Uttering a half-inarticulate cry, the pilot of number thirty-five made a supreme effort to avert a catastrophe.
But, even as he did so, he realized, with a sickening sensation of terror, that it would be futile—that nothing he could do would be of the slightest avail. With eyes staring wildly, he had a quick vision of number twelve, as though its sole purpose on earth was to run him down, fairly hurling itself upon him.
Don Hale gave a loud yell, though the roar of the motor drowned the sound. In a wild panic, he attempted to rise. But the restraining strap jerked him back to his seat. Then he saw the frightened face of Dublin Dan right before his eyes.
And that was the last thing they took in for a moment. He found himself jerked high in the air, then hurled violently forward.
The next instant his head struck the ground with heavy force. A light seemed to flash before his eyes, and, with the dull consciousness that was still left to him, he heard supports, struts and planes of both machines smashing under the heavy blow. Blackness followed.
And then came a moment when he was neither quite conscious of where he was or what had happened. And when he presently opened his eyes it was with the feelings of one who has just awakened from a troubled, uneasy slumber. The sound of excited voices was ringing in his ears; he heard George Glenn loudly calling his name, but he neither answered nor stirred.
The latter was, of course, impossible. He was pinned to the earth on every side by the debris of the “penguin.”
As the boy’s faculties began to reassert themselves a shudder ran through his frame, and, for the first time, he became conscious of the fact that every joint, every portion of his body was racked with shooting pains. Had he been seriously injured? In his apprehension, he began to aid the rescuers in their efforts to release both him and Dublin Dan.
The vigorous workers soon completed their task, and Don felt strong arms on either side dragging him to his feet. Some one was feeling his pulse; some one was feeling his joints; and some one laid a hand across his brow.
“Badly shaken up; suffering from shock; not much injured, though,” he heard a voice exclaim.
An instant before Don Hale’s vision had seemed blurred—his consciousness strangely dulled, but, somehow or other, the words “suffering from shock” seemed to revive him in an astonishing degree.
“‘Suffering from shock!’ Well, who wouldn’t be?” he blurted out, almost angrily. He gently pushed aside the supporting hands. “I reckon, fellows, I don’t need any props to support me. But say, how is Dublin Dan?”
The young Irishman, surrounded by a crowd, was lying in a half-reclining position upon the turf, his usually florid face pale and drawn. But as Don’s query reached his ears he began to struggle up. It was a mighty hard effort, however, bringing many an exclamation of pain from his lips.
“Dublin Dan’s all right!” he exclaimed, in a voice quite unlike his own. “But don’t let me hear any one say I’m suffering from shock, or I’ll paste ’em. Hey, boy, why didn’t you get out of my way?”
“A comet couldn’t have gotten out of your way,” retorted Don, smiling faintly. “But why did you try to butt me off the earth?”
“I didn’t do it. It was the ‘penguin,’” said Dan. “I think I must have hurt the old bird’s feelings by running over a bad place in the ground; or else it got tired of life and decided to quit. And that’s where it isn’t like the Hagens. What train are you going home on to-night?”
“I’ll have to get a few more caressing touches from the earth before I do that,” said Don.
The boy was feeling very shaky; his strength seemed to have so far deserted him that it was with difficulty that he managed to stand erect. The pains and aches he was experiencing were so great as to still make him wonder if, after all, he had not sustained some injury which might keep him out of the game for days—that was the only thought bothering him now. Yet he was deeply thankful that the terrific smash-up had had no worse consequences.
Although it was a very important matter to the two principals, the incident was so trivial in the eyes of the older students of the flying field that as soon as it was discovered that neither of the boys was seriously injured they began to retrace their steps.
The moniteur rather sternly demanded from Dan Hagen an explanation of the cause of the mishap.
“Tell him there isn’t any explanation,” said Dan, when Don had translated the instructor’s remarks. “It just happened—that’s all. I reckon one of the great joys in this game is that it keeps a chap so perpetually thankful that he’s still alive that it makes up for everything else. Say, Don, where do you feel the worst?”
“All over,” replied Don.
