“Now, my young men,” said the general, speaking briskly and to the
point, “what are you doing here, where are you going, and is there
anything else you wish to say?”
As Billy had not as yet opened his mouth, he thought the general was
rather ahead of his questions in the last quoted particular.
“Allow me, general, to introduce Mr. Trouville, a native of France, who
only lacks the years to vote in America. He has the desire, I assure
you. As for myself, I am William Thomas Barry of Maine, United States
of America, known as Billy--and together we are known as the Aviator
Boys. We are in the flying trade, and with your kind permission we
would like to fly now.”
The officers observed the boys with new interest. The London _Times_
had some months ago printed the experiences of a prominent English
visitor to America, who had seen these young aërialists in some of
their sky-scraping exhibits, and had even taken a short flight with
Billy.
“We military fellows are all great for aviation--it’s a big card in
this war game”--this observation from the member of staff seated
nearest the general--a thoroughbred sort of man who also wore the
badge of valor. “And more than that,” he added, “I have a boy of my own
in the flying corps of the army.”
It occurred to Billy that this officer might care to hear the sad story
of the death flight of the British youth that they had witnessed on the
shores of the North Sea.
Billy, in real dramatic style, described the thrilling incident. There
was no lack of attention on the part of his listeners; especially did
the man who looked like a thoroughbred seem lost to everything else but
the tale the boy was so earnestly telling. When Billy produced from the
inside pocket of his blouse the photograph and ring that he had taken
from the heart pocket and finger of the dead aviator there was strained
silence, first broken by the man who had been most intent as a listener.
“It was my boy, my own son!”
This man who had faced shot and shell with never a tremor on many a
blackened battlefield, and had won the magic initials “V. C.” after his
name, bowed his head in grief and not ashamed of the sob in his throat.
“Some day, God willing,” he softly said to Billy, “you shall guide his
mother and me to that resting place.”
A bugle call outside aroused the officers to the grim business of the
hour. The roar of another battle would soon be on.
The general turned the boys over to the care of a veteran soldier, a
sergeant, with strict orders that they should not be allowed to leave
the rear of the brigade about to advance.
Billy and Henri, however, had the opportunity of observing during
their first actual army experience, even though of the rear guard, the
striking device of a French officer in order to steady his men, in an
infantry regiment, called upon for the first time to face the discharge
of German shells. For a moment the men hesitated, and even made a
slight movement of withdrawal. Instantly the officer seemed to have
taken in the situation. The boys heard him shout:
“Halt! Order arms!”
Then, quite coolly, he turned his back upon the enemy--for the first
and last time--whipped out his camera, called upon his men not to move,
and proceeded to take a leisurely snapshot of his company while shells
were falling all around.
The men were astonished, but the officer’s purpose was served. The
company was steadied, and the boys, from the top of a supply wagon,
watched them go gallantly to work. Sad to relate, the watchers also
saw the gallant officer fall soon afterward, struck on the head by a
fragment of shell.
“I tell you, General Sherman was right in what he said about war.”
Billy was very positive in this expression of opinion.
On that day of fearful fighting the boys saw an entire German regiment
perish in the rush of water which swept through the trenches after the
Allies had destroyed the dikes; they saw hundreds of men and horses
electrocuted on the heavily charged wire entanglements before the
trenches.
At nightfall Billy and Henri, heartsick with the horror of it all,
crawled under the wagon cover and fought nightmares through the long
hours before another day.
It was raining in torrents when the boys peeped through the tear in the
wagon shelter early the next morning, and it had turned sharply cold.
The roar of the batteries had slackened for the time being, and it was
a welcome moment for Billy and Henri, who on the day previous had heard
more gunpowder racket than ever they did on all the Fourths of July
they had ever known rolled into one.
Stepping out gingerly into the mud, the boys looked around for their
friendly guardian, Sergeant Scott. He was nowhere to be seen among the
few soldiers in khaki uniforms and woolen caps moving about among the
wagons. They soon learned that the sergeant had made a capture during
the night of one of the enemy’s secret agents who had penetrated the
lines for the purpose of cutting telephone wires. The spy or sniper
carried cutters and a rifle. From behind the lines with the rifle he
had been shooting at men passing to and fro, but when he ventured
inside with the cutters the sergeant nabbed him, though the invader
was cleverly disguised in British outfit. Both captor and captive were
up-field at an “interview,” from which only the sergeant returned.
When he observed the boys shivering in their tracks, Sergeant Scott
called to a teamster to fetch a blanket from one of the wagons.
Borrowing a knife from the teamster, the sergeant slashed the big army
blanket in two in the middle, doubled each fold and made two slits in
the top.
“Jump into these, my Jackies,” he ordered; “shove your arms through.
Now you won’t catch a frog in your lungs, and you’re swell enough
to make a bet on the races. Come along and tighten your belts with
something in the way of rations.”
The boys needed no second bidding, and their belts were very snug when
they had finished.
“By the way,” confided the sergeant, “Colonel Bainbridge has taken a
heap of interest in you youngsters. His son, I heard, lost his life in
one of those flying machines.”
“Yes, we were the ones that told him about it. He’s sure a grand man,”
added Billy.
“Well,” continued the sergeant, “there are some of us going to work
around toward Lille and the River Lys region to assist in extension of
the Allies’ line there. If Colonel Bainbridge commands the movement,
between ‘you and I and the gate-post,’ yours truly wants to go ’long.”
“So do we!” The boys spoke as one.