One glance at the bulletin board, erected just outside their quarters at the aerodrome, told Tom and Jack what they were detailed for that day. It was the day following the arrival of Nellie Leroy at that particular place in France, only to find that her brother was missing—either dead, or alive and a prisoner behind the German lines.
“Sergeant Thomas Raymond will report to headquarters at eight o'clock, to do patrol work.”
“Sergeant Jack Parmly will report to headquarters at eight o'clock for reconnaissance with a photographer, who will be detailed.”
Thus read the bulletin board, and Tom and Jack, looking at it, nodded to one another, while Tom remarked:
“Got our work cut out for us all right.”
“Yes,” agreed Jack. “Only I wish I could change places with you. I don't like those big, heavy machines.”
But orders are orders, nowhere more so than in the aviation squad, and soon the two lads, after a hearty if hasty breakfast, were ready for the day's work. They each realized that when the sun set they might either be dead, wounded or prisoners. It was a life full of eventualities.
A little later the two young airmen, in common with their comrades, were ready. Some were to do patrol work, like Tom—that is fly over and along the German lines in small swift, fighting planes, to attack a Hun machine, if any showed, and to give notice of any attack, either from the air or on the ground. The latter attacks the airmen would observe in progress and report to the commanders of infantry or batteries who could take steps to meet the attack, or even frustrate it.
Tom was assigned to a speedy Spad machine, one of great power and lightness into which he climbed. He was to fly alone, and on his machine was a machine gun of the Vickers type, which had to be aimed by directing, or pointing, the aeroplane itself at the enemy.
After Tom had given a hasty but careful look at his craft, and had assured himself of the accuracy of the report of his mechanician that it had oil and petrol, his starter took his place in front of the propeller.
“Well, Jack,” called Tom to his chum, across the field, where Jack was making his preparations for taking up a photographer in a big two-seated machine, “I wish you luck.”
“Same to you, old man. If you see anything of Harry, and he's alive, tell him we'll bring him back home as soon as we get a chance.”
“Do you think there is any chance?” asked Tom eagerly. “I wouldn't want anything better than to get Harry away from those Boches—and make his sister happy.”
“Well, there's a chance, but it's a slim one, I'm afraid,” remarked Jack. “We'll talk about it after we get back. Maybe there'll be a message from the Huns about him before the day is over.”
“I hope so,” murmured Tom. “If those Huns only act as decently toward us as we do toward them, we'll have some news soon.”
For it is true, in a number of instances that the German aviators do drop within the allied lines news of any British, French or American birdman who is captured or killed inside the German lines.
“All ready?” asked Tom of his helper.
“Switch off, gas on,” was the answer.
Tom made sure that the electrical switch was disconnected. If it was left on, in “contact” as it is called, and the mechanician turned the propeller blades, there might have been a sudden starting of the engine that would have instantly kill the man. But with the switch off there could be no ignition in the cylinders.
Slowly the man turned the big blades until each cylinder was sucked full of the explosive mixture of gasoline and air.
“Contact!” he cried, and Tom threw over the switch.
Then, stepping once more up to the propeller, the man gave it a pull, and quickly released it, jumping back out of harm's way.
With a throbbing roar the engine awoke to life and the propeller spun around, a blur of indistinctness. The motor was working sweetly. Toni throttled down, assured himself that everything was working well, and then, with a wave of his hand toward Jack, began to taxi across the field, to head up into the wind. All aeroplanes are started this way—directly into the wind, to rise against it and not with it. On and on he went and then he began to climb into the air. With him climbed other birdmen who were to do patrol and contact work with him, the latter being the term used when the airship keeps in contact through signaling with infantry or artillery forces on the ground, directing their efforts against the enemy.
Having seen Tom on his way, Jack turned to his own machine. As his chum had been, Jack was dressed warmly in fur garments, even to his helmet, which was fur lined. He had on two pairs of gloves and his eyes were protected with heavy goggles. For it is very cold in the upper regions, and the swift speed of the machine sends the wind cutting into one's face so that it is impossible to see from the eyes unless they are protected.
Jack's machine was a two-seater, of a heavy and comparatively safe type—that is it was safe as long as it was not shot down by a Hun. Jack was to occupy the front seat and act as pilot, while Harris, the photographer he was to take up, sat behind him, with camera, map, pencil and paper ready at hand for the making of observations.