“Hadn’t both of you better get back to the barracks?” asked George Glenn, solicitously.
Don almost indignantly declined the suggestion.
“No, indeed!” he declared. “I’m going to hang around here and watch the other smash-ups.”
“And I’m not suffering from shock so much that I can’t do the same,” said Dan, with a grin.
Both Don and Dan soon found, however, that they had been too much shaken up to enter very thoroughly into the spirit of the occasion. Nevertheless, they were of that age when the very idea of retiring from the field would have seemed like a deplorable surrender; so they remained until the majority of the pilots began their homeward march.
The boys were glad indeed to reach the Hotel d’Amerique. They removed the dirt and dust from their clothing and enjoyed a refreshing wash; and their feelings were then so far improved that each readily agreed to accompany the crowd, after supper, to Étainville and the club.
Thus the end of Don’s second day was passed very much as the first. They found Père Goubain, as usual, bubbling over with good-nature, and listened to the bits of philosophy which he expounded and to his tales of spies with the same interest as on the night before.
But there was something else which made their visit to the Café Rochambeau far more memorable than they had expected. While the rattle of tongues was in progress every one became aware of the fact that something was going on in the village street. The air was filled with the sounds of wheels jarring and rumbling over the cobbled highway, the steady tramping of horses’ hoofs and the voices of men.
Don and George were the first to rush outside. And what they saw gave them a thrill of pleasure and of exultation.
Yes, yes! The Yanks were not only coming but they had come. Actually!—an American battery was making its way over the lone street toward the front.
It was certainly a warlike scene over which the magic rays of the brilliant moon were playing. At the head of the procession rode the captain, mounted on a big bay horse. Close behind him followed the battery standard bearer carrying the red guidon, which lazily swayed to and fro. Silent and grim, the two horsemen suggested knights of old going forth to battle. Gun carriages and caissons drawn by long teams of mettlesome horses rattled and banged steadily past.
Now and again glinting lights flashed from horses’ trappings, or from the sinister, wicked-looking guns.
Often, from the wooden-shoed inhabitants of the village—men, women and children, who had flocked out into the street to view the interesting spectacle, there came the cries of, “Vive l’Amerique!” And to these salutations officers, cannoneers and postilion drivers sometimes responded with a “Vive la France!”
“What a glorious sight!” exclaimed Père Goubain, who, having managed to lift his ponderous frame from the rocking-chair, had joined the Americans outside.
“I reckon the Germans might as well fire all their spies and give them respectable jobs—eh, Père Goubain?” laughed Peur Jamais.
The old innkeeper shook his head.
“As long as there are Germans there will be spies,” he said, solemnly.
The crowd waited outside until the last gun carriage had become lost to view and only the faint sound of horses’ hoofs and grinding wheels came over the silent air.
Then, as the hour was getting late, the boys bade good-bye to Père Goubain and began their tramp toward the barracks.
Arriving at the aviation field, the students witnessed a spectacle which, to Don and Dublin Dan at least, possessed a singular interest and novelty. It was a dance executed by Annamites and dark-skinned Arabian Zouaves before several huge bonfires built in front of their quarters. With the firelight playing over the forms of the fantastically-moving dancers and the weird, monotonous notes of the native music, the scene was suggestive of some far-off, uncivilized quarter of the globe.
“Those chaps are certainly working hard for their fun,” remarked Dan Hagen.
“Wait till you see them get to fighting, which they sometimes do,” laughed Cal Cummings.
“Excuse me the night the scrap comes off,” chirped Don. “A little of that sort of thing is much too much.”
“Like our smash-up to-day!” chuckled Dublin Dan.
All the boys were pretty tired when they reached the barracks; for training in the flying school often produces a strain on the nerves more fatiguing than hard work. No time, therefore, was lost in turning in.
But Don Hale passed a most uncomfortable and restless night. The pains and aches, partially forgotten while in the midst of lively scenes, now became violent enough to prevent the boy from falling into the slumber which nature craved—in fact he had not slept at all when, after what seemed to be an interminable length of time, the clear, musical notes of the bugle, sounding the reveille, broke in upon his ears.
