OVER THE ENEMY'S LINES
"I say, Tom, it looks like a poor day for flying I'm afraid," Jack
called out in the chill of the early dawn the next morning, he having
been the first to get out of bed and step over to the window of their
sleeping room.
It was of course in the villa placed at the disposal of the escadrille,
many miles back of the first line of trenches.
Tom, however, did not bother his head about the weather to any
appreciable extent.
"It's likely to turn out a fair day for work," he told his chum, in his
cheery way, as he followed Jack to the window. "You know that's happened
lots of times. So far we've been lucky enough not to get caught in a
storm while aloft. Yes, I can already see that there isn't going to be a
stiff breeze; and what would a sprinkle of rain amount to?"
"I suppose the thing has to be pulled off, no matter what the weather
is," mused Jack, as he proceeded to dress, since breakfast had been
ordered at an unusually early hour that morning.
"Well, the High Command has made all arrangements for a big time. You
know what that means, when tens of thousands of poilus have to be
transferred during the darkness of night, so that the enemy pilots can't
glimpse the movement and give warning? So, unless the skies fall, we are
bound to get busy this morning."
The air service boys were soon at the hangars, where an animated scene
was taking place. Any one could see that something unusual was about to
take place, because of the numbers of men rushing this way and that,
while motors were popping and machine-guns being tried out so as to be
certain they were in prime condition for service. Scores of
mechanicians, chauffeurs, observers, as well as other helpers, went
about their work of getting "ready for business."
The air fighters were dressed in their fur-lined union suits, with fur
overcoats, gloves, and caps; for they would soon be soaring to great
heights, where the atmosphere was almost Arctic in its intensity.
They were examining their automatic pistols, seeing that their airplane
compasses, speed indicators, special airplane clocks, mounted on wire
springs, and altitude barometers were in their proper places and in
working order. Their very lives might depend on a little thing, and no
one could afford to neglect even trifles.
Every few minutes one of the planes would roll over the surface of the
level ground in front of the long line of hangars. Then, when sufficient
momentum had been attained, it would commence to climb swiftly upward.
Soon the machine would get into spirals like a winding staircase, and
mount toward an altitude of perhaps four thousand feet, there to await
the coming of companion craft before heading toward the battleground,
far distant.
Jack squeezed the hand of his chum, and gave him one last look. There
was no need of words to tell the deep feelings that gripped his loyal
heart; indeed, Jack was utterly unable to utter a single sentence.
Then Tom was off.
He made the ascent with his customary brilliancy, which had won him the
admiration of the entire escadrille. The air seemed to be filled with
various types of planes. Some were already moving off toward the front,
from which came the roar of battle, showing that already the action had
begun by an intense bombardment of a portion of the German trenches
which the French longed to retake.
Tom spent some little time "knocking around" while awaiting the coming
of those members of the Lafayette Escadrille who were the last to leave
the ground.
What is twenty or even thirty miles to a pilot in a speedy Neiuport
capable of going two miles a minute when pressed? They could be over the
lines in a very brief time after leaving the aviation camp.
Tom looked at the scene below him, which was spread out like a gigantic
map. He never wearied of observing it when simply "loafing" up in the
air, as at present. The sun was fairly above the eastern horizon, though
clouds drifted along in scattered masses, and it was as yet impossible
to tell what the day might bring forth.
Then the last of the squadron arrived, and the signal was given to start
for the front. Away they went with a whirr and a roar, seven strong.
They overtook a number of clumsy two-seaters on the way, observation
planes, bombing machines, or it might be those included in the
"fire-control" units going to relieve some of their kind already doing
their appointed bit in the battle.
Tom looked far beyond. He could see great oceans of smoke arising that
told of innumerable high explosives bursting, and enormous guns being
discharged. Both sides seemed hard at work, though the French were
certainly sending ten shells to one that came from the forces of the
Crown Prince. This told plainly enough which army expected to do the
attacking that day.
And yet while all this wonderful panorama of war was spread beneath
them, the seven pilots moving onward in wild-geese formation, with the
captain at the head of the V, they heard nothing of the tumult raging.
