THE PRICE OF VICTORY
=EIGHT= members of the squadron had remained in Cantigny, and these now
took to the air—two biplanes and four light monoplanes. Both Bob and
Jourdin were in single-seaters this time; little craft in which the
pilot must trust to speed and dexterity of handling for his defense.
Bob’s heart beat high with hope and confidence as he rose from the field
into the bright morning air. They were pointed south for Montdidier, and
in ten minutes’ flight the monoplanes had outstripped their heavier
comrades. Bob carefully examined his guns and everything within reach in
the cockpit. His little plane was flying beautifully; the rhythmic pulse
of the engine told him all was in perfect order, and a world of glorious
opportunity opened again before him. The last days in the hospital had
filled him with restless longing. His efforts in Lucy’s behalf were for
the time being thwarted, and for that very reason he must put in good
work to-day against the Boches.
Jourdin flew right ahead of him and Larry Eaton was in a third monoplane
at his side. In twenty minutes they had neared Montdidier and, above the
hot fire from the German trenches, there came swiftly into view the
battle in the air. Bob had taken part in several fierce engagements and
had grown familiar with the wild thrill that comes with plunging into
conflict at thousands of feet above the earth. But, as the little
reinforcing squadron drew nearer to the city, he realized that this
fight was the greatest he had ever seen.
The air was so filled with planes whirling hither and thither, in
furious attack or swift retreat, and the noise of the nearest propellers
made such a volume of sound that he could make but a vague guess at the
numbers engaged. Gathered together into squadrons, or pursuing each one
his enemy independently, the airplanes were fighting in and out among
the clouds above the whole of Montdidier and far beyond the city. Bob’s
thoughts got no further than this in his momentary confusion, when, from
a group a few hundred yards in front, a German Albatross scout darted
toward him.
He needed no more than this to restore his coolness and determination.
He saw the black crosses on the little plane’s silvery wings, and the
wide muzzle of the machine gun, into which the German was fitting a belt
of ammunition. His own gun was already loaded. The two weapons crashed
out together, the bullets spattering over both moving targets; then each
swooped lightly out of range to maneuver again for the advantage. Bob’s
tactics were different now when no heavy metal body protected him. His
Nieuport could not withstand the hail of bullets that Jourdin’s
battle-plane had received in the fight above Argenton, and to use his
guns he must swing his whole machine into range. He glanced quickly over
the cockpit and saw that the fire from the trenches was too distant to
be dangerous. He was flying at just nine thousand feet. The next instant
his enemy came up from below him, trying for a shot at the tail of his
machine. Bob dropped in a spin, then paused to discharge a stream of
bullets on the German’s flank. His enemy dodged, but failed to return
the fire. Bob guessed why. His gun was jammed. The German ran away
northward, Bob following. The two machines were fairly matched in speed.
Another German, scenting danger for his comrade in the escaping plane,
made northward too. A third plane followed, and as Bob turned his head
to see if this last were friend or foe, the pilot’s hand was raised in
greeting, and Larry Eaton signaled with a quick gesture that the second
German was his quarry.
Bob nodded agreement and, putting on speed, flew after his retreating
foe. He was soon making a hundred miles an hour and the summer air, thin
and cold at this height, cut sharply against his face and made welcome
the protection of his leather coat and helmet. The German was speeding
too, in spite of having to clean and reload his guns. In another moment
he dived so suddenly that Bob flashed right over the spot where he had
been, as his enemy mounted in a climbing turn directly underneath. Bob
passed too swiftly to receive a close hit, but the German managed to
deliver a broadside which cut holes in Bob’s left plane and sent bullets
whizzing against the cockpit and about his head. Now Bob was in front,
his enemy following. Not liking this new arrangement, Bob himself dived,
circled up at terrific speed, and fired a burst at his pursuer as the
latter was grasping his stick for a plunge. For a second Bob thought he
had downed his foe, for the German plane wavered and one wing tilted as
though the shots had fatally injured it. But the next moment the plane
righted itself. The sudden turn the pilot made in seeking to escape the
broadside had caused his machine to veer to one side. The wing was cut
by bullets, but not more than Bob’s own. Before Bob could bring his gun
to bear again upon his shaken enemy, the German darted upward at
lightning speed and vanished in a soft white cloud.
Bob hovered, reloaded his guns and, picking up his binoculars, looked
around for Larry and the antagonist he had pursued. How had Jourdin ever
managed, he wondered, to send down the forty-eight enemy planes the
famous ace had to his credit. It seemed to Bob sometimes as though the
winged fighters were almost invincible. His best efforts, when he flew
alone, were usually rewarded by seeing his enemy elude him uninjured.