It was a relief. But, at the same time, Don, blinking-eyed and yawning, scarcely felt in the mood to enjoy the work as he had done on the day before. Out in the open air, however, he soon felt more like himself, and his natural enthusiasm soon overcame all bodily fatigue.
The newélèveimagined that he had conquered the “penguin,” but the result of the day’s performance, to his great surprise, and equally great disgust, showed him that this was merely an illusion. Both he and Dublin Dan figured in several mishaps, the most serious of which caused Dan’s “penguin” to be towed to the repair shop. Both boys, too, received a varied assortment of bruises. And at night, when summing up the result of the work, Don grimly declared that it certainly was the end of an imperfect day.
A week passed, and then another, with Don and Dan still struggling to obtain a complete mastery over the unruly “birds.” There were several interruptions in the work due to thunder-storms. And after the artillery of the clouds had ceased the rain continued for hours. On such occasions the students amused themselves by getting up impromptu concerts; and sometimes, while the wind and rain beat relentlessly against the Hotel d’Amerique, the notes of such pleasing compositions as Schumann’s “Traumerei,” Schubert’s “Am Meer” and Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song,” played on the piano by a former motion picture artist, mingled with the ominous blasts outside.
On certain days lectures were given; the students were taught the theories of aeronautics and the design and construction of various types of flying machines. They were obliged, too, to take motors apart and put them together again. Then, there were courses in map reading—a very important subject indeed for the aviators must learn to keep track of their aerial travels by such means.
About the middle of the third week Don and Dan were delighted to be informed by the instructor that their progress had been sufficient to entitle them to enter the second class. This did not mean that they were to be allowed to fly. It did mean, however, that they became pilots of real airplanes, though it was not possible to turn on sufficient power for the motors to take the machine off the ground.
The boys found the sensation very different from that experienced while trying to tame the “penguins.” There was a delightful lightness and buoyancy about these monoplanes, as they skimmed over the ground, exhilarating in the highest degree. They continually seemed about to defy the limitations set upon them and leave the terrestrial globe for the firmament above.
And during all the time that Don and Dan were wrestling with the new problems, T. Singleton Albert, the former drugstore clerk of Syracuse, was making the most astonishing progress. Many in the beginning had been accustomed to laugh at the thought of the pale, anemic-looking chap ever attaining his ambition of becoming an airman, but, as Peur Jamais put it, he was “leaving every one of them far behind.”
One evening, when the sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon and the advance-guards of approaching dusk were drawing a veil over the distance and little by little driving the color from objects near at hand, a crowd of boys of the first and second classes journeyed to the third flying field to watch the machines circling around in the sky.
“Won’t I be glad when I get to the real work!” sighed Don.
Dave Cornwells, who was standing by, remarked:
“Boys, do you see that highest machine? Well, the pilot is a certain daring young aviator named T. Singleton Albert.”
“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Dan Hagen. “Why, that chap is certainly a bird!”
“You’ve said something,” drawled Roy Mittengale. “And he’ll never be satisfied until he gets so high that the earth looks like a rubber ball to him.”
As the shadows slowly deepened over the earth the flyers, one by one, returned to thegrande piste.
There still remained one airplane high aloft—so insignificant in the vast field of graying sky that it seemed to lose all resemblance to a flying machine and become but a tiny, shapeless speck, so faint at times that the naked eye could no longer follow its varied evolutions. And every one on thegrande pisteseemed to know to whom that machine belonged—it was Albert’s.
“My, shan’t I be glad when I get into his class!” commented Don Hale, whose face was turned toward the sky.
And then, all of a sudden, he gave voice to a loud exclamation. Others did the same; for the faint speck in the sky had suddenly begun to behave in the most extraordinary fashion. First it dove, then soared upward again, not in the orderly fashion which one might expect of a machine piloted by a skilled aviator, but in a way which suggested that something was amiss.
And this impression was strengthened a few moments later when the machine began to volplane at terrific speed, at the same time swinging around and around as though on a pivot.
“The vrille![4]The vrille!” came from dozens of excited students.