On either side of the photographer's seat were six loaded drums of ammunition for the Lewis gun, for use against the ruthless Hun machines. Jack had a fixed Vicker machine weapon for his use.
“Hope I get a chance to use 'em,” said Harris with a grin, as he climbed into his seat, patted the loaded drums, and nodded to Jack that he was ready.
The same procedure was gone through as in the case of Tom. The man spun the propeller, and they were ready to set off. Accompanying them were two other reconnaissance planes, and four experienced fighting pilots, two of them “aces,” that is men who, alone, had each brought down five or more Hun planes. The big planes, used for obtaining news, pictures, and maps of the enemy's territory, are always accompanied by fighting planes, which look out for the attacking Germans, while the other, and less speedy, craft carry the men who are to bring back vital information.
“Let her go!” exclaimed Harris to Jack, and the latter nodded to the mechanician, who, after the order of “contact,” spun the blades again and they were really off, together with the others.
Up and up went Jack, sending his machine aloft in big circles as the others were doing. Before him on a support was clamped a map, similar to the one supported in front of Harris, and by consulting this Jack knew, from the instructions he had received before going up, just what part of the enemy's territory he was to cover. He was under the direction of the photographer and map-maker, for the two duties were combined in this instance.
Up and up they went. There was no talking, for though this is possible in an aeroplane when the engine is shut off, such was not now the case. But Jack knew his business.
His indicator soon showed them to be up about fourteen thousand feet, and below them an artillery duel was in progress. It was a wonderful, but terrible sight. Immediately under them, and rather too near for comfort, shrapnel was bursting all around. The “Archies,” or anti-aircraft guns of the Germans, were trying to reach the French planes, and, in addition to the bullets, “woolly bears” and “flaming onions” were sent up toward them. These are two types of bursting shells, the first so named because when it explodes it does so with a cloud of black smoke and a flaming center. I have never been able to learn how the “onions” got their name, unless it is from the stench let loose by the exploding gases.
Though they were fired at viciously, neither Jack nor his companion was hit, and they continued on their way, keeping at a good height, as did their associates, until they were well over the front German lines.
Jack noticed that some of the other planes were dropping lower, to give their observers a chance to do their work, and, in response to a shove in his back from the powerful field glasses carried by Harris, Jack sent his machine down to about the nine-thousand-foot level. By a glance at the map he could see that they were now over the territory concerning which a report was wanted.
They were now under a heavy fire from the German anti-aircraft guns, but Jack was too old a hand to let this needlessly worry him. He sent his machine slipping from side to side, holding it on a level keel now and then, to enable Harris to get the photographs he wanted. In addition, the observer was also making a hasty, rough, but serviceable map of what he saw.
Jack glanced down, and noted a German supply train puffing its way along toward some depot, and he headed toward this to give Harris a chance to note whether there were any supplies of ammunition, or anything else, that might profitably be bombed later. He also saw several columns of German infantry on the march, but as they were not out to make an attack now, they had to watch the Huns moving up to the front line trenches, there later, doubtless, to give battle.
Back and forth over the German lines flew Jack, Harris meanwhile doing important observation work. As Jack went lower he came under a fiercer fire of the batteries, until, it became so hot, from the shrapnel bursts, that he fain would have turned and made for home. But orders were orders, and Harris had not yet indicated that he had enough.
Twisting and turning, to make as poor a mark as possible for the enemy guns, Jack sent his machine here and there. The other pilots were doing the same. Machine guns were now opening up on them, and once the burst of fire came so close that Jack began to “zoom.” That is he sent his craft up and down sharply, like the curves and bumps in a roller-coaster railway track.
By this time the leading plane gave the signal for the return, and, thankful enough that they had not been hit, Jack swung about. But the danger was not over. They had yet to pass across the enemy's front line trenches, and when Harris signaled Jack to go down low in crossing the lad wondered what the order was for. It was merely that the observer wanted to see what was going on there so he could report.
They went down to within a mile of the earth, and several times the plane was struck by pieces of shrapnel or bullets from machine guns. Twice flying bits of metal came uncomfortably close to Jack, but he was kept too busy with the management of his machine to more than notice them. Harris was working hard at the camera and the maps.
