A BOMBING AIR RAID
The scene in the valley was striking in one respect. Low ranges of
gently sloping hills had widened out, enclosing broad levels with what
in America would be termed a creek but was here poetically named a
river. By here I mean eastern France, not so many miles from
No-Man's-Land. The "striking" feature was the "Flying Camp" spread out
over a dead level of much trampled greensward, enclosed by high board
walls, irregularly oval in shape, with a large clump of trees in the
center and a multiplicity of large, small, mostly queer-shaped
buildings scattered about.
There were a few wide roadways, with smaller avenues intersecting them,
and larger open spaces, bordered by hangars, at either end of the oval.
On a bulletin board in one of these open spaces a placard was tacked,
at which several young men in khaki and wearing the aviator cap were
gazing, commenting humorously or otherwise. All that this plainly open
placard published, apparently for all eyes to see, was as follows:
"Members of Bombing Squadron No. - will be on the qui vive at 7 p.m.
tonight. Specific orders will be issued to each at that time."
Not much in that, an outsider might think. But wait! Listen!
"Say, Orry," remarked an athletic youth, throwing an arm casually over
the shoulder of a smaller companion beside him and tweaking the other's
ear, "does this mean that you and me go up together in that crazy old
biplane they foisted on us before?"
"How should I know?" replied the smaller lad, a nervous, sprightly
youngster, dark-eyed, curly-headed, thin-faced. "Did she get your
nerve last time?"
"Not by a long shot! But when we made that last dive to get away from
Fritzy in his Fokker, I noticed your hands on the crank were shaking.
Say, if that Tommy in the monoplane hadn't helped us, where'd we been?"
"Right here, you goose! We'd have got out somehow, but it was squally
for about five minutes."
The two strolled off together as others, also in khaki but with
different fittings or insignia, gathered about to read, comment and
then turn their several ways.
"We are in that bombing squad all right, I guess remarked Lafe Blaine,
the athletic youngster. "But I am tired of this everlasting bombing
that goes on, mostly by night. We're chums, Orry; we work together all
right. There is no one in this camp can handle a fighting machine
better than I; nor do I want a better, truer backer at the Lewis than
you."
The Lewis gun was the one then most in use at this aerodrome station,
which was somewhere on that section near where the British and French
sectors meet.
"You always were a bully boy, Lafe, in spite of your two big handles.
Say, how'd they come to call you Lafayette when you already had such a
whopper of a surname?"
"Oh, dry up, Orry! Those names often make me tired. I'm only an
ordinary chap, but with those names every noodle thinks I ought to be
something real big. Catch on?"
Orris Erwin nodded and pinched the other's massive fore-arm, as he
replied:
"So you are big! Bet you weigh one-eighty if you weigh a pound."
But Lafe was thinking. Finally he announced decidedly:
"I'm going to get after our Sergeant this afternoon. If he knows
what's what, he'll let you and me take out that neat little Bleriot.
We'll do our share of bombing of course; but if the Boches come up
after us, we can do something else besides run for home -- eh?"
Erwin shook his head dubiously as he replied:
"I doubt if he gives us the Bleriot. It's French, you know. We're
practicing with the Tommies. He likes the way you handle things, but I
fear he don't build much on me."
Lafe, of course, disclaimed any superiority, but Orris felt that way.
Later, when mid-day chow was over, Lafe found his way to where the
squadron commander was checking off the different machines and
assigning to each the various occupants. All this on a pad, in one of
the hangars, with no one else near, as the Sergeant thought. In Hangar
Four were two Bleriots all in trim order. The Sergeant stared at one
of them, grumbling to himself.
"What will I do here?" he reflected, half aloud, though unconscious of
his words. "I forgot that Cheval's arm is giving him trouble.
Confound him! He's too risky. Won't do to leave one of these behind.
Hm-m-m! Who else --"
"Your pardon, Sergeant!" A tall, athletic young American was beside
him, standing respectfully attention. "Why not take me? Give me a
chance!"
So dominating, yet so deferential was Blaine's attitude and manner that
Sergeant Anson for the minute said nothing, but he stared at the lad.
"I was with Monsieur Cheval, Sir, the night he got hurt, and I brought
the machine home, under his direction of course. You ask him if I am
not competent to handle that Bleriot. I'd much rather be in it than in
the big biplane I used last time."
"But - but -- you're too young, too inexperienced, too - too --"
"Now, Sir, please ask Cheval! You know what his judgment is. If I am
to have an observer, let Cheval go. He can sit, and - and observe --"
"Dash your bally impertinence!" Anson was putting up a tremendous
bluff. He knew it, and he knew that Blaine probably knew it, but "What
do you know about Bleriots, anyway?" he asked.