“The vrille!” echoed Don Hale, huskily.
[4]
“Vrille”—French for “falling leaf.”
The boy had heard about the “vrille,” and he knew that it is one of the most difficult evolutions an airman can perform, and that it had sent many to their death.
For a few moments of tense and awe-stricken silence the onlookers kept their gaze fixed with agonized intentness upon the object which, like a wounded bird, was tumbling through space.
A sickening sensation of horror and despair gripped the spectators. The airplane and its pilot seemed doomed to utter annihilation.
Pale, trembling with apprehension, his throat dry and husky, Don Hale could not keep his eyes away from the spectacle of that frightful fall. He stood as motionless as though fastened to the turf by means of invisible chains.
Nearer and nearer came the still-revolving plane. Now the machine was so clearly silhouetted against the sky that even the supports could be faintly distinguished.
Don had seen many a terrible sight during his stay in the war zone, but perhaps none had ever affected him so acutely as this. He could not help picturing in his mind the awful fate of poor Drugstore.
Not a voice—not an exclamation was heard. That most awesome silence which sometimes holds sway over spectators when they are witnesses to a catastrophe which they are powerless to avert had settled upon the crowd.
Faces were beginning to be turned aside, and though Don Hale felt an almost irresistible impulse to do the same, an impulse still stronger kept his wide, staring eyes fixed upon the airplane.
But a few moments more, and the tragedy would be over. His nerves were quivering violently. The strain of those few terrible seconds was almost too hard to bear.
And then, just as he was preparing to steel himself for the sound of a sickening crash—for the sight of a machine, smashed and battered to pieces, bursting into flames—a wild, half-stifled cry escaped his lips.
What was the reason?
Because of an almost unbelievable, impossible happening.
The airplane had suddenly stopped its whirling evolutions, and was soaring majestically through the air not a hundred feet above their heads. Its engine had started and was sending a deep droning hum through the air.
It took a few seconds for the strange and oppressive silence to be broken. It was as though the enthralled witnesses of the scene could not at first comprehend the evidences of their vision. Then frantic shouts and wild cheers rang forth over and over again.
Actually!—Drugstore was safe. What did it mean? Had he become such a master aviator that he had been simply giving an exhibition of his skill? It looked that way.
In their joy, the students slapped each other on the shoulder and yelled themselves hoarse.
Around and around the-pisteflew the airplane, and it was not until a certain calmness had been restored among the students that it volplaned swiftly toward the earth, and, as easily as a bird alighting, struck the ground and presently came to a halt.
And the moment it had done so an excited crowd began rushing toward it from different parts of the field.
No conquering hero was ever acclaimed with greater fervor—with greater enthusiasm than T. Singleton Albert. Hands were thrust forward to shake that of the returned aviator.
The moniteurs praised and chided him at the same time. It was almost unbelievable, one of them declared, that a student with so little experience should have possessed sufficient courage to execute such a dangerous and daring maneuver.
And throughout it all Albert remained quite silent. The demonstration, indeed, seemed to embarrass him—to bring his natural modesty and reserve all the more to the front.
“Simply splendid, T. Singleton!” cried Don, enthusiastically. “Only, I wish to goodness you had notified us beforehand what was coming off. Honestly, my nerves are jumping like a jack-in-the-box. But didn’t the vrille make you dizzy?”
“Yes,” admitted Drugstore—“so much so that just now I wouldn’t be able to look in a mirror and see myself twice in the same place.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any occasion to fear Captain Baron Von Richtofen and his Red Squadron of Death,” chuckled Marlow. “If they ever get after you, son, just pull off the same trick, and it’ll mean a safe getaway.”
Albert clambered out of the machine, and, as though wishing to escape further attention, hurried rather unsteadily toward a camion standing by the side of the field. But such a sensational and unexpected event was not to be dismissed in so unceremonious a fashion. All the way to the waiting vehicle the former soda-water dispenser was obliged to listen to enthusiastic comments and reply to numerous queries.
And so it continued all the way to the Hotel d’Amerique, and even at the supper table later on.