Then, suddenly, came the danger signal from the leading plane, and only just in time. Out from the German hangars came several battle machines. Harris dropped his pencil and got ready the automatic gun, but it was not needed, for, after approaching as though about to attack, the Huns suddenly veered off. Later the reason for this became known. A squadron of French planes had arisen as swiftly to give battle, and however brave the Hun may be when he outnumbers the enemy, he had yet to be known to take on a combat against odds.
So Jack and his observer safely reached the aerodrome again, bringing back much valuable information.
“Is Tom here yet?” was Jack's first inquiry after he had divested himself of his togs and men had rushed to the developing room the camera with its precious plates.
“Not yet,” some of his chums told him. “They're having a fight upstairs I guess.”
Jack nodded and looked anxiously in the direction in which Tom was last seen.
It was an hour before the scouting airplanes came back, and one was so badly shot up and its pilot so wounded that it only just managed to get over the French lines before almost crashing to earth.
“Are you all right, Tom?” cried Jack, as he rushed up to his chum, when he saw the latter getting out of his craft, rather stiff from the cold.
“Yes. They went at me hard—two of 'em but I think I accounted for one, unless he went into a spinning nose dive just to fool me.”
“Oh, they'll do that if they get the chance.”
“I know,” assented Tom. “Hello!” he exclaimed as he noticed a splintered strut near his head. “That came rather close.”
And indeed it had. For a bullet, or a piece of shrapnel, has plowed a furrow in the bit of supporting wood, not two inches away from Tom's head, though in the excitement of the fight he had not noticed it.
There had been a fight in the upper air and one of the French machines had not come home.
“Another man to await news of,” said the flight lieutenant sadly, when the report reached him. “That's two in two days.”
“No news of Leroy yet?” asked Tom and Jack, as they went out of headquarters after reporting.
“None, I am sorry to say. It is barely possible that he landed in some lonely spot and is still hiding out—if he is not killed. But I understand you two young men had something to request of me. I can give you some attention now,” went on the commander of their squadron.
“We want to be transferred!” exclaimed Tom. “Now, that Pershing's men are here—”
“I understand,” was the answer. “You want to fight with your countrymen. Well, I would do the same. I will see if I can get you transferred, though I shall much regret losing you.”
He was as good as his word, and a week later, following some strenuous fights in the air, Tom and Jack received notice that they could report to the first United States air squadron, which was then being formed on that part of the front where the first of Pershing's men were brigaded with, the French and British armies.
Du Boise, who had brought word back of the fate that had befallen Harry Leroy, sent for Tom and Jack when it became known that they were to leave.
“Shall I ever see you again?” he asked wistfully.
“To be sure,” was Tom's hearty answer. “We aren't going far away, and we'll fly over to see you the first chance we get. Besides, we're going to depend on you to give us some information regarding Leroy. If the Huns drop any message at all they'll do it at this aerodrome.”
“Yes, I believe you're right,” assented Du Boise, trying not to show the pain that racked him. “But it's so long, now, I begin to believe he must be dead, and either the Huns don't know it or they aren't going to bother to send us word. But I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”
“Is his sister here yet?” asked Jack, for Tom and he had been too busy the last two days, getting ready to shift their quarters, to call on Nellie Leroy.
“She has gone back to Paris,” answered Du Boise. “There was no place for her here. I can give you her address. I promised to let her know in case I got word about her brother.”
“I wish you would give me the address!” exclaimed Tom eagerly, and his chum smiled at his show of interest.
“Well, to-morrow, if all goes well, we'll be with Pershing's boys,” remarked Jack, as he and Tom were sitting in their quarters after breakfast, the last day but one they were to spend in the Lafayette Escadrille with which they had so long been associated.
“That's so. We'll soon be on the firing line with Uncle Sam,” agreed Tom. “Of course we've been with him, in a way, ever since we've been fighting, for it's all in the same cause. But there'll be a little more satisfaction in being 'on our own,' as the English say.”
“You're right. What's on for to-day?” asked Jack.
“Haven't the least idea. But here comes a messenger now.”
As Tom spoke he glanced from a window and saw an orderly coming toward their quarters. The man seemed in a hurry.
