THE BATTLE BELOW
Tom Raymond was now about to have a part in a genuine battle. Even
though he might be thousands of feet above the actual fighting, there
was an important mission for him to perform, since he would be relaying
signals from the advanced plane over the enemy lines. On the accuracy
of these reports might hinge the success or failure of the attack.
The constant roar of their motor, and the high altitude at which they
were working, would prevent his hearing much of what was taking place
below. Still his eyes could take note from time to time of numerous
interesting things likely to happen.
He could see the waves of French troops advancing behind the barrage
fire put up by their batteries, and which was undoubtedly being
gradually “lifted” the further they went toward the enemy lines.
Meanwhile every big gun belonging to the French had been battering the
trenches of the Germans until they had the occupants cowering as far
down in the earth as they could get.
Nor were the German guns idle all this while. Far-away they lay in
their coverts, hidden from the view of passing aviators by a generous
use of tree branches and painted canvas. Monster shells were passing
through the air at all times, and at great altitudes, since they were
meant to fall miles and miles distant.
_We-ee!_
“Great Scott! What’s that?” yelled Tom, but without being heard.
It was one of the great shells whistling past the plane in which Tom
and the grizzled sergeant were seated. It came so close to them that
the machine rocked violently. Tom felt cold at the thought of what
would have happened had it by some mischance actually struck their
plane.
“Some escape!” murmured the young aviator.
Here and there far down below him he saw spurts of flame bursting out
from behind what he knew to be woods. Here there must be batteries in
hiding, now taking part in deluging the German front with a hurricane
of iron.
Meanwhile that wave of Frenchmen, their overcoats with the fronts
fastened back so as to leave their knees clear, kept on advancing
steadily. They would arrive at the enemy trenches presently, when those
in hiding would make their presence felt with innumerable quick-firing
guns and trench bombs in the endeavor to eject the invaders.
There they would either die, or else surrender, because flight had been
made utterly impossible. The barrage had been lifted, and covered a
line just beyond the German first trenches. To pass through this hail
of fire and live was out of the question, so that the German defenders
were in a trap.
All this while Tom had been kept fairly busy. His pilot managed the
plane adroitly so as to afford the observer an excellent chance to
receive and send signals. Tom kept his glass fixed on the plane far
ahead, from which his messages came. He did not know all they stood
for; that was not his business. His duty was to send them on exactly as
they were received.
There were times between, however, when he could glance earthwards, and
see something of the awful events taking place on that blood-soaked
field of Verdun. The French were now over the top of the German
trenches, and engaged in clearing them of the enemy, even as so many
industrious terriers might hunt rats in cellars where all the holes had
been previously stopped up.
For hours this went on. The Germans flung their waves of gray-coated
fighting men recklessly against the seized trenches, now bristling with
machine-guns turned the other way. They must have lost frightfully in
the three separate attempts they made to reconquer the ground lost
earlier in the day; but the French would not give up what they had
taken.
All this while Tom realized that there was a certain amount of danger
hovering over his head and that of his veteran comrade. Fokker machines
and Aviatiks also, manned by daring Teuton pilots, arose to give battle
to the venturesome French and Americans. Sometimes there would be a
number of desperate engagements going on at the same time.
This was not all. The Germans of course understood how the facts
concerning their movements was being taken note of, and the report sent
back to French headquarters. They could even pick out the identical
plane that was engaged in this service, and also the second machine
doing relay work.
Again and again during the course of those hours teeming with thrilling
happenings did they attempt to put these two important machines out of
business by making an attack on them in force.
But the watchful pilots aboard the fighting planes of the French were
not to be caught napping or unmindful of their duty. The Nieuports
were doing “ceiling work,” far up toward the clouds; and no sooner was
an enemy seen making for one of the observation planes than down would
swoop a number of these sentinels, barring his progress, and forcing
him either to fight or drop back to earth again.
It chanced that Tom’s first flight for France was not to pass without
an additional thrill. This came along later in the day, when they had
been at work for some hours.
The defending Nieuports were engaged in a fierce battle with a force
of enemy pilots who kept them busy circling around the advanced
observation plane, when suddenly Tom became aware of the fact that a
Fokker machine had managed to rise from another part of the German
front, and was about to attack them.
No doubt it was all a part of a cleverly-laid scheme. While those enemy
pilots kept the defenders busily engaged this fighting machine hoped
to steal up on the second observation plane, and shower pilot and
attendant with lead, so as to put them out of business.
Tom shouted something at his companion, and then began the first real
air battle in the experience of the American novice. The grizzled
old veteran kept the nose of his big plane pointed straight at the
oncoming enemy, so that Tom had only to begin firing when they were
close enough, and rushing madly at each other.
He knew the deadly missiles must be cutting the air all around, but
somehow this fact did not seem to disturb him at all; for he continued
to work his rapid-fire gun with amazing zeal.
Then suddenly he saw that the German Fokker was starting to descend. A
shell from his rapid-fire gun had either struck the pilot and wounded
him severely, or else part of the working gear had been put out of
order.
