When the boys made the startling discovery that the sea-plane had
disappeared and that they were alone on the strange coast, they plumped
down on the sand without a single idea in the world except that they
were utterly tired out and weak from hunger.
They could not account in any way for the mysterious happening that had
deprived them of their tried and true friends.
Not for a moment did they imagine that they had been deserted by
intent. They knew full well that even in the face of great danger
Captain Johnson and Josiah Freeman were not the kind of men who would
fly away, without sign or signal, and leave a comrade in distress, let
alone these boys for whom either of the men would have spilled his last
drop of blood.
“The coast patrol nabbed them,” was the opinion of Billy.
“They were held up at the point of a bayonet, I’ll bet,” argued Henri,
“for there is no sign of a struggle, and we would have heard it if
there had been any shooting.”
“However it was,” figured Billy, “they never quit of their own accord;
they would never have left us unless they had been hauled away by
force. Now it is up to us to skirmish for ourselves, which, anyhow, I
expected to do sooner or later. There’s no use staying here, for they
will be coming after us next.”
Wearily the boys plodded through the slush, backtracking to the foot
of the hill where they had left the aëroplane. The fading moon was
lost behind a wall of slowly rising mist, and the dawn was breaking in
the east when the boys finally stumbled upon the place that held their
prize. Wholly exhausted, they threw themselves full length upon the
ground and slept like logs.
The sun was broadly shining when Billy reached out a lazy arm to
poke his chum, who was snuggled up in the grass and breathing like a
porpoise.
“Get up and hear the birds sing,” yawned Billy.
“I’d a good sight rather hear a kettle or a coffee-pot sing,” yawned
Henri.
“Right O,” agreed Billy.
The boys rolled over alongside of the aëroplane. A twin thought came to
them that the late aviator surely must have carried something to eat
with him.
It proved a glorious truth. There was a knapsack behind the driver’s
seat and a canteen swinging under the upper plane.
“A meat pie!” Billy made the first find.
“Crackers and cheese!” Heard from Henri.
How good these rations tasted--even the lukewarm water in the canteen
was like nectar. With new life the boys took up the problem presented
by the next move.
Henri climbed into the aëroplane and very carefully inspected the
delicate machinery, making free use of the oil can. Billy otherwise
attended to the tuning of the craft, and everything was as right as a
trivet in less than a half hour.
“Let me see”--Billy was thumbing a well-worn notebook--“as we fixed it
on the steamer, Dunkirk was the starting place. But that storm entirely
changed the route--a longer way round, I guess. No more Ostend for
me, though I do wish I knew for sure whether or not they had Captain
Johnson and Freeman locked up there. Let’s try for Bruges; that’s only
a short distance from here, and we can follow the line of the canal so
we won’t get lost.”
“And we can fly high,” suggested Henri, “high enough to keep from
getting plugged.”
“I am not bothering so much about the ‘high’ part of it as I am about
where we’ll land,” said Billy. “We may fall into a hornet’s nest.”
“Let’s make it Bruges, for luck,” suggested Henri.
“Here goes, then,” exclaimed Billy, getting into steering position,
Henri playing passenger.
Off they skimmed on the second stage of their journey to the valley of
the Meuse, in France.
They had entered the zone where five nations were at each other’s
throats.
So swift was their travel that our Aviator Boys very soon looked down
upon the famous old belfry of Bruges, the old gabled houses, with
bright red tiled roofs, mirrored in the broad canal crossed by many
stone bridges. That is what Bruges means, “bridges.” To the young
airmen, what the town meant just now was a good dinner, if they did not
have to trade their lives or their liberty for a chance to get it.
“Nothing doing here,” lamented Henri, who did the looking down while
Billy looked ahead. “I see that there are too many gray-coats visiting
in West Flanders. And I heard that the Belgians have not been giving
‘days at home’ since the army came. Now I see that it is true.”
“Having fun with yourself?” queried Billy, in the sharp tone necessary
to make himself heard in a buzzing aircraft.
Henri ignored the question, snapping: “The book says it’s thirty-five
miles from here to Ypres, straight; keep your eyes on the waterways,
and you can’t miss it.”
“Another thing the book says,” snapped Billy, in response, “is that
that old town is in a district as flat as a floor, and, if nothing
else, we are sure of a landing.”
“I wish we were as sure of a dinner.” Henri never lost sight of the
dinner question.
The flight was continued in silence. It was a strain to keep up
conversation, and the boys quit talking to rest their throats. Besides,
there was not a drop of water left in the canteen.
It was late afternoon when the boys saw Ypres beneath them. It was just
about the time that the Allies were advancing in the region between
Ypres and Roulers, the town where the best Flemish lace comes from. But
the Allies had not yet reached Ypres.
Henri glimpsed the remains of some ancient fortifications, and urged
Billy to make a landing right there.
“A good place to hide in case of emergency,” he advised.
Billy agreed, set the planes for a drop, and came down neatly in the
open.
“We ought to be able to get a change of linen here, for that’s the
big business in this town.” Henri was pretty well posted, for in his
cradle he had slept on Ypres linen.
There was no work going on in the fertile fields around the town. The
Belgian peasants thereabouts were either under arms or under cover.
“When King Louis set up these old ramparts he probably did not
look forward to the day when they would provide a hangar for a
flying-machine.” This from Billy, who was pushing the aëroplane to the
shelter of a crumbling fortalice.
“If we had dropped in on the fourteenth century, as we did to-day,”
observed Henri, “I’ll warrant that we would have scared everybody out
of Flanders.”
“It doesn’t appear, as it is, that there is a person around here bold
enough to approach us.”
Billy seemed surprised that they had not run into trouble at the very
start.
“‘Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you,’” quoted Henri. “It
goes something like that, I think.”
“Listen!” Billy raised a hand to warn Henri not to move nor speak
aloud. The sound that had put Billy on the alert was a long, low
whistle. It was repeated, now and again. Curious, and also impressed
that the whistler was trying to attract their attention, they began a
search among the ruins. Over the top of a huge slab of stone suddenly
popped a red cap, covering a regular Tom Thumb among Belgians--about
four feet from tow head to short boots.
Henri said “Howdy” to him in French, at the same time extending a
friendly hand. The youngster, evidently about fifteen, shyly gave Henri
two fingers in greeting. He bobbed his head to Billy. Then he removed
his red cap and took out of it a soiled and crumpled slip of paper. On
the slip, apparently torn from a notebook, was scribbled:
“This boy saw you fly in, told us how you looked, and, if it is
you, this will let you know that the Germans brought us here for
safe-keeping yesterday. CAP.”
“Glory be!” Billy could hardly contain himself, and the little Belgian
took his first lesson in tangoing from an American instructor. “As
soon as it is dark we will move on the outer works,” was his joyous
declaration.
“Say, my young friend,” he added, “do you know where we can get a
bite to eat while we’re waiting?” Henri translated, and the little
Belgian was off like a shot. About dusk he returned with some bread
and bologna, looped up in a fancy colored handkerchief. And there was
plenty of water in the Yperlee river.
Along about 11 o’clock that night Leon, the little Belgian, whispered,
“_Venez_” (Come).