HOVERING OVER VERDUN
Days passed, and each brought new inspiration to the two chums, as they
saw how those valiant members of the American squadron carried out
their part in whatever was going on.
Through his excellent glasses Tom watched many fights aloft. It was a
good education for the boys, since by this means they learned just how
the proficient pilots manoeuvred under attack and in defence. They also
had abundant opportunities of seeing this or that aviator execute the
“grille” when threatened by a number of enemy planes that had fallen on
him from the clouds overhead.
Each plane belonging to the Lafayette formation had an Indian head
painted on the side. There was also the name of the pilot, or something
to designate his identity, so that others in swift passing might know
who handled the machine, for once in their “fighting togs” the men
looked very much alike.
The French fighting planes on the other hand had red, white, and blue
circles under the wings, and a distinctive insignia of the pilot on the
sides.
The camp was many miles behind the battle line, but not so far as to
entirely shut out the almost incessant roar that was taking place all
day long. This consisted first of the explosion of great shells that
threw up the earth like a geyser in Yellowstone Park does water and
steam. Then came the steady rattle of the French 75’s, for all the
world like a snare-drum when mellowed in part by distance. Finally the
deep-throated boom of the monster guns would cause the earth to quiver.
By degrees both of the boys were becoming accustomed to various things
that in the beginning had filled them with awe. They could even witness
a savage fight up in the air, and figure on what the two pilots would
be apt to do next; for it was always a part of their education to put
themselves in the place of the one who represented their side.
Then came the day when Tom was told to accompany the grizzled French
sergeant up in a double-seated plane, to send back or relay information
coming from some more advanced pilot who soared high above the German
lines.
Both boys had been found very clever at signal work, and just then it
chanced there was a shortage of observers and signal men, owing to an
unusual number of accidents. Jack was sent up with another member of
the French escadrille. It would be serving two purposes, since not
only would the lack of observers be made good, but the experience would
be of considerable value to the newcomers.
Jack was greatly excited at the prospect of at last flying for France,
and also of looking down on the trenches of the Germans for the first
time. Tom warned him to curb his enthusiasm lest it unfit him for the
important work which he had undertaken to perform.
“You’ll need your head every minute of the time, remember, Jack, if
it’s up to you to relay signals. Don’t forget their importance. A
mistake would cost the French dear, as an attack might be ordered on
false information that would break down, and mean the loss of many
brave men.”
That sobered Jack.
“I guess you’re right there, Tom,” he remarked, as he completed his
dressing for work, even to the muffler about his neck; for with winter
still holding on to some extent, it would be bitterly cold far up
toward the clouds.
All around them there was a deafening roar as motors were being tested,
and machine-guns fired in trying them out, so as to make sure they were
in perfect condition for instantaneous use. Since the life of the pilot
often depends on the excellence of his artillery it is of the utmost
importance that the mitrailleuse is kept in order.
“Oil and gas!” they heard being bawled at many a mechanician by the
eager pilots; the mechanics adjusting the gasolene and air throttles
while the pilot gripped the propeller.
“Contact!” shrieked an attendant close to Tom, and the word was echoed
by his pilot, who snapped on the switch, as the man spun the propeller.
The motor took, the machine started forward out of line with the many
others, raced more rapidly over the ground, and then took the air like
a great bird. Jack had gone off with the Frenchman whom he was to
accompany aloft.
There was no time to think of anything that had to do with sentiment.
If fortune were kind the two chums expected to meet again later in the
day, to compare notes as to their various experiences.
Now Tom’s sergeant signaled to him to get seated, while he himself
looked to the few last things that were necessary. In another three
minutes he had given his mechanician the word, and Tom had followed
Jack into the air.
The ascent was easily accomplished, and Tom Raymond quickly saw that
there was a master hand at the wheel. The veteran pilot had been almost
constantly at the work of handling a heavy machine since the first
year of the great war. He had had many narrow escapes from death, but
for all that he never took unnecessary chances under the conviction
that he bore a charmed life.
Circling upward they finally reached an altitude of about five thousand
feet. Tom knew this partly from intuition, and then again he could see
the face of the altimeter used to register height. After that for ten
minutes they flew almost directly north.
Then the sergeant throttled down to await the coming of other machines
that were expected to take some part in the venture. Tom busied himself
in looking down upon the region of Verdun--a name ever to be inscribed
on the pages of French history as commemorating deeds of unequaled
valor on the part of her heroic sons.
The country could not be distinguished in detail from such a height.
It presented a flat surface of varicolored figures. The woods were
irregular blocks, dun-colored, with patches of dark green where
evergreen trees grew; the roads could be traced running this way and
that in white lines, often crossing. Fields were in geometric squares,
and at another season of the year might have looked green.
Over beyond lay the Meuse, sparkling in the sunlight. Far below hung a
double line of the irregular sausage-shaped observation balloons, each
secured by rope to a giant windlass by means of which they were raised
and lowered readily.
Verdun lay just beyond, with its many red-tiled houses; though here and
there could be seen an appalling gap, indicating where a great shell
had caused devastation in the midst of the buildings.
Using his powerful binoculars Tom was able to note a multitude of
what seemed tiny pock-marks dotting the landscape all around Verdun.
These he knew must be what they called “shell-craters,” being the vast
excavations caused by the explosion of shells hurled from the monster
guns of the Germans, placed, it may have been, twenty miles distant at
the time.
Once across the Meuse, Tom saw a broad brown band running from the
Woevre plain westward to the “S” bend of the river; and on the left
bank of the Meuse it kept on until it reached the Argonne Forest.
Well he knew that many months back that country had been made up of a
myriad of peaceful farms and villages. Now it was a blackened waste, a
sinister belt that as one writer describes it “seems like a strip of
murdered Nature, and to belong to another world.”
“Why, even the roads have all been obliterated,” Tom was telling
himself, as he looked, overcome with a feeling of horror.
Every sign of humanity had been swept away; roads and woods were gone
utterly; and where the restful French villages once nestled, nothing
could be seen but gray smears where stone walls had tumbled together.
Still further along he discerned Fort Vaux and Fort Douaumont, scenes
of desperate fighting when the great German forward movement had
reached this pinnacle, but not fated to remain always in the hands of
the invaders--not while Frenchmen lived to clutch their weapons and
say: “They shall not pass!”
Still further they sailed.
Now Tom could see the uneven lines that marked the trenches of the
enemy, though as a rule these were so well hidden under “camouflage”
that it required a practiced eye to pick their location out.
Columns of muddy smoke spurting up here and there told where high
explosives were still tearing further into this area. All this and much
more Tom saw on that first visit of his to the upper currents above the
long fiercely contested field of Verdun where the German Crown Prince
had seemed ready to sacrifice a million men if necessary, in order to
attain the object he had in view.
Then from the actions of his pilot, Tom knew they had reached their
station, so that from that time forth they must occupy themselves
strictly with the business, for the carrying out of which they had been
sent forward.
“I’ve got to do my part now,” thought Tom, grimly. “If I don’t my
flying for France will be a failure.”