At any rate the fight was over, and had ended in their favor. No wonder
Tom Raymond felt a strange feeling rush over him as thrusting his head
far out he watched the stricken enemy craft circling below. Now it
went swiftly volplaning, and again resisting the downward rush with
outspread wings, just as Tom had seen an eagle coming from the clouds
in chase of a fish-hawk that was trying to elude his attack, and save
his finny prize.
It was the fever of a first victory that fired Tom’s blood. He hoped
that it was a good sign of future work in the interest of France. Then
putting the recent exciting incident out of mind he once more turned
his attention to the signals that were again coming from the advanced
observation plane far ahead. The bustling little Nieuport that came
rushing to assist them arrived after all was over.
Taken altogether, that day gave Tom Raymond a better insight concerning
the duties of an aviation pilot in war time than all the instruction he
had received in a school.
Finally it was noted that another observer had taken the place of the
plane from which their signals had been coming. That meant a relief
operator had arrived to allow the tired pair a chance to secure
much-needed rest.
Tom himself was not sorry to discover that they too were about to give
way to another plane that was arising toward them. As it drew closer,
and it became possible for the pilots to wave a few signals to each
other, Tom saw the observer in the relieving plane make a familiar
movement with his hand. Since that was an old signal practiced between
Jack and himself he knew who the bundled-up figure in the observer’s
seat was.
He made no attempt at conversation, because the roar of the motors
and other sounds went to make up a Bedlam of noise and it was next to
impossible to make himself heard.
So waving Jack farewell, Tom again turned his attention to the
battlefield below him for a last view before they descended to the
hangar field, their work successfully accomplished for that day.
The landing was made without a hitch. Tom immediately became aware of
the fact that there was a most terrible din going on all around him. Up
to that moment he had almost been unacquainted with the fact, because
his own motor kept up such an incessant noise close to his ears.
Tired though he certainly was, the young aviator could not think of
seeking rest. He managed to get a bite to eat, for he was very hungry
after his frigid experience aloft. Then with his glasses betook himself
to a convenient place of observation, from which he could watch much
that was going on, particularly in the regions above.
But the Teutons had virtually given up all attempts to fight for air
supremacy on that particular day. They had been sadly outnumbered and
outclassed in most of the fights by the British, French and American
fliers with whom they had found themselves faced.
Of course the story was not all onesided. There had been times when it
was the Boche flier that proved to be the more skillful; and several
French pilots had been dropped. One of these had fallen in the open
space between the hostile lines. He was only wounded it was seen, and
desperate attempts were made by his comrades to sally out and rescue
him.
Three times did this happen, only to have the German guns open on them
with telling effect. Dozens of men had fallen solely through their
desire to save the gallant air pilot. Twice did Teutons venture forth
with the evident intention of making him a prisoner, only to recoil
before the blast of deadly machine-gun fire that blazed forth in their
faces.
Finally the Germans, as if furious at their losses, turned their
machine-guns on the wreckage of the French plane, and fairly riddled
both machine and pilot with balls.
Of course Tom easily picked out the big observation Caudron in which,
as he knew, Jack was doing duty just then. Once he thought something
serious had happened to it when he saw the plane rock violently, as if
about to collapse; but it immediately righted again. Tom guessed it was
one of those high explosive shells that were still coming periodically
from the Teuton rear that had passed so close as to cause the motion.
His heart had jumped into his throat with a sudden fear, lest Jack’s
initial experience in hovering above a battlefield be also his last.
Then he felt a wave of relief pass over him when he saw that the danger
had passed; for the observation plane was moving majestically onward
as before, and just as steadily.
As the afternoon waned the battle gradually ceased. The Germans had
found out that their foes were of a mind to hold on to their recent
gains with a death-grip that nothing could shake off. The French
had taken their second wind, so to speak and were once more “in the
running.”
Then Jack and his companion came down again, making a safe landing. Tom
was on hand to greet his chum as the latter rather unsteadily alighted;
for being up in a rocking plane for hours is apt to make any one feel a
bit “groggy.”
“Well, how did you like it?” was Tom’s first question.
There was hardly any need of it, for with the removal of the muffler
and the goggles that adorned the close-fitting aviator’s hood, worn
when making an ascent near the clouds, it could be seen that Jack’s
face was radiant, while his eyes fairly sparkled with enthusiasm.
“Oh, it was great!” he exclaimed, as he fell upon Tom, and almost
hugged him.
Having made their way from the camp of the hangars to the villa and
changed their working clothes for something better suited to lounging
about, the two chums went on to compare notes. It was found that in
many things they had had just the same experience.
“Well,” said Jack, about the time the sun sank and the shadows began to
creep over the wretched landscape, “I’ve had my initial bow to aerial
warfare, and I want to say right now I’m more infatuated with it than
ever. Some day we’ll go up together, I trust, Tom, and I hope it will
be soon.”