In their muffled ears sounded only the loud whirr of the propellers, and
the deafening explosions of the engines. It was almost as noisy as a
boiler shop in full blast.
The fire-control planes were already sending back their signals, the
observer aboard intently following the course of each monster shell to
note exactly where it landed, and then communicating with the gunners,
so they might correct their faults and make each missile count.
German pilots were in the air also, sometimes in swarms. Theirs was the
task to attack these heavier machines and try to cripple or destroy
them.
Of course each one of these machines of the French "relage," or
fire-control, was armed with a quick-firing gun; and there was an
observer aboard, as well as a deft pilot. They carried such a large
assortment of material, consisting among other things of a complete
wireless outfit, that they had to be built with unusually large wings.
This makes them slow to answer to the call of the pilot; and when
attacked by the more nimble Fokkers they have a hard time to keep from
being shot down. That is why a number of the Nieuports with well known
"aces" in charge, must always be hovering over the fire controls, ready
to fly to their assistance in case they are attacked.
"Things are surely beginning to happen," murmured Tom. "The Boches seem
to be in an unusually fierce and aggressive humor on this particular
morning."
The youth was right in this. The Germans had been thrown out of numerous
hard-won positions lately, and this gave them cause for feeling bitterly
toward the French.
By the time the American unit reached the field of battle, several
furious combats had already taken place with disastrous results. Two of
the enemy machines had been sent down, one of them in flames, after the
pilot had fallen at his post, fairly riddled by the gunfire of the
Frenchman. A birdman had also paid the great debt on the side of
Petain's men. As the score was two against one there seemed no cause for
depression.
The Americans would not be kept out of the fight for long. No sooner
were three adventurous Teuton pilots seen climbing up to attack the big
fire control machine when Tom's companions dropped down from the
"ceiling" to engage them.
Tom watched everything as though photographing the thrilling happenings
on his brain forever. He had a greater interest in these things than at
any previous period of his life, for was he not also hovering over that
observation Caudron, upon which the movements of the advancing French
troops depended? At any minute might he not receive the signal from the
captain to attack some fresh Boche, who had climbed high above the
battle lines to join the general scrimmage, or else "get" the big French
machine while its defenders had their hands full with his comrades?
Had Tom been able to use his binoculars just then, which was out of the
question of course, and look back to where the monster French guns were
firing, he might have noticed various white sheets spread out in
fantastic patterns on the ground, the picture varying every little
while.
These were used to "talk" with the observer who was sending those
messages from the fire-control plane, telling the gunners just how many
metres their fire was short, long, to the right, or to the left of their
intended objective.
Then again information was being sent by another observer to the
advancing infantry, warning them of perils that lay in their way, which
might have cost them great and grievous losses if they remained unknown
until the German trap was sprung.
The morning was advancing. Tom had seen his comrades chase off several
flocks of enemy aircraft that endeavored to interrupt the deadly work of
the observers. As yet his anticipated chance had not come. He was
beginning to feel impatient. Could it be that he must stay there almost
up among the clouds, and only be a "looker-on?"
How eagerly did his heart throb with renewed hope each time he
discovered signs of another attempt on the part of the enemy pilots to
engineer a raid that might check this observation work. They knew what
it was doing to advance the cause of the battling French; and that, as
often proved to be the case, the airplanes were again the "vigilant eyes
of the army."
It was well along in the morning when Tom Raymond's time came. The
fighting below had been going on for some time, and from fugitive
glimpses Tom snatched every now and then as he looked down, he had
reason to believe things were moving successfully for the assailants. At
least the French troops occupied a long line of trenches where the
Boches had been in possession at the close of the previous day.
Yes, there was another burst of ambitious fliers rising to take a
chance. The fact that already seven of their men had been dropped,
several with their planes ablaze, did not deter them; for those German
airmen had often proved their courage and were known as stubborn
fighters.
Soon another battle below the clouds was in progress. Besides Tom, there
were now only three of the Americans in the air, the remainder having
been driven down, some in trouble of some kind, others to replenish
their supplies. And there were _four_ enemy planes, Tom noticed,
even as he watched the machine of the captain and received the signal to
attack the latest arrival in the enemy squadron.