In five minutes by enticing talk and really export fingering of the
various parts of the admirable mechanism, Blaine half convinced his
superior. More, for by adroit manipulation of a certain lock, with
wrench and a pair of tweezers, he readjusted a certain valve hinge in
the petrol tank which he had heard Monsieur Cheval grumbling about
before. This he did with such dexterous rapidity and ease that Anson
expressed approval, adding:
"Where did you pick up so much mechanical knowledge, Blaine?"
"At Mineola, in the States. They kept every applicant in the shops --
some of them for weeks, others permanently."
"How happened it they didn't keep you there?" Anson was grinning now.
"Well, Sir, I wanted to learn to fly -- high. That's what I went into
aviation for. Before that I worked for the Wrights at Dayton. Well,
when I tried flying, it happened there was a prize offered for flying
to Manhattan and back, going round the Liberty Statue. I got hold of
an old Curtis machine and somehow I came back second in the race. But
--" here Blaine grinned at his own recollection, "but I pretty near
busted up that old Curtis! After that they kept me flying until I
finally came over here."
The Sergeant frowned then smiled and jotted something down on his pad.
"Go and see Monsieur Cheval. If he is not well enough to go with you
-- well, have you anyone else in view?"
"Yes, sir. My partner, who has gone with me on several raids. He's
all right --"
"If you were disabled or killed, could he bring this machine back?"
"Yes, sir. He is as good as I am. Cool as a cucumber, but he -- he's
rather modest. In fact, if I don't get Cheval, I must have him, with
your permission of course."
"Or without it, eh?" Anson again smiled, this time genially. "Well,
well! Do what I have said. If you have to do without Cheval, bring
that youngster who is so modest to me. I will judge." And the
Sergeant turned off, resuming his penciling and further wandering as if
Blaine were not there.
Half an hour later Lafe stood by the cot where a shallow-faced,
trim-mustached man lay groaning discontentedly. At sight of the young
American he raised up to a sitting position, disclosing his right arm
and wrist still in splints and bandages. Moreover the pains of moving
himself made him groan and ejaculate after the mercurial manner or the
Frenchman unused to lying still and eager always to be up and doing.
"Ah, it ees mon comrade Blaine! Ver welcome -- mooch so! Wish mooch
you speak ze language, ze French."
Monsieur Cheval, really a noted aviator, had chummed much with the
American contingent and had been in the States once, though only for a
short time. But he had learned "ze language" -- after a fashion. When
Blaine briefly explained what he wanted and what the squadron commander
had said, Cheval lay back with a deep sigh, saying:
"Merci, comrade!" Here he chuckled. "I like to go: I want to go! But
I no use to you now. Not at all! I no use to myself. Voila! I got
well queek; better so here; not over yon in No-Man's-Land. But you be
sure bring my enfant back safe, my Bleriot -- Ah! A great baby is my
Bleriot!"
Blaine promised to do his best. His pal and comrade, Orris Erwin, was
also good, safe -- in short, reliable.
"Never fear, Monsieur Cheval! Unless they get us up yonder," pointing
vaguely upward into the sky, "we will fetch her back all right. Good
luck! Try to be out as soon as you can. We miss you on these little
trips after Fritzy."
An hour later Blaine, accompanied by Erwin, stood before Sergeant Anson
in the latter's cubbyhole of an office, while a stream of khaki-clad
young men filed in one by one. Anson waved them aside until the others
had left, then turned to Blaine.
"I saw Cheval myself," said the Sergeant grimly. "He wanted to go but
it will be a week before he can use that arm, aside from other
injuries. I spoke to Captain Byers about you. He was reluctant, but
owing to the newness of so many of you Yankee airmen, he was unable to
make suggestions. Only this- you two must be careful, cautious --"
"Not too cautious, I hope, sir!" came promptly from Blaine, while Orris
smiled behind his sleeve. "A pilot has to risk things, you know."
"Don't interrupt!" Anson ordered sharply, though his eyes twinkled.
"You know what I mean. Can you bring the plane back, Erwin, if
anything happens to Blaine?"
"Yes, sir, I think so. I've often flown before, alone --"
"Under fire?" This sharp reply from the Sergeant.
"I was in the last raid after Vimy Ridge, Sir. Brenzer, the pilot, was
killed. I managed to get back to our lines."
"You been over some time?"
"Yes, Sir. Only part of the time I was stationed at Aldershot, as
assistant trainer for a bunch of raw rookies from our side."
One long look at both Anson gave, then turned away with:
"You'll do. Both of you be on hand for chow at regular time. Then
await instructions." He waved them off.