A LUCKY MEETING ON THE ROAD
“Listen, Tom! What do you suppose that far-away rumble can be? Surely
not thunder at this season of the year!”
The air service boys were standing on the platform of a small station,
where they had been set down by the train from Paris. The track went no
further, having been destroyed in some of the furious fighting that had
taken place in that region since the days when the Germans, defeated
along the Marne, made their famous “withdrawal” to the banks of the
Aisne, where they had previously prepared great trench works.
The boys were far from being alone. Soldiers wearing the uniforms of
various French sections of the army clustered in knots here and there,
or sat philosophically waiting to be taken care of. They, too, were on
their way to the front, and seemed to have the utmost confidence that
in due time orders would arrive for them to take up the march along the
road, to relieve some of the fighters who had latterly been bearing
the brunt of the fierce attacks of the enemy.
“No, I don’t believe such a thing as thunder could happen over here,
at this time of year, when the spring hasn’t yet arrived. You’re right
Jack! what you hear is something that, as the days go by, will become
a very old story with both of us; only increasing a thousandfold in
volume at times.”
“Yes, the growl of big guns on the fighting line!” exclaimed Jack in
great excitement.
“Just that, and nothing less,” his comrade assured him. “But about the
time you were listening I was trying to grasp what those two French
sergeants over there were saying to each other. It was about the rumble
in the air, and they seemed to be drinking it in eagerly; just as a
hunting dog might the scent of the deer he was following.”
“They look like old hands at the fighting game, Tom. See, one is
grizzled, and his face, through exposure, like wrinkled parchment!”
“Watch him walk, and you’ll detect a slight limp,” cried Tom. “That
tells the story! He’s been through the mill! It may be he has fought in
almost every battle since the war started, and has been wounded many
times. You can see the mark of a scar across his left cheek. That has
likely been caused by a sabre slash.”
“Yes, and Tom, when he lifts his left arm I notice that he gives a
little grimace, as though it hurts more or less still. Why, that
grizzled old chap must be a hero of heroes! He means to get back to the
front, and have still another try at the Boches.”
The distant muttering sound rose and fell from time to time as the
breeze dictated. It was not unlike the roll of the waves on the beach
at the seashore, only many times more significant, now that the boys
realized its real meaning.
In imagination they could see the smoke of the battle, even to the
charging of one side or the other across the open, where the staccato
rattle of the machine-guns would lessen their forces, and cause ominous
gaps to appear in the ranks.
“Well,” Jack presently remarked, yawning as he spoke, “the question
still remains, how are we going to bridge over the remaining distance
separating us from the camp of the Lafayette Escadrille, to which we
have been assigned?”
“We’ve come so far, all right,” Tom told him, with his jaws set in a
determined fashion that indicated his “never say die” nature; “and
we’ll find some way of getting to our journey’s end. I never dreamed
that we’d be dumped off like this. But then, the walking isn’t so very
bad, you may have noticed, and if it comes to the worst we might depend
on Shank’s mare to take us along.”
“But Tom, we’ve got our duffle with us!” expostulated the other, in
sheer dismay. “I wouldn’t mind walking to the camp; but I’d hate to see
myself loaded down with all that stuff. We’d look like gypsies on the
tramp!”
“I’ve got an idea that may help us out, and land us where we want to
fetch up, sooner or later.”
“Blurt her out! I know I’m tired of this!”
“There’s the main road over there,” Tom remarked, pointing as he spoke;
“and all the while we’ve been resting here I’ve watched streams of
vehicles of every description passing toward the front or to the rear,
as well as detachments of soldiers in uniform on their way to the
front.”
“Besides ambulances and motor lorries loaded with wounded Frenchman!”
added his chum. “And munitions and supplies! There have been a number
of field batteries heading toward the fighting line. And, look! There
goes an armored tank with its British crew, rolling steadily along,
just as if it were an ordinary farm tractor engaged in pulling a series
of plows after it.”
“Well, I’ve been watching closely,” continued the far-seeing and less
excitable Tom, “and I’ve noticed that while every ambulance going to
the rear is loaded to capacity with wounded Frenchmen--singing and
acting as though on a picnic instead of being taken to the rear to
have an arm or a leg removed it may be--those going up are, as a rule,
light.”
“Yes,” quickly observed Jack, grasping the idea. “And some have
officers inside, giving them the chance to save the long and tiresome
tramp. Is that your scheme?”
“Nothing venture, nothing gain, they say,” chuckled the other. “Let’s
shoulder our stuff here, and move over to the road. Then we can tackle
one of the ambulance drivers who looks a bit friendly. When he learns
who we are and where we’re going he may take pity on us and give us a
lift.”
“It sounds good to me, so let’s be on the move,” Jack hastily said,
starting to load himself down with luggage.
A short time afterward the pair had reached a spot where they could
stop one of the empty army ambulances with their red crosses painted
on the sides, the driver also carrying the well-known insignia of his
calling on his left sleeve.
“Here comes an empty ambulance,” remarked Tom, presently, scrutinizing
every vehicle in sight. “There--just back of that lorry loaded down
with foodstuff. We’ll try the game out on him for a flier, Jack.”
“Hope he’s inclined to be a cheerful sort of chap, then,” grumbled the
other, “because I’m getting mighty tired of standing here, and watching
the procession go past.”
Closer came the ambulance, its progress being impeded somewhat by the
big van in front of it.
“He’s staring as hard as anything at us right now,” muttered Jack.
“That may, and again may not, be a good sign. Get ready to run
alongside, Tom, and brush up your best _parlez vous Francaise_, so as
to make him understand what we want the worst kind. Oh, I do hope he
says ‘get aboard with all your traps, and I’ll drop you at the aviation
camp and hangars which lie right on my way to the front’.”
“What’s this?” cried Tom half to himself. “Seems to me I ought to know
that chap; and yet it can’t be possible! This is over in France, and
we’re listening to the roar of big guns right now at the front! Yet if
I didn’t know different I’d say that was Neal Kennedy!”
“What?” gasped Jack, clutching his chum’s arm in sudden surprise.
“Say, whatever does this mean?” the driver of the Red Cross ambulance
sang out, as he swung his machine to the side of the road and leaned
forward, to stare at the pair standing just beyond. “Am I dreaming, or
do I see Tom Raymond and Jack Parmly in uniform and standing on French
soil? What ever brought you boys over here I’d like to know. And what
are you doing in those duds, tell me? Do you really belong to the
Flying Corps?”
Jack and Tom dashed out, and were soon shaking Kennedy’s hands. Neal
Kennedy, a Bridgeton boy, was delighted to run across home folk in
this most unexpected fashion. Neal had gone away from home many months
before Tom and Jack conceived their plan of flying for France, and as
he had never been intimate with the air service boys, and as Tom and
Jack had talked but little of their plans in Bridgeton until they were
ready to sail for France, Kennedy had not heard of their joining the
Flying Corps.