of these Taubes out of the
combat. The scouts can accomplish nothing now.”
“All right,” Bob answered reluctantly. He was roused to the point where
it was hard to give up without having done anything more than scare off
a few German fliers. “Well, the day’s not over,” he consoled himself,
casting a resentful glance down at the German defenses along the ridge,
where smoke and flame were spouting from a dozen batteries. The pilot’s
feet were on the rudder and already the plane was making westward again
across the French lines.
Though Captain Jourdin was flying only temporarily with the Americans at
Cantigny, he had been given orders to report the morning’s events to
headquarters, because he could do so with the greatest ease and
dispatch. To most of the American fliers the country along the battle
line was still a thing to be puzzled out with the aid of maps and
glasses by day, and stars and compass by night. But to Jourdin it was
old and familiar ground, for this part of Picardy was his home, and
these ruined fields and villages he had known since boyhood. Bob thought
of Argenton only as a town half destroyed by shell-fire, a place he
could always find easily from above, because of the still-standing
towers of the old fort behind the blazing line of German batteries. But
to the Frenchman it had a different meaning. It was the little town
whose quaint, cobbled streets he had often passed through on summer days
in his childhood to visit his grandfather, whose old home outside
Argenton was now a ruin. If it was late enough in the afternoon the
peaceful townsfolk had brought their babies out to the old fort to hear
the sunset bugle and see the soldiers change guard. No one would have
believed in those days that the Germans would ever hammer at its gates
and take possession.
Behind the French lines the country stretched in rolling fields to a
burned wood. Jourdin steered for a little clump of larches beside which
was a telephone shack, sheltered by a bit of rising ground. Bob had the
glasses at his eyes, and swiftly picked out a landing-place.
“To the right, Jourdin—make it a hundred yards before you dip. There’s a
nice level bit before those shell-holes begin.”
The pilot leisurely studied the ground, shut off his gas, and glided
beautifully downward until the earth rose to meet them with a rush, and
the wheels of the big plane touched and ran along the grass to a gradual
standstill.
Bob unstrapped himself and got out, glad to stretch his legs. But the
next moment he caught sight of a wire slightly out of adjustment on the
plane’s broad wing, and pointed it out to his companion. “That can’t be
left, Jourdin. Shall I fix it while you go to report?”
“There’s a mechanic in the shack. I’ll bring him out,” said Jourdin. “If
we wait for the repair, let us take this chance to eat our ration on the
ground. We shall have fifteen minutes.”
“Good idea,” said Bob with enthusiasm. As Jourdin walked off toward the
shack he brought out the little packages of food and laid them on a
convenient rock. For a moment he forgot his disappointment at the
morning’s failure. Nothing can rouse such an appetite as flying, and Bob
had not yet learned to enjoy a meal snatched on the wing. He could read,
write, think, in fact do many things during a swift flight, but he liked
to eat on level ground.
When Jourdin returned and set the mechanic to work, the two young
aviators took off their gloves and helmets and, sitting down, devoured
their rations of sandwiches and chocolate, along with a canteen of cool
water.
A gentle breeze was blowing from the west across the blackened fields.
It blew the drifting smoke away from them, and except for the noise of
the shells, it seemed almost peaceful in the deserted meadow. Above them
the airplanes still floated, but none very near. For the time being the
French scouts had given up their search. On a little rising ground not
far off stood a ruined windmill, its burned stumps of arms stretching
out dismally above level shell-plowed earth that had once been a green
wheat-field. There was an old brick chimney near it, too—all that was
left of a little farmhouse. “The Allies have got that much back,
anyway,” Bob thought. “The Boches were here last winter.”
Captain Jourdin had risen to his feet and was looking off across the
fields in silence. More than once in their familiar intercourse Bob had
recognized moments when the Frenchman’s devoted heart was bitterly
wrung, and his whole mind distracted from his work at sight of some such
hard reminder of his country’s fate. The hands clasped behind his back
clenched themselves tightly together as, turning, he said to Bob, “I
remember the windmill when that farm was a prosperous little place. The
farmer had lived there many years.”