“Something's up!” decided Jack. “Maybe they've got word from poorHarry.”“I'm beginning to give him up,” said Tom. “If they were going tolet us have any news of him they'd have done it long ago—the beasts!”and he fairly snarled out the words.
“Still I'm not giving up,” returned Jack. “I can't explain why, but I have a feeling that, some day, we'll see Harry Leroy again.”
Tom shook his head.
“I wish I could be as hopeful as you,” he said. “Maybe we'll see him again—or his grave. But I want to say, right now, that if ever I have a chance at the Hun who shot him down, that Hun Will get no mercy from me!”
“Same here!” echoed Jack. “But here comes the orderly.”
The man entered and handed Jack a slip of paper. It was from the commander of their squadron, and said, in effect, that though Tom and Jack were no longer under his orders, having been duly transferred to another sector, yet he would be obliged if they would call on him, at his quarters.
“Maybe he has news!” exclaimed Jack, eagerly.
Again Tom shook his head.
“He'd have said so if that was the case,” he remarked as he and his chum prepared to report at headquarters, telling the messenger they would soon follow him.
“Ah, young gentlemen, I am glad to see, you!” exclaimed the commander, and it was as friends that he greeted Tom and Jack and not as military subordinates. “Do you want to do me one last favor?”
“A thousand if we can!” exclaimed Jack, for he and Tom had caught something of the French enthusiasm of manner, from having associated with the brave airmen so long.
“Good! Then I shall feel free to ask. Know then, that I am a little short-handed in experienced airmen. The Huns have taken heavy toll of us these last few days,” he went on sorrowfully, and Torn and Jack knew this to be so, for two aces, as well as some pilots of lesser magnitude, had been shot down. But ample revenge had been taken.
“By all rights you are entitled to a holiday before you join your new command, under the great Pershing,” went on the flight commander. “However, as I need the services of two brave men to do patrol duty, I appeal to you. There is a machine gun nest, somewhere in the Boche lines, that has been doing terrible execution. If you could find the battery, and signal its location, we might destroy it with our artillery, and so save many brave lives for France,” he went on. “I do not like to ask you—”
“Tell 'em to get out the machines!” interrupted Jack. “We were just wishing we could do something to make up for the loss of Harry Leroy, and this may give it to us. You haven't heard anything of him, have you?” he asked.
The commander shook his head.
“I fear we shall never hear from him,” he said. “Though only yesterday we received back some of the effects of one of our men who was shot down behind their lines. I can not understand in Leroy's case.”
“Well, we'll make 'em pay a price all right!” declared Tom. “And now what about this machine gun nest?”
The commander gave them such information as he had. It was not unusual, such work as Tom and Jack were about to undertake. As the officer had said, they were practically exempt now that they were about to be transferred. But they had volunteered, as he probably knew they would.
Two speedy Spad machines were run out for the use of Tom and Jack, each one to have his own, for the work they were to do was dangerous and they would have need of speed.
They looked over the machine guns to see that they were in shape for quick work, and as the one on the machine Tom selected had congealed oil on the mechanism, having lately returned from a high flight, another weapon was quickly attached. Nothing receives more care and attention at an aerodrome than the motor of the plane and the mechanism of the machine gun. The latter are constructed so as to be easily and quickly mounted and dismounted, and at the close of each day's flight the guns are carefully inspected and cleaned ready for the morrow.
“Locate the machine gun battery if you can,” was the parting request to Tom and Jack as they prepared to ascend. “Send back word of the location as nearly as you can to our batteries, and the men there will see to the rest.”
“We will!” cried the Americans.
Locating a machine gun nest is not as easy as picking out a hostile battery of heavier guns, for the former, being smaller, are more easily concealed.
But Tom and Jack would, of course, do their best to help out their friends, the French. Over toward the German lines they flew, and began to scan with eager eyes the ground below them. They could not fly at a very great height, as they needed to be low down in order to see, and in this position they were a mark for the anti-aircraft guns of the Huns.
They had no sooner got over the enemy trenches, and were peering about for the possible location of the machine gun emplacement, when they were greeted with bursts of fire. But by skillfully dodging they escaped being hit themselves, though their machines were struck. The two chums were separated by about a mile, for they wanted to cover as much ground as possible.