A cloud lay right beneath him, but as he peered down, searching for the
other planes, it floated by, leaving a clear view of the distant earth
below. To Bob’s astonishment he discovered that he was over
Château-Plessis. There, off to his right, were the wide meadows so
familiar to his eyes. Directly beneath was the town itself, looking
half-ruined on the side nearest the meadows, but growing less damaged
toward the centre. His surprise once over at the distance he had covered
from Montdidier, his feeling was one of keen regret. His father and Lucy
would see the fight above their heads and suffer all the pain of
suspense and uncertainty. Their conquerors would give them no news of
the battle unless they could announce a German victory. For as these
thoughts flashed through Bob’s mind he saw that this minor fight was
growing into a battle.
From the cloud beneath him darted up two German planes, after one of
which Larry Eaton’s Nieuport, with its red, white and blue emblems,
closely followed. The other German was engaged in a duel with a second
American plane, which now appeared behind it, and their loops and
spirals left Bob at a loss for the moment to see which had the
advantage. His hand was on his control to fly to Larry’s aid, for the
foe at that instant had turned upon his pursuer. But some good fortune
prompting him to glance upward, Bob saw his old enemy descending on him
from the shelter of the cloud-bank. The German opened fire, and Bob made
a climbing turn to elude him before attempting any offensive. From his
height of some fifty feet above his antagonist he saw the German copying
his tactics and rising swiftly to get into range. Bob planned a little
stratagem. He wanted above all things to get rid of this pursuer, for
with the tail of his eye he saw that the fighters below were engaged in
deadly struggle.
As the German rose above him, Bob hovered uncertainly, firing at his
enemy from an ineffectual distance, while the latter, contemptuous of
these scattering bullets, flew nearer on a higher level, and prepared to
pounce. Bob left off firing, gave a swift touch to his responsive motor,
and rose like lightning to the other side of his adversary. The German
snatched at his port machine gun, but in that second Bob’s deadly
broadside had riddled his left wing and torn the fabric to rags. The
wire supports cut loose left the wing sagging and powerless. Bob was so
close he saw the pilot’s look of furious despair. He saw, too, that even
at this moment when his machine wavered to fall, the German’s hand was
on his trigger. Bob dropped in a tail-spin as the gun crashed out. A
hundred feet down he paused, hovering, and glanced over the cockpit. His
enemy’s descent had been quicker than his. He saw the helpless German
machine fall to earth among the streets of Château-Plessis.
The next moment he had darted to the aid of the three Allied planes who
were now engaged by six Germans. Three of these last had risen from the
trenches in front of Château-Plessis. Bob saw with joy that Jourdin was
fighting near Larry Eaton’s side. The second American was a veteran of
the Lafayette squadron. “We have a good chance,” Bob thought with rising
confidence. At the same time he saw the face of the German pilot, who
was gracefully maneuvering his monoplane for a shot on Jourdin’s flank.
Von Arnheim! Bob sent his plane speeding forward, his determination
roused as never before, his eyes on the German’s every movement as Von
Arnheim sought with incredible nimbleness to throw Jourdin off his
guard.
Meanwhile, in Château-Plessis, the friends of the Allies were watching
the fight with desperate interest. The planes were too high to be
clearly seen without glasses, and every pair of French or American
binoculars had been confiscated. Colonel Gordon’s eagerness had led him
out into the garden, his longest walk since his illness, and Lucy
glanced anxiously at his pale face from time to time, as side by side
they watched the distant planes dart back and forth against the bright
blue sky. It was torment to see the fighters’ swift movements without
being able to distinguish friend from enemy or even to guess at the
progress of the battle. When Bob’s antagonist fell Lucy hid her eyes in
horror and dismay. She clung to her father’s arm in panting silence, for
words were useless. He knew no more than she whether it was Ally or
German, or even Bob himself, who had fallen. The little group gathered
around them shifted back and forth in hopeless efforts to get a better
sight of the combatants. Only the German officers at Headquarters knew
who was winning, and they were not likely to send any news of a
reassuring sort to the American hospital.
At Lucy’s entreaty, Elizabeth had gone on a vain search for information.
Vain at least so far as getting any accurate news was concerned, for
Elizabeth dared not question any one higher in rank than a
non-commissioned officer, and these were not supplied with glasses and
knew scarcely more than she. The little crowd in the square, among which
she paused, was alive with excited speculation, animated or cast down
each moment by alternate hopes and fears. Pro-German hopes and fears
this time, for most of the crowd, at least the noisiest part of it, was
made up of German soldiers. All those off duty or convalescent at the
hospitals were there, and Elizabeth soon found an acquaintance.