Then it was that Sid Marlow started other demonstration, by exclaiming, in his big, booming voice:
“Sometimes a chap has no right to be modest. I’ve traveled over some pretty rough trails, fellows, and early discovered that modesty is one of the biggest stumbling blocks in the path of success. That’s the reason I haven’t any.”
“We’ve noticed it,” chirped Roy Mittengale.
“You’ll notice it some more, too, when I equal Albert’s record. Now, boys, I call upon our young friend for a speech. Who seconds the motion?”
Everybody did, and with an enthusiasm which brought warm flushes to the face of the embarrassed Albert.
He tried to resist, too, when those nearest at hand forced him to his feet. This time, however, the crowd was determined. They brushed aside the boy’s protestations, and presently Drugstore, finding that there was absolutely no chance to escape the trying ordeal, began to make a few stammering remarks.
For a moment the eyes of all in the room fixed intently upon him threatened to stop altogether his halting words. And then, suddenly, to the surprise of all, he collected his scattered wits and pulled himself together. It was as if a new spirit had entered into him. The flush left his cheeks and the tremolo in his voice was replaced by a firm and even tone.
But the first words he uttered when this changed condition had taken possession of him fairly astounded his hearers.
“Boys, I’m through with flying forever.”
“Through with flying forever!” cried Don.
Then came an almost riotous demand for explanations. The boys weren’t going to stand for any “joshing.” But, as cool and collected as before he had been the reverse, Albert voiced his declaration a second time.
“True as I’m standing here, boys, I mean it,” he declared. “I’m no hero. That wasn’t a joy ride to show what I could do in the way of handling the plane—oh, no! It was nearer to being a real tragedy. And I’m through with the game for all time.”
Drugstore’s assertions created another sensation. A babel of tongues prevented his next words from being heard.
Big Sid Marlow quickly restored silence.
“Now tell us all about it, Albert,” he commanded.
“It’s a mighty short story,” replied Drugstore. “I made up my mind to do the vrille, but somehow or other, at the very last moment, the idea of actually starting it had such an effect upon my nerves that I decided to leave it for another time. Even the thought, high up there in the air, was enough to send cold chills creeping through me and make me perform some bungling movements with the controls. Before I could regain the mastery over myself, almost before I could realize it, my plane was thrown into the vrille and I was shooting through space, with the machine absolutely out of control.” Albert’s voice faltered. An intense agitation seemed to grip him. “It was terrible—frightful!” He almost gasped. “Never had I the least expectation of coming through it alive. Never shall I forget those terrifying moments—the agony I suffered. That one experience, fellows, has taken away all the fascination of the game. Call it a yellow streak if you want; call it a case of downright cowardice—I can’t help that. I’m going to quit the flying school for good.”
And having uttered these words with a conviction which permitted no one to doubt his absolute sincerity, T. Singleton Albert abruptly turned away and made for the door.
“Well,” exclaimed Don Hale, “that chap may not think he’s a hero, but, all the same, I believe he is.”
And to this sentiment every one heartily agreed.
Many of the students confidently believed that by the time another day had rolled around Albert would have so far recovered from the effects of his thrilling experience as to reconsider his determination. This, however, was not the case.
A few privately expressed the opinion that Drugstore was a quitter, but, somehow or other, the boy’s frank avowal had raised him in the opinion of the majority, who sincerely regretted that so promising a pupil should be lost to the school.
During the late afternoon another American arrived. Of course this was not a very important event. Students were always going and coming, some leaving for theÉcole de Perfectionment[5]others being sent back to their regiments when it was found that they were not fitted by nature to become successful airmen.
But a little incident in connection with the appearance of the newcomer profoundly interested those of an observant or inquisitive nature. It was a rather dramatic meeting between him and the former college student, Victor Gilbert.
The latter, who was now in the third class and gave promise of being one of the best of theélèvepilots, upon entering the room and coming face to face with the other halted as though almost petrified with astonishment, and exclaimed:
“Hello! You here, Jason Hamlin!” Whereupon the other answered, in a tone which showed no trace of friendliness:
“Yes, I am here, Gilbert. And one of the reasons I am here is because you are here. Does that disturb you?”