At last, to his great delight, Tom saw a burst of smoke from a building that had been so demolished by shell fire that it seemed nothing could now inhabit it. But the truth was soon apparent. The machine gun nest was in the cellar, and from there, well hidden, had been doing terrible execution on the allied forces. Pausing only to make sure of his surmise, Tom began to tap out on his wireless key the location of the hidden machine gun nest.
Most of the aeroplanes carry a wireless outfit. An aerial trails after them, and the electric impulses, dripping off this, so to speak, reach the battery headquarters. Owing to the noise caused by the motor of the airship, no message can be sent to the airman in return, and he has to depend on signs made on the ground, arrows or circles in white by day and lighted signals at night, to make sure that his messages are being received and understood.
The Allies, of course, possess maps of every sector of the enemy's front, so that by reference to these maps the aircraft observer can send back word as to almost the precise location of the battery which it is desired to destroy.
Quickly tapping out word where the battery was located, Tom awaited developments, circling around the spot in his machine. He was fired at from guns on the ground below, but, to his delight, no hostile planes rose to give him combat. A glance across the expanse, however, showed that Jack was engaging two.
“He's keeping them from me!” thought Tom, and his heart was heavy, for he realized that Jack might be killed. However, it was the fortune of war. As long as the Hun planes were fighting Jack they would not molest him, and he might have time to send word to the French battery that would result in the destruction of the Hun machine nest.
There came a burst of fire from the Allied lines he had left, and Tom saw a shell land to the left and far beyond the Hun battery hidden in the old ruins. He at once sent back a correcting signal.
The more a gun is elevated up to a certain point, the farther it shoots. Forty-three degrees is about the maximum elevation. Again, if a gun is elevated too high it shoots over instead of directly at the target aimed at. It is then necessary to lower the elevation. Tom has seen that the guns of the French battery, which were seeking to destroy the machine gun nest were shooting beyond the mark. Accordingly they were told to depress their muzzles.
This was done, but still the shells fell to the left, and an additional correction was necessary. It is comparatively easy to make corrections in elevation or depression that will rectify errors in shooting short of or beyond a mark. It is not so easy to make the same corrections in what, for the sake of simplicity, may be called right or left errors, that is horizontal firing. To make these corrections it becomes needful to inscribe imaginary circles about the target, in this case the machine gun nest.
These circles are named from the letters of the alphabet. For instance, a circle drawn three hundred yards around a Hun battery as a center might be designated A. The next circle, two hundred yards less in size, would be B and so on, down to perhaps five yards, and that is getting very close.
The circles are further divided, as a piece of pie is cut, into twelve sectors, and numbered from 1 to 12. The last sector is due north, while 6 would be due south, 3 east, and 9 west, with the other figures for northeast, southwest, and so on.
If a shot falls in the fifty-yard circle, indicated by the letter D, but to the southwest of the mark, it is necessary to indicate that by sending the message “D-7,” which would mean that, speaking according to the points of the compass, the missile had fallen within fifty yards of the mark, but to the south-southwest of it, and correction must be made accordingly.
Tom watched the falling shells. They came nearer and nearer to the hidden battery and at last he saw one fall plump where it was needed. There was a great puff of smoke, and when it had blown away there was only a hole in the ground where the ruins had been hiding the machine guns.
Tom's work was done, and he flew off to the aid of Jack, who had overcome one Hun, sending his plane crashing to earth. But the other, an expert fighter, was pressing him hard until Ton opened up on him with his machine gun. Then the German, having no stomach for odds, turned tail and flew toward his own lines.
“Good for you, Tom!” yelled Jack, though he knew his chum could not hear him because of the noise of the motor.
Together the two lads, who had engaged in their last battle strictly with the French, made for their aerodrome, reaching it safely, though, as it was learned when Jack dismounted, he had received a slight bullet wound in one side from a missile sent by one of the attacking planes. But the hurt was only a flesh wound; though, had it gone an inch to one side, it would have ended Jack's fighting days.
Hearty and enthusiastic were the congratulations that greeted the exploit of Torn in finding the German machine gun nest that had been such a menace, nor were the thanks to Jack any less warm, for without his help Tom could never have maintained his position, and sent back corrections to the battery which brought about the desired result.
“It is a glorious end to your stay with us,” said the commander, with shining eyes, as he congratulated them.
There was a little impromptu banquet in the quarters that night, and Tom and Jack were bidden God-speed to their new quarters.