Bob could not think of any answer. There was no asking for pity or
encouragement in Jourdin’s calm, melancholy voice. It held more of
resolute defiance than any German’s burst of bravado. Bob thought of the
lines he had read in an English paper a few days before. They were
Spoken by a Frenchman, looking over the ruined fields of France, almost
as though the writer had seen Jourdin’s shining, dark eyes and written
for him:
And we that remember the windmill spinning,
We may go under, but not in vain,
For our sons shall come in the new beginning
And see that the windmill spins again.
“_C’est fini, mon capitaine_,” said the soldier-mechanic, coming up with
a quick salute and a backward gesture toward the airplane.
Bob picked up his helmet, while Jourdin followed the man over to inspect
his work. Bob looked up into the blue sky, streaked with feathery cloud
streamers, devoutly hoping for better success in the afternoon’s
offensive. A desperate eagerness took hold of him once more. He had
learned a part of the secret of the French soldier’s valor—what it means
to be fighting to rescue one’s family and home—since his father and Lucy
were prisoners in Château-Plessis.
“It is all right now,” said Jourdin, turning, as Bob came up, from a
critical examination of the wing’s supports. “Let us get off at once.
Look there!” He pointed upward to where three German planes were
deliberately crossing the French lines, from which several aircraft
quickly rose to intercept them.
“Most of our little squadron stayed near Château-Plessis to engage the
enemy there,” said Captain Jourdin. “I think we shall be needed to help
drive these fellows back.”
As he spoke so modestly of what might be expected of him, the light of
battle shone in the Frenchman’s eyes. He hurriedly completed his
preparations for flight. Bob, no less eager, seconded him in silence,
with one more quick glance at the planes now circling overhead. In five
minutes they were off down the meadow, and rising swiftly toward the
scene of the fight.
No sooner had the Germans seen the French planes mounting to the attack
than they sent reinforcements from their own lines. Evidently the
persistent hovering of the Allies’ scouts over the Argenton defenses was
beginning to annoy them. According to their usual tactics when suffering
from wounded dignity, they prepared to take the offensive. As the
battle-plane carrying Bob and Jourdin approached a height of six
thousand feet, and came on a level with the combatants, the situation
had not as yet advanced beyond a skirmish. There were eight enemy and
seven Allied planes, not counting the newcomer, which evened the
numbers. Of the French and American planes, three were heavy machines
from the Cantigny squadron, the remaining five light, scouting craft.
The Germans were all armored planes, but three were of a heavy,
slow-going type, almost invincible by bullet fire, but unable to quickly
follow up an advantage. Jourdin gave one keen look around him, as though
summing up the odds, then spoke through the tube to Bob:
“We have a good chance of victory, Gordon, but we’ll have to fight hard
for it!”
Bob was already convinced of that. He caught sight of Larry Eaton on his
left, pouring a murderous fire from his Lewis gun into the heavy German
craft maneuvering beside him. But he also saw the man who skilfully
guided the Boche machine into position for a swift retaliation on
Larry’s flank. This pilot was Von Arnheim, the German for whom Bob had
been exchanged. One of his feet had been rendered useless by shrapnel
fragments, but that had not prevented his returning to the air service.
His steel-blue eyes shone out from behind his helmet with all his old
reckless audacity, and Bob felt his determination harden and his courage
mount to fearlessness at sight of him.
A big German plane swooped down upon him as these thoughts took shape.
He saw the gunner jerking his weapon into range. A bare second quicker
than his enemy, Bob began pumping his port machine gun. A jet of flame
burst out, and the next moment the German machine quivered, its planes
twisted to one side, and like a shot bird it fell from sight.
Through the tube Bob faintly heard Jourdin shout, “To the left—look out!
I’ll put you in range!” He had no time to take breath after his recent
victory, before two more of the enemy were upon him. The privilege of
flying with the famous French ace had its perils, too. Every Boche who
could manage to do so made for Jourdin, hoping to down the hero who,
once already disposed of, had returned by some miracle to active
service. Jourdin brought his machine around in a climbing turn to avoid
one aggressor, while Bob pressed the handle of his starboard gun, hoping
to rid himself of his right-hand opponent. Instead of the burst of flame
which should have resulted, the gun remained silent—jammed.
