The shifting tide of battle had forced the advanced line of the Allies
to contend with a strong forward movement of German troops. In the
shelter of a wonderfully ingenious and deep-dug trench the boys looked
out upon a bloody battlefield, one of the bloodiest in European history.
French soldiers with rifles in their hands, standing or kneeling
in the immediate vicinity, keenly peered over the flat land toward
the positions known to be held by the Germans, concealed in the
woods--forests believed to be bristling with machine guns, backed by
infantry in rifle pits and covered trenches.
Time and again the French infantry had found these positions
impossible of taking owing to barbed wire entanglements strewn with
brush and branches of trees.
A heavy siege gun supporting the Allies was in action at the time. A
French artilleryman with the hand elevating gear rapidly cranked the
big barrel down to a level position ready for loading. A second threw
open the breech and extracted the brass cartridge case, carefully
wiping it out before depositing it among the empties; four more
seized the heavy shell and lifted it to a cradle opposite the breech;
a seventh rammed it home; number eight gingerly inserted the brass
cartridge, half filled with vaseline-like explosive; the breech was
closed, and the gun pointer rapidly cranked the gun into position
again. In less than thirty seconds the men sprang back from the gun,
again loaded and aimed. The mortar sent its shell purring through the
air against a German position on a far-off hill. There was an answering
burst of flame from the enemy’s battery. Both shots were too high. With
this incessant trying for range, the sharp whirring sounds in the air
seemed almost continuous. And there were hits that pierced ramparts of
flesh and blood!
Groups of wounded passed without ceasing, and yet the conflict was ever
renewed with death-defying courage. The command to which the boys were
attached had been driven from their entrenchment by literal showers of
shells, and fell back to the headquarters of yesterday.
They were threatened from all sides with annihilation, hemmed in by
walls of steel and sheets of flame, on three sides by bayonets, and on
the other by blazing batteries.
The left wing of the Allies was in desperate encounter also and unable
to effect a junction with and relieve the tremendous pressure on the
right.
Twenty-five miles away were stationed troops of cavalrymen standing
at the heads of their chargers, ready to jump into the saddle at a
moment’s call and stem any torrent of infantry that came their way.
These cavalrymen had been so held in reserve by the Allies, because
of the burrowing campaign that had been conducted in the immediate
vicinity of the battlefield. But now that the fighting had burst the
confines of the trenches they were sorely needed.
There was one way only to summon the reserves in time, so desperate was
the situation. That was by aëroplane. But two machines of the French
command had escaped destruction, and but one man of the aviation corps
out of six who was not among the missing, wounded or killed.
This survivor, eager to serve, was ordered into his aëroplane and the
machine hurtled aloft. The flyer made a fearless attempt to cross the
field at a height of a quarter of a mile. Bullets from guns mounted on
top of a slope pierced the aëroplane’s gasoline tank, causing the fuel
to escape and forcing the pilot to attempt to glide to the earth. On
reaching the ground he tried to defend himself with a revolver, but was
quickly captured.
The French commander, at the sight, shrugged his shoulders, and with a
despairing gesture turned to Colonel Bainbridge, with the words:
“It is all over.”
Henri heard the remark, and in wild excitement fairly leaped toward the
officers.
“There’s another machine, and two of us left who know how to run it.
We’re ready!”
The French officer recognized the speaker as one of the boys who had
located the German battery when his own aviators had failed to make a
find.
“What do you think of it?” he asked Colonel Bainbridge.
“I think that they can save the day,” solemnly asserted the officer
addressed.
“To the front, Billy!” loudly called Henri.
Billy was already “to the front”--he was testing the machine in
preparation for instant flight.
Jimmy and Reddy were there with the shove that started the aëroplane
rolling; our Aviator Boys were in their places, and away they went.
They did not risk any low flight to attract high range guns, but
streaked for the clouds from the very start.
Like an arrow, but even speedier, they moved a mile a minute, and,
descending, displayed the French colors to check a chance shot from
some enterprising cavalryman.
The message delivered, there was a great ado about boots and saddles,
and the mounted troops galloped like mad toward the scene of action.
Again rising high, the boys slackened pace that they might watch the
progress of the cavalry below, for as swiftly as these seasoned horses
might traverse the distance, they were as snails to an aëroplane.
The flyers saw the cavalrymen hurl themselves into the conflict on the
plain, and saw men and charging horses go down here and there, and
infantrymen everywhere under furious onslaught.
So formidable was the attack of the fresh troops that they won their
way to the position where their surrounded comrades were making what
they thought to be their last stand against overwhelming odds.
It was, though, at fearful cost, through a bloody lane, and over ground
strewn with dead and wounded.
The young airmen themselves had a close call before completing their
hazardous journey; a bullet struck the machine, causing it to lurch
as though reeling from a blow, and Billy had to throw the wheel hard
around to prevent the aëroplane from rolling right over upon its side.
But, diving and swerving, the good craft swept down, while the relief
and the relieved regiments rent the air with cheers.
Our Aviator Boys had saved the day!