“Good-day, Sergeant Vogel,” she said politely to a burly,
broad-shouldered German who stood staring upward at her side. “We are
winning, likely enough, I suppose. I can’t tell though, from here.”
The Sergeant looked down from the sky with a short laugh. “To be sure
you can’t, Frau. No more can I. All I know is that one of the birds fell
just now. I hope with all my heart it brought a Yankee down.”
“Where did it fall?” asked Elizabeth, cold with apprehension. Bob’s
smiling young face flashed before her eyes, and it was hard for her to
listen calmly to the Sergeant’s reply.
“Off toward the eastern part of the town. It was some enemy, be sure of
that. I can guess at the shape of our planes well enough to see that we
far outnumber them.”
Elizabeth dared not show her agitation, nor continue her inquiries. Only
a few days past she had questioned this same man about the German
soldier who was Armand de la Tour, until he wondered at her idle
curiosity. She had learned that Michelle’s brother succeeded in getting
away undiscovered, but her unusual inquisitiveness had excited some
surprise. While she hesitated now whether to go off by herself and try
to stumble on some news, or to return to console Lucy as best she could,
a soldier came up and murmured something in Sergeant Vogel’s ear. The
message was not a welcome one. The German’s eyebrows and mustaches
bristled in an angry frown. His face flushed red and his jaw closed
sharply. All the good-humor had left his face, but Elizabeth hazarded a
timid question:
“What is it, Sergeant? May I hear the news?”
“No!” snapped the German. “Can’t you bottle up your curiosity for a
moment? Am I to answer your questions all day?”
Elizabeth guessed that he was only venting his ill-humor on the nearest
object, and waited unresentfully in silence. The Sergeant raised his
eyes again to the sky, where the airplanes still swooped and circled,
and the frown and flush gradually left his face. In a moment Elizabeth
spoke gently once more.
“I should be so much obliged to you, Sergeant, for a little news. One
good turn deserves another. Don’t you remember how often I supplied you
the best bread and sausage from my nephew’s shop? You and Karl were
pretty good cronies then.”
The German laughed his short laugh again. The recollections Elizabeth
called up were pleasant ones. “Well, well, Frau, I see there’s no peace
until I tell you.” He stooped close to her ear and spoke in a gruff
whisper. “It was a German plane that fell. The pilot was killed. Keep
your mouth shut, now!” he added sharply. “I tell you a bit of news for
friendship’s sake, but it’s not the sort to spread about. Our men are
none too cheerful lately as it is. A lot of grumbling dogs!”
Elizabeth sadly shook her head, with a look of silent grief and
disappointment. It was not all affected, either, for beneath her genuine
joy that the unfortunate pilot was not Bob, and that she could bring
relief to Lucy’s anxiety, her heart ached at the death of her young
countryman. With all her honest soul Elizabeth longed for the Kaiser’s
bloody tyranny to be overthrown, but sometimes she wondered despairingly
if there would be any Germans left to enjoy the blessings of peace.
Eager to return to Lucy, she made her way quickly through the crowd, and
across the square to the hospital garden. Lucy and her father were still
standing there, gazing up at the sky. Colonel Gordon rested his arm
against the broken gatepost, but, weary as he was, neither Lucy nor
Major Greyson could persuade him to go in. Elizabeth went up to them and
as Lucy’s anxious eyes met hers, she said in her soft, quick voice:
“It was not Mr. Bob who fell, dear Miss Lucy—nor any American.” Her
voice sank still lower as she added, “A German it was, but nothing say
of it to any one.”
The two faces before her lighted as though a cloud were lifted from
them. “Oh, Elizabeth, thank you!” breathed Lucy from the depths of her
grateful heart. “I knew you’d——” Her words broke off in a quick gasp.
Roused by the stir about her she had again glanced upward. Another
airplane was falling to the earth, whirling down through the clear air
on one helpless broken wing.
The battle had begun to shift south again, toward Cantigny, but, in the
hot fighting of the past few minutes, Bob failed to notice that they
were no longer directly above Château-Plessis. Jourdin had sent down one
of his antagonists, and Bob tried hard to do as much for Von Arnheim,
but without success. Jourdin still eluding him, the German turned all
his attention to the young American. Never until that moment had Bob
fully realized Von Arnheim’s skill and coolness. His own movements,
lightning-like as they had seemed before, became suddenly slow and
clumsy, while a swift and deadly fire enveloped him from the enemy
swooping and dodging alongside.
