CHAPTER XVII
It had seemed to Belinda Melnotte as though she were only marking time during these retrograde movements of the French forces and the advance of the German line. But to Frank Sanderson every hour had been filled with excitement.
Not so full that he had not thought of her. Whatever may have been the obstacle in the young aviator's life that caused Belinda pain and mortification of spirit because of her own weakness, Frank did not allow any impediment to balk his tender thoughts of the Red Cross nurse.
She was ever in his mind, especially as his work during these terrible days brought him into such deadly and almost hourly peril. As he had uttered Belinda's name when his Nieuport was dashed earthward on the first day of this battle that still raged between the armies, so thought of her was present with him all the time. It seemed to the young man as though her spirit hovered about him as he soared upward in his aeroplane to hang over the line of battle. He felt that she must be thinking of him!
Despite her seeming coldness when he had walked from the town to old Minerva's cottage the night before the battle, he believed that Belinda Melnotte felt more interest in him than for some reason she was willing to betray.
He remembered those pregnant moments aboard theBelle o' Perthwhen the submarine had been about to attack. A girl surely would not "make believe" at such a time!
It was true Frank Sanderson's interest in women and his knowledge of them was limited; but he was sure he knew Belinda Melnotte's nature. Hers was too sturdy and direct a character to be merely coquettish.
"And great heavens!" cried the aviator, "what kind of girl could she be to flirt at such a time as that? We expected to be blown up by that submarine. No. She gave me a little glimpse of her real feelings then. She actually warmed toward me. And that time in Paris, too—in the little café. We were real friends then. But now! now, she seems utterly cold!
"Can it be, after all, that the black-looking doctor has some hold upon her? Some engagement made when she was too young to realize what she was doing—or, at least, one that she now regrets? Does he stand between us?"
The thought disturbed him vastly. Yet he could not allow such meditations to get between him and his work. The flying game is too exacting for the pilot of a battleplane to allow his attention to be divided.
As Belinda was told, during the confusion of the hospital's evacuation the squadron of American flying men had made a splendid record in the action. One pilot had been lost with his machine. But it was not Frank Sanderson. It was the latter, however, who earned the title of "ace" in the earlier days of the battle.
His own Nieuport was pretty well riddled in his exploits, and he was forced to accept the loan of another aeroplane or remain idle while his machine was undergoing repairs.
Idleness, while his brother aviators were in the air, was farthest from Frank Sanderson's desire. Although the slight wounds he had received on the first day of the general engagement made him both stiff and sore, he was quite able to pilot a machine. And there was something of importance in the wind—a bold strategy—in which he desired to have a part.
The aviation camps were moved back. There were engagements every day between the French and German aircrafts. The first air attack by the Lafayette Escadrille and the other squadrons of the French Flying Corps here in the field had stirred up a veritable hornet's nest along the sector.
It had become a duel between the flying men of the two armies. At dawn, or before, the battleplanes mounted into the air behind the lines, and attack and counter-attack was the order during most of the day. There was usually a breathing space at noon, or thereabout, for theremousare more frequent then, and no aviator cares to manipulate an aircraft in attack while these "holes in the air" are present.
When the retreat had begun Frank Sanderson had been personally unable to look for Belinda. He was told the members of the Red Cross unit had all escaped from the hospital in which she worked, save themédecin chefhimself, who had lingered behind to be killed by a shell.
The French retreat was, however, suddenly halted. A corps of Petain's "iron men" reinforced the broken but sullen ranks of the first-line fighters. These veterans stemmed the tide of Germans. Neither steel nor lead, gas nor liquid fire, could make these Verdun heroes give way before the hated enemy. The two lines were deadlocked on the front of this sector while the French and British, on either flank, slowly advanced to crush the German hordes.
Such strategy, however, was quite unseen by the ordinary fighting men. Even from the altitude scaled by the airmen the wisdom and the farsight of commanders were not understood.
Like the veriest private in the ranks, the aviators obeyed orders—nothing more. Frank Sanderson went up with his squadron and "did his bit" as best he could.
It was in a raid upon the German captive balloons—the first successful attack ever made upon the "saucisses"—that the young American aviator took a special part and in which he won honor.
Against the monster balloons aeroplanes had heretofore been all but powerless. Their machine guns fired bullets which, even if incendiary, were too small to set on fire the gas-containing envelope. The aircraft cannon carried by the larger French machines, too, had proved useless. The holes their projectiles made in the balloons were too small to allow a sufficient quantity of air to enter and cause an inflammable mixture.
But now a new invention was tried—four rockets mounted on either side of an aeroplane; and Sanderson's machine was one of those chosen for the experiment.
The head of the rocket was a dart, resembling a salmon-gaff, while the tail of the rocket was wound into a spiral spring, set in a socket. The Nieuport was stripped of all equipment save the pilot's seat, and Sanderson mounted with the dozen other "sausage-fighters."
The attack was made just at sunrise, for if it were possible to destroy the German captive balloons an important movement of the French troops could be made without the enemy observing the action in time to ward off a flank attack.
The several balloons had been apportioned to the aviators armed as was Frank Sanderson's aeroplane. These specially orderedappareils de chassewere surrounded by the full strength of the combined squadrons of battleplanes.
Sanderson mounted to a two-thousand-foot level only, for the tethered balloons were only half as high. Moreover, the air in this stratum was perfectly "solid." From this level, then, he aimed his machine.
Shrapnel from the German anti-aircraft guns burst about him; but he awaited calmly the signal from the captain of the squadron.
This waiting, when at any moment a stray bullet might damage his propeller or ignite his gasoline tank, was not an easy experience. The young aviator's mind was keenly alert to the work before him. But he thought, too, of personal matters. Particularly of the girl with whom he had crossed the ocean and on whom he had centered the most serious interest of his young manhood.
This train of thought did not run to "if I see Belinda again"; but was "when I see Belinda again." For Frank Sanderson was, if nothing else, optimistic.
The signal came. He tested his controls, and then darted on a long slant at the monster balloon which was his object of attack. There was no hesitancy or uncertainty in this dive.
Like a great dragonfly dipping over a still pond, he darted toward his prey. At the moment the shrapnel bullets were thickest about his machine, he touched the switch that released the eight rockets.
A sheet of flame hid his machine for a moment, and a spray of sparks spread out, following the flight of the incendiary missiles. The darts were well aimed; probably all of them found their billets in the huge bag of the balloon.
The "saucisse" sagged. Flames crept slowly around the silken envelope. The little Nieuport darted away while the observation balloon burst and fell to the ground with its unfortunate human burden, a mass of flames.
Within an hour seven great balloons were thus destroyed by the French aviators, and then the others were withdrawn from service for the day. The Germans marched on across the fields that had heretofore rung to the tread of French-shod feet; but their line of observation was broken.
Frank Sanderson returned from the successful raid for some small repairs and to have his mitrailleuse again affixed upon the nose of the aeroplane. There was much freedom allowed in the camp of the Lafayette Escadrille, or else the visitor Frank found waiting for him had a deal of influence with the military authorities.
"Captain Dexter!" Sanderson exclaimed, seeing trouble in the Yankee shipmaster's face the moment he removed his cap and mask, "what is the matter?"
"Belinda!" ejaculated the captain. "Have you seen the girl? Where is she?"
"Isn't she with the hospital unit?"
"No. I've been there. Moved heaven and earth to get a permit to come up here the moment we heard the hospital station was changed. Her aunt insisted. And Belinda isn't there!"
"You—you——Are you sure?" stammered Sanderson.
"Ain't I tellin' you? She isn't there. She never got away from the other station. And that's clean behind the German lines now!"