“Not enough for me to notice it,” returned Victor Gilbert, coolly.
“Flying is a dangerous game, eh?”
“There are other games just as dangerous.”
“There are other games just as dangerous”
“There are other games just as dangerous”
At this remark Jason Hamlin’s face flushed perceptibly; his fingers twitched; a steely glare which plainly told of a spirit moved to anger came into his eyes.
But the interesting colloquy ended there.
“I say, wasn’t that mighty curious about Gilbert and Hamlin?” exclaimed Bobby Dunlap, otherwise Peur Jamais, to Don Hale, after the evening meal was over. “I wonder what Gilbert meant by saying: ‘There are other games just as dangerous.’”
“It’s too much of a riddle for me.”
“I tried to pump this Jason person a little,” declared Peur Jamais, “but he was as dry as an old well gone out of business. Strikes me there’s a little mystery which I’ll have to unravel.”
“I’ll let you have all the fun of the unraveling,” chortled Don. “Go to it, Mr. Sherlock Holmes the second.”
“All right!” chirped Bobby. “I hope I shan’t get a punch in the eye while I’m sherlocking. Our friend Jason looks as though he wouldn’t have much trouble in finding his temper.”
“Or losing it,” said Don, with a laugh. “But say, Bobby, I got a letter to-day from George Glenn. And what do you think he’s seen?”
“Break it to me gently.”
Thereupon Don Hale drew from his pocket the missive, and began to read:
“‘To-day I had a mighty exciting experience. It was during my two hours’ patrol over the enemy’s line, and the “Archies” were following my plane thick and fast.’”
“The ‘Archies’! What does he mean by ‘Archies’?” interrupted Bobby.
“It’s a name the flying fighters have given to the anti-aircraft guns,” replied Don. “Though I reckon no one knows exactly the reason why.”
He resumed:
“‘Don, I must confess that this afternoon I got a pretty big scare. I was just about to return to the encampment of the squadron when I saw something that made my pulse throb as it hasn’t throbbed even when I was engaged in a duel in the air. It was the sight of two crimson planes swooping down upon me from above—a part of Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron!’”
“Great Caesar’s bald-headed nanny-goat!” ejaculated Bobby. “Where’s my suit-case? I think I’ll go home with Drugstore.”
“I shouldn’t blame you,” laughed Don.
“‘By the time I made this startling discovery the foremost had opened fire with his machine gun. And the first thing I knew bullets were ripping through my plane.’”
“I don’t think I’ll wait for my suitcase, after all!” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “Whew! What did George do to them for that?”
“The next chapter is as follows,” said Don:
“‘I threw my plane into the vrille, and the next shots sped over my head. That might not have saved me, either, had it not been that some of the boys, seeing my predicament, literally sailed into the Germans.’”
“Poor child!” cried Bobby. “By this time I really ought to be half-way to the station.”
Don continued:
“‘From now on I expect things to be more dangerous than usual, which is saying a good bit. I will write again soon if—though I will say au revoir.’”
“I can’t say the prospect looks so very enchanting,” confessed Bobby. “But, as the French say, ‘C’est la guerre!’ And that means it isn’t any pink tea affair, eh?”
“I guess not; though I never drank any pink tea,” laughed Don.
Some time later T. Singleton Albert approached the two.
“I thought I’d say good-bye, fellows,” he announced. “I’m leaving during the forenoon to-morrow, and you chaps might not happen to be around.”
“It’s too bad!” said Don. “I suppose it’s no use of our saying a word, eh?”
“Not a bit,” declared the other, very emphatically. “That tumble in the air certainly did the business for me. Why, do you know, even the very sight of an airplane going aloft gives me the queerest kind of feelings. Take my advice—be a bit slow in making haste. Then you won’t have to pack your suit-cases and get out, as I’m doing.”
Albert spoke in the tone of one who felt that his ambitions had been rudely shattered—that the future held no hope.