“There's only one thing I want to say!” said Jack quietly, as he rose in response to a demand that he talk.
“Let us hear it, my slice of bacon!” called a jolly ace.
“It's this,” went on Jack. “That I hereby resolve that if we—I mean Tom and I—can't rescue our comrade, Harry Leroy, from the Huns—provided he's alive—that we'll take a toll of five Germans for him—or as many, up to that number, as we can shoot down before they get us. Five German fliers is the price of Harry Leroy, who was worth a hundred of them!”
“Bravo! Hurrah! So he was! Death to the Huns!” were the cries.
Torn Raymond sprang to his feet
“What Jack says I say!” he cried. “But I double the toll. If Harry Leroy is dead he leaves a sister. You all saw her here! Well, I'll get five Huns for her, and that makes ten between Jack and me!”
“Success to you!” cried several.
With this resolve to spur them on, Tom and Jack bade their bravo comrades farewell and started for Paris, whence they were to journey to the headquarters of General Pershing and his men.
Attired in their natty uniforms of the La Fayette Escadrille, which they had not discarded, with the double wings showing that they were fully qualified pilots and aviators, Jack Parmly and Tom Raymond attracted no little attention as, several hours after leaving their places on the battle front, they arrived in Paris. They were to have a few days rest before joining the newly formed American aviation section which, as yet, was hardly ready for active work.
“Well, they're here!” suddenly cried Tom, as he and Jack made their way out of the station to seek a modest hotel where they might stay until time for them to report.
“Who? Where? I don't see 'em!” exclaimed Jack, as he crowded to the side of his chum, murmurs from a group of French persons testifying to the esteem in which the American lads were held.
“There!” went on Tom, pointing. “See some of our doughboys! And maybe the crowds aren't glad to have 'em here! It's great, I tell you, great!”
As he spoke he pointed to several khaki-clad infantrymen, some of the first of the ten thousand Americans lads that were sent over to “take the germ out of Germany.” The Americans were rather at a loss, but they seemed masters of themselves, and laughed and talked with glee as they gazed on the unfamiliar scenes. They, too, were enjoying a holiday before being sent on to be billeted with the French or British troops.
“Come on, let's talk to 'em!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “It's as good as a letter from home to see 'em!”
“I thought you meant you saw—er—Bessie and her mother,” returned Jack, and there was a little disappointment in his voice.
“Oh, we'll see them soon enough, if they're still in Paris,” said Tom, gazing curiously at his chum. “But they don't know we are coming here.”
“Yes, they do,” said Jack, quietly.
“They do? Then you must have written.”
“Of course. Don't you want to see them before we get shipped off to a new sector?”
“Why, yes. Just now, though, I'm anxious to hear some good, old United States talk. Come on, let's speak to 'em. There's one bunch that seems to be in trouble.”
But the trouble was only because some of Pershing's boys—as they were generally called wanted to make some purchases at a candy shop and did not know enough of the language to make their meaning clear. It was a good-natured misunderstanding, and both the French shop-keeper and his helper and the doughboys were laughing over it.
“Hello, boys! Glad to see you! Can we help you out?” asked Tom, as he and Jack joined the group.
The infantrymen whirled about.
“Well, for the love of the Mason an' Dixon line! is there somebody heah who can speak our talk?” cried one lad, his accent unmistakably marking him as Southern.
“Guess we can help you out,” said Jack. “We're from God's country, too,” and in an instant the were surrounded and being shaken hands with on all sides, while a perfect barrage of questions was fired at them.
Then, when the little misunderstanding at the candy shop had been straightened out, Tom and Jack told something of who they were, mentioning the fact that they were soon to fight directly under the stars and stripes, information which drew whoops of delight from the enthusiastic infantrymen.
“But say, friend,” called out one of the new American soldiers, “can you sling enough of this lingo to lead us to a place where we can get ham and eggs? I mean a real eating place, not just a coffee stand. I've been opening my mouth, champing my jaws and rubbing my stomach all day, trying to tell these folks that I'm hungry and want a square meal, and half the time they think I need a doctor. Lead me to a hash foundry.”
“All right, come on with us!” laughed Tom. “We're going to eat, too. I guess we can fix you up.”