Bob frantically maneuvered his other gun into position, but the Boche
had opened a deadly fire upon him. Bullets spattered through the wings
and whizzed around him. At the same instant a third enemy descended from
above. Suddenly a machine gun began firing from the other side. Bob saw
Larry Eaton’s face behind it, and the next moment his newest antagonist
wavered, tilted, and the wreck hurtled down six thousand feet to earth.
Bob could catch only a glimpse of this, for Jourdin had grasped the need
of a momentary retreat. He made a tail-spin, fell a thousand feet, then,
having thrown off his enemy, rose in a climbing circle while Bob
remedied the jam in his gun and looked around for further developments.
He had not long to wait. Close beside him a German plane was getting
into range, and now it began a heavy fire in the midst of a series of
plunging dives which did not allow Bob to return the fire with any
effect. Jourdin made another tail-spin, hoping to come up beneath the
enemy, but the German was too quick for him. He dived again and came up
in a swift turn beside the Frenchman, pouring out a hail of bullets. Bob
was at a white heat of rage. “Once more, Jourdin!” he shouted.
The pilot dived again, simultaneously with the German, and this time the
enemy was caught at his own game. Jourdin slowed up and let the other
plane sweep past. As the Boche shot upward he followed close in his
wake, and for the first time Bob poured shot after shot from a range of
a few feet. The big German machine continued swiftly upward, then it
lost speed, fell tail foremost, recovered, and finally nose-dived to the
ground.
Bob drew a long hard breath and glanced below him. The Allies were
holding their own, but two of them were missing. Of the German planes
three were gone. He saw no more than this before another airman made for
him in a climbing turn. The two planes were in easy range and each
gunner began to pour a deadly fire on his opponent. The bullets
spattered around Bob over the big plane and lost themselves in space,
and still both machines remained uninjured. Jourdin maneuvered with all
his skill for an advantage, but his antagonist matched him at every
turn. Bob had not even to snatch a look at the enemy pilot to know whose
hand was on the throttle. Von Arnheim, pale and shining-eyed, sat behind
his gunner as though calmly awaiting victory. But it would not be quite
so easy as that, Bob thought. His mind was wildly excited, so that the
sudden burning pain in his left shoulder seemed to be only a part of his
mad eagerness. Jourdin dipped and rose with incredible skill. The fire
from the enemy was growing haphazard as the target dodged in every
direction, and Bob’s steady hand on the trigger grew steadier as his
brain grew hot and throbbing. Suddenly Jourdin gave a shout. The gunner
of the enemy plane fell forward across his starboard gun. Von Arnheim
snatched at the weapon beside him, but in that second Bob had sent a
burst of fire through his right plane. The German gave one flashing
glance at the torn, bullet-riddled wing, and pushed upon his stick. His
big machine pointed swiftly downward. The next instant Jourdin followed,
but this time Bob’s fire was less accurate in that dizzy descent. At
three thousand feet Jourdin stopped in his downward flight and hovered,
for Von Arnheim, useless wing and all, had guided his plane to a safe
landing inside the German lines.
For a second Bob’s disappointment outweighed all his victories, as his
eyes followed his enemy’s retreat. He had risked death to go down inside
his own lines, and Bob understood that feeling. He thought Von Arnheim
would have it in much stronger measure if he had ever endured the German
sort of captivity. Bob knew that never again could he let himself be
taken prisoner. From the French trenches over which they floated came a
faint sound of voices. He peered over the side of the cockpit and saw
hands and helmets waved in the air. They were cheering! His heart leaped
with a sudden exultation. Then he glanced upward. The Allies were four
to two—victory there, at any rate.
“Jourdin, do you hear them cheering?” he asked through the tube, and as
he spoke a strange and painful weakness overpowered him until he
clutched at the hot barrel of the gun at his right. Cautiously he felt
of his aching shoulder and drew away a hand wet with blood. “So that’s
it,” he murmured. “I’ll have to go back, Jourdin—I’m sorry,” he said,
unsteadily.
The pilot’s quick eyes had already seen the red stain oozing through
Bob’s torn leather sleeve. With a swift touch he sent the plane speeding
through the air at ninety miles an hour, its nose pointed, above the
silver ribbon of the Avre, back toward the safe shelter of Cantigny.
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