The daring young airman who had astonished the students by his rapid progress had become once more the drugstore clerk, the very antithesis of what an airman might be expected to appear.
Drugstore solemnly wished them the best luck in the world, hoped they might win fame and glory in the sky, and then, after shaking hands very heartily, wandered away to say his adieus to the others.
“I think, after all, the soda-water counter is his proper sphere in life,” remarked Dunlap, presently. “He’s more fitted to be reading about the exploits of other chaps than trying to do them himself.”
“I hope the weather is all right to-morrow,” broke in Don. “It was looking a bit threatening when we came in—all clouded over. Let’s take a look outside, ‘Fear Never.’”
“All right,” chirped Bobby. “Goodness, how I hate rainy days! I think I know, now, how a chicken in a coop must feel.”
The two walked outside the crowded barracks, and both at once gave voice to expressions indicative of disappointment.
The entire heavens was covered with a thick canopy of clouds.
“I don’t think Druggy need have said good-bye to-night,” remarked Peur Jamais, disconsolately. “If I issued a Weather Communique it would sound something like this: High and steady winds; heavy rains, with no intermissions between; lightning and thunder in equal proportions; life-boats and rafts in demand.’”
“Never mind,” sighed Don. “There are other days ahead of us.”
“If I didn’t think there were I’d never be standing here as calmly as this,” returned Bobby, laughingly. “Let’s go back to the smell of kerosene and dismal light.”
It was rather late when the crowd turned in; and the last one hadn’t been asleep very long before pattering drops of rain were heard falling upon the roof, while the wind, in soft and musical cadences, kept steadily blowing.
About twoa. m.there came a veritable downpour and big, booming reverberations of thunder. Vivid flashes of bluish lightning filled each window with a dazzling glare and cast a weird and uncanny light throughout the room.
“It’s a wild night, all right,” exclaimed Dublin Dan, half sitting up.
“It means no flying to-morrow,” grumbled Mittengale.
“Such little trials have their usefulness.” It was Victor Gilbert who spoke. “It teaches, or rather, should teach one to be philosophical and accept the inevitable with resignation.”
“I don’t want to be philosophical,” complained Peur Jamais. “And I won’t be philosophical, either. Whew! Some big waste of electric light, that!”
No one made any reply, or if they did it was unheard; for the most appalling detonation shook and rattled the barracks. It seemed as if the structure must be shaken from its very foundations.
And thus the storm continued until the boys were routed from their beds by the musical notes of the bugle.
It was pitch dark and gloomy. The wind tore past with no soft and musical cadences mingled in with its angry whistling, and now and again a flurry of raindrops splattered noisily down.
The usual roll call was held, and then the boys were free to do as they pleased. Don Hale concluded to take a nap in his former place between the sheets.
When he once more opened his eyes the morning was well advanced.
Jumping out of his berth, with an exclamation of surprise, the boy hastily slipped on his clothes and walked outside.
Scarcely a hint of color could be seen in the landscape. Here and there pools had formed, reflecting the dull, leaden gray of the wind-driven clouds, the air was filled with moisture, and the dull and heavy-looking earth seemed to have absorbed all it could possibly hold.
Gazing at the landscape was not a particularly enjoyable pastime; so the boy reentered the barracks.
An hour passed, during which the crowd amused itself in various ways. Then a shout outside was heard. Although the words themselves were not understood, it was a call so clearly intended to bring the boys that a general stampede for the door was made.
And when they reached it, they perceived a biplane which, in utter defiance of the treacherous wind buffeting it about, was approaching the aviation grounds at tremendous speed, its graceful, rocking form outlined in lightish tones against the sinister-looking storm-clouds.
“I believe he’s going to land!” cried Don.
“Of course. Did you think he was condemned to fly forever!” chirped Dublin Dan.
Now the loud, droning hum of the motors and propellers, which had been filling the air, suddenly ceased, and the object darting swiftly through the sky began to volplane in graceful spirals toward the earth.
Realizing that the biplane, which all now recognized as a Nieuport machine, anavion de chasse, as the French call them, would alight some distance away, the crowd started running over the muddy field toward it.