The two aviators had been in Paris before and they knew their way about, as well as being able to speak the language fairly well. Soon, with their new friends from overseas, they were seated in a quiet restaurant, where substantial food could be had in spite of war prices. And then it was give and take, question and answer, until a group of Parisians that had gathered about turned away shaking their heads at their inability to understand the strange talk. But they were well aware of the spirit of it all, and more than one silently blessed the Americans as among the saviors of France.
The wonderful city seemed filled with soldiers of all the Allied nations, and most conspicuous, because of recent events, were the khaki-clad boys who were soon to fight under Pershing. Having seen that the little contingent they had taken under their protection got what they wanted, Tom and Jack, bidding them farewell, but promising to see them again soon, went to their hotel.
And, their baggage arriving, Jack proceeded to get ready for a bath and a general furbishing. He seemed very particular.
“Going out?” asked Tom.
“Why—er—yes. Thought I'd go to call on Bessie Gleason. This is her night off duty—hers and her mother's.”
“How do you know?”
“Well—er—she said so. Want to come?”
“Nixy. Two's company and you know what three is.”
“Oh, come on! Mrs. Gleason will be glad to see you.”
“Well, I suppose I might,” assented Tom, who, truth to tell, did not relish spending the evening alone.
Bessie and her mother had, of late, been assigned as Red Cross workers to a hospital in the environs of Paris, and ant times they could come into the city for a rest. They maintained a modest apartment not far from the hotel where Tom and Jack had put up, and soon the two lads found themselves at the place where their friends lived.
“Oh, I'm so glad you both came!” exclaimed Bessie as she greeted them. “We have company and—”
“Company!” exclaimed Jack, drawing back.
“Yes, the dearest, most delightful girl you ever—”
“Girl!” exclaimed Tom.
“Yes. But come on in and meet her. I'm sure you'll both fall in love with her.”
Jack was on the point of saying something, but thought better of it, and a moment later, to the great surprise of himself and Torn, they were facing Nellie Leroy.
Tom and Jack bowed. In fact, so great was their surprise at first that this was all they could do. Then they stared first at Bessie and then at the other girl—the sister of Harry, their chum, who was somewhere, dead or alive, behind the German lines.
“Well, aren't you glad to see her?” demanded Bessie. “I thought I'd surprise you.”
“You have,” said Jack. “Very much!”
“Glad to see her—why—of course. But—but—how—”
Tom found himself stuttering and stammering, so he stopped, and stared so hard at Nellie Leroy that she smiled, though rather sadly, for it was plain to be seen her grief over the possible death of her brother weighed down on her. And then she went on:
“Well, I'm real—I'm not a dream, Mr. Raymond.”
“So I see—I mean I'm glad to see it—I mean—oh, I don't know what I do mean!” he finished desperately. “Did you know she was going to be here? Was that the reason you asked me to come?” he inquired of Jack.
“Hadn't the least notion in the world,” answered Jack. “I'm as much surprised as you are.”
“Well, we'll take pity on you and tell you all about it,” said Bessie. “Mother, here are the boys,” she called; and Mrs. Gleason, who had suffered so much since having been saved from the Lusitania and afterward rescued by air craft from the lonely castle, came out of her room to greet the boys.
They were as glad to see her as she was to meet them again, and for a time there was an interchange of talk. Then Mrs. Gleason withdrew to leave the young people to themselves.
“Well, go on, tell us all about it!” begged Tom, who could not take his eyes off Nellie Leroy. “How did she get here?” and he indicated Harry's sister.
“He talks of me as though I were some specimen!” laughed the girl. “But go on—tell him, Bessie.”
“Well, it isn't much of a story,” said Bessie Gleason. “Nellie started to do Red Cross work, as mother and I are doing, and she was assigned to the hospital where we were.”
“This was after I heard the terrible news about poor Harry at your escadrille,” Nellie broke in, to say to Tom and Jack. “I—I suppose you haven't had any—word?” she faltered.
“Not yet,” Jack answered. “But we may get it any day now—or they may, back there,” and he nodded to indicate the air headquarters he and Tom had left. “You know we're going to be under Pershing soon,” he added.
“So you wrote me,” said Bessie. “I'm glad, though it's all in the same good cause. Well, as I was saying, Nellie came to our hospital-I call it ours though I have such a small part in it,” she interjected. “She was introduced to us as an American, and of course we made friends at once.”