He himself dodged, fell in a tail-spin, then rose again, vainly seeking
to throw Von Arnheim off or get him within range. The stream of bullets
from his own machine gun scarcely touched the little plane that circled
like a gnat around him, never an instant still. Bob’s heart began to
pound in his ears, and his cool brain grew furious and desperate. Unable
to endure the galling fire which was cutting his wings and beating
against the body of his plane, he determined to risk a rush at his
pursuer. Suddenly the nose of a monoplane shot up in front of him. As
Bob’s tense fingers felt for the trigger of his second gun the stranger
pilot gave a shout, and Larry Eaton’s eyes looked into his. Never was
help more welcome. Bob’s courage soared again, and while Larry pumped
bullets on Von Arnheim’s flank, Bob climbed swiftly, and, once above his
enemy, at last turned an effective fire upon him.
Von Arnheim dodged in a graceful circle, turning this time upon Larry
with undiminished vigor. Bob saw that his friend was no more able than
himself to withstand these tactics. He shot downward to Larry’s help,
and, diving between the two planes, delivered a heavy burst of fire on
Von Arnheim’s right, just as the German had got into range to make an
end of his new adversary.
Larry’s blue eyes flashed acknowledgment to Bob, as Von Arnheim,
staggered for the moment, sank in a tail-spin, seeking a chance to
reload. Bob did not follow him. With frantic haste he reloaded both his
guns, feeling cautiously of his left wrist, where a bullet had grazed
it. A German Fokker had swooped down upon Larry, and Bob, after one
quick glance about him at the airplanes darting in and out among the
light clouds, made for the new enemy’s left. A German Albatross scout
was flying toward Larry on the other side, and Bob thought to engage the
Fokker himself, and give Larry a chance for a fair fight with the
newcomer. At that instant he heard the familiar crackling of machine-gun
fire directly above, and, looking up, saw Von Arnheim coming down upon
him.
He dropped, his spin becoming a spiral dive that sent him down a
thousand feet, but still the German followed. Bob darted to one side and
rose at top speed, looking for the friendly shelter of a cloud. There
was none near enough to give him a moment’s respite. As he maneuvered
his starboard gun into range, resolved to retreat no longer, Von
Arnheim, rushing upon him from a slightly higher level, drew his pistol
and leveled it at Bob’s head. In that breath of time a monoplane,
swooping like a hawk from above, came between Von Arnheim and his prey
with a mastery equal to the German’s own. Jourdin’s fire struck Von
Arnheim full on the flank—impossible to withstand. He dropped like a
plummet, avoiding new attack by a zigzag fall, as Bob and Jourdin
closely followed. The three were almost on a level. Jourdin glanced
keenly in Bob’s direction, for Bob’s left wing was badly riddled. At
that instant Von Arnheim, quick as a flash of light, leaned forward and
discharged his pistol at the Frenchman’s breast.
Bob did not know that he cried out. Overcome with grief and horror, he
saw Jourdin fall helplessly against his gun. The little monoplane,
abandoned by its pilot, reeled and tilted. Bob flung his arm up to shut
out the sight, but at the sound of a propeller near at hand he raised
his head and looked dizzily about him. With one hand he felt blindly for
his trigger. Jourdin had fallen, and close to Bob Von Arnheim was
circling into range, the light of triumph in his eyes. Bob’s troubled
glance had hardly rested on his enemy when Larry Eaton, stealing up from
below, opened a burst of fire upon Von Arnheim’s rear. In that instant,
without Larry’s interference, Bob would have unresistingly met Jourdin’s
fate. But as the German turned on his new aggressor, the despair that
had held Bob paralyzed gave way before a new emotion. Never in his life
had he felt anything like the spirit of indomitable purpose that surged
now within him. His face grew hard and pale, his eyes flashed like Von
Arnheim’s own, and with a swift, light touch on his control stick, he
flew after Larry in the German’s wake.
One thing Bob was sure of. He would send Von Arnheim down or fall
himself. Both of them could not survive this battle. He thought coolly
and quickly now, every sense on guard as he stole up behind his enemy.
The German was beating off Larry’s pursuit with steady firing. Larry
would try to rush closer in another moment, Bob thought, planning how to
take his friend’s place in the duel. For Larry’s plane was not flying
well. It veered too much at a turn of the rudder, and Bob looked at the
wings to see if they were badly torn. As he looked, Larry’s plane began
to sway and the propeller’s speed slackened. Engine trouble, Bob guessed
now, and gave a shout of warning. The next moment the engine stopped
dead, and Larry, abandoning his attack, was forced to volplane down as
best he could for a landing.
Von Arnheim followed, firing at the helpless plane in its swift descent,
but before he had dived a hundred feet Bob was beside him. All sense of
his own danger had vanished as completely as though he were invulnerable
to Von Arnheim’s skill. With careful aim he fired full at the body of
the German plane. It quivered and tilted while Von Arnheim, oblivious to
his damaged left wing, returned the attack by a withering blast of fire.