“No one could help making friends with Bessie and her mother!” exclaimed Nellie.
“Don't flatter us too much,” warned Bessie. “Now please don't interrupt any more. As I say, Nellie came to us to do her share in helping care for the wounded, and, as mother and I found she had settled on no regular place in Paris, we asked her to share our rooms. Then we got to talking, and of course I found she had met you two boys in her search for her brother. After that we were better friends than ever.”
“Glad to know it,” said Tom. “There's nothing like having friends. I hadn't any notion that I'd meet any when I started out with him tonight,” and he motioned to Jack.
“Well, I like that!” cried Bessie in feigned indignation. “I like to know how you class my mother and me?” and she looked at Tom.
“Oh,—er—well, of course—you and your mother, and Jack. But he and you—”
“Better swim out before you get into deep water,” advised Jack quickly, and he nudged Tom with his foot.
Then the boys had to tell about their final experiences before leaving the Lafayette Escadrille with which many trying, as well as many happy, hours were associated, and the girls told of their adventures, which were not altogether tame.
Since Mrs. Gleason had been freed from the plotting of the spy, Potzfeldt, she had lived a happy life—that is as happy as one could amid the scenes of war and its attendant horrors. She and Bessie were throwing themselves heart and soul into the immortal work of the Red Cross, and now Nellie bad joined them.
“It's the only way I can stop thinking about poor Harry,” she said with a sigh. “Oh, if I could only hear some good news about him, that I might send it to the folks at home. Do you think it will ever come—the good news, I mean?” she asked wistfully of Tom.
“All we can do is to hope,” he said. He knew better than to buoy up false hopes, for he had seen too much of the terrible side of war. In his heart he knew that there was but little chance for Harry Leroy, after the latter's aeroplane had been shot down behind the German lines. Yet there was that one, slender hope to which all of us cling when it seems that everything else is lost.
“He may be a prisoner, and, in that case, there is a chance,” said Tom, while Jack and Bessie were conversing on the other side of the room.
“You mean a chance to escape?”
“Hardly that, though it has been done. A few aviators have got away from German prison camps. But it's only one chance in many thousand. No, what I meant was that—well, it's too small and slim a chance to talk about, I'm afraid.”
“Oh, no!” she hastened to assure him. “Do tell me! No chance is too small. What do you mean?”
“Well, sometimes rescues have been made,” went on Tom. “They are even more rare than escapes, but they have been done. I was thinking that perhaps after Jack and I get in with Pershing's boys we might be in some big raid on the Hun lines, and then, if we could get any information as to your brother's whereabouts, we might plan to rescue him.”
“Oh, do you think you could?”
“I certainly can and will try!” exclaimed Tom, earnestly.
“Oh, will you? Oh, I can't thank you enough!” and she clasped his hand in both hers and Tom blushed deeply.
“Please don't count too much on it,” Tom warned Nellie. “It's a desperate chance at best, but it's the only one I can see that we can take. First of all, though, we've got to get some word as to where Harry is.”
“How can you do that?”
“Some of the Hun airmen are almost human, that is compared to the other Boche fighters. They may drop a cap of Harry's or a glove, or something,” and Tom told of the practice in such cases.
“Oh, if they only will!” sighed Nellie. “But it is almost too much to hope.”
And so they talked until late in the evening, when the time came for Nellie, Bessie and her mother to report back for their Red Cross work. The boys returned to their hotel, promising to write often and to see their friends at the next opportunity.
“I won't forget!” said Tom, on parting from Nellie.
“Forget what?” asked Jack, as they were going down the street together.
“I'm going to do my best to rescue her brother,” said Tom, in a low voice.
“Good! I'm with you!” declared Jack.
The stay of the two boys in Paris was all too short, but they were anxious to get back to their work. They wanted to be fighting under their own flag. Not that they had not been doing all they could for liberty, but it was different, being with their own countrymen. And so, when their leaves of absence were up, they took the train that was to drop them at the place assigned, where the newly arrived Americans were beginning their training.
“The American front!” cried Tom, as he and Jack reached the headquarters of General Pershing and his associate officers. “The American front at last!”
“And it's the happiest day of my life that I can fight on it!” cried Jack.