The bullets sprayed Bob’s little monoplane. His riddled right wing began
to bend and sag. The instruments on the board in front of him were
smashed to atoms. Von Arnheim had dodged again and was behind him. Bob
flashed a glance at his own wings and thought he could risk one loop.
Without lessening his speed he turned completely over, and darting up
behind Von Arnheim in a swift and skilful maneuver discharged his port
gun, from a distance of a few yards, on the right wing and rudder.
With a throb of glorious triumph he saw the German plane pitch forward.
Unable to recover, it fluttered a moment, vainly struggling for life,
then plunged down toward the green fields below. Bob leaned out and
watched it crash against the earth. Then, panting a little, he rubbed
one hand across his forehead and looked about him. He had left the other
fighters behind. No new enemy threatened him, and fortunately, for his
plane would hardly answer the rudder. The right wing was a mass of
flying ribbons, and the cockpit was dented and hammered in by countless
bullets. Even protected by its metal sides, he could not think how he
had escaped unhurt. One hand was bleeding, but the wound was only a
trifle. He began cautiously flying down, fearing to put his damaged
wings to the pressure of high speed. His one thought now was to reach
Jourdin’s side. He might have fallen in some lonely spot where no one
would come to him. By the look of the country beneath him, Bob guessed
that he was somewhere near Cantigny. He picked out a level bit of ground
and glided safely to the grass.
As he landed he caught sight of a fallen airplane in an adjoining field.
A little group of four or five men were gathered about it. Von Arnheim,
Bob thought, not realizing that his course had been confined to a small
circle in the past few moments. He climbed out and began running toward
the group in search of information. Passing through a line of shell-torn
poplars he came upon Larry Eaton’s plane resting at the edge of the
field. The next minute Larry himself left the others and came toward
him. Bob looked again at the wrecked monoplane beyond, and saw that it
was Jourdin’s.
Larry slowly nodded in answer to Bob’s sad, questioning glance. “He’s
dead, Bob. He was dead before he fell. He had no other injury when they
lifted him out.”
In silence Bob drew near and stood by the body of his friend where it
lay upon the grass. They had taken off his helmet, and Jourdin’s fine
face looked calm and peaceful in its utter repose. The officers and
mechanicians gathered about him gave tribute of their grief in downcast
looks and gloomy silence. At Bob’s approach a flash of satisfaction
lighted their eyes for the swift retribution he had meted to Von
Arnheim. The officer beside him murmured some words of congratulation
and sympathy, but Bob could only nod in answer. He was not ashamed of
the tears that rushed to his eyes as he knelt bareheaded at Jourdin’s
side. He thought of the fight above Argenton, and of the words that had
come to his mind that day, as Jourdin stood looking at the ruined
countryside:
“We may go under, but not in vain——”
Not in vain, while America was free and had men left to fight. At that
moment, as never before, Bob felt his consecration to the cause that he
upheld. Jourdin’s faith and deathless courage became part of him.
As he rose unsteadily to his feet, Larry Eaton flung an arm about his
shoulders and drew him a little to one side.
“You’re wounded, Bob,” he said anxiously. “Let me look.”
“It’s nothing,” said Bob, showing the hand he had concealed in his
flying-coat. “I don’t even feel it.”
“It’s bleeding, all the same. I’ll tie it up for you.”
Under Larry’s commonplace words Bob felt such genuine friendly sympathy
that he was dumbly grateful. Larry was just a boy like himself who had
left Yale to join the army when Bob had left West Point. Their thoughts
and feelings had much in common. He held out his hand and let his
companion dress the slight wound that caused the bleeding.
“Von Arnheim—is he dead, too?” he asked presently. “Where did he come
down?”
“On the other side of that little slope. He was killed by the fall. Bob,
you did a wonderful day’s work! Think what Von Arnheim’s loss means!”
“We paid dearly enough for it,” said Bob sombrely.
On the day following the battle Captain Jourdin was buried behind
Cantigny, in a part of his well-loved Picardy that the Boches had never
reached. Officers, men and townspeople followed the body covered with
the Tricolor; his brother aviators flew overhead along his path, and
every honor that love and homage could devise was paid him.
At almost the same hour the body of Von Arnheim received honorable
burial within the Allied lines. Above his grave were fired the three
volleys which are the privilege of every soldier. Under Major
Kitteredge’s directions Larry Eaton flew over the German lines and
dropped a message announcing their ace’s death.
It was the 21st of June, one month after the capture of Château-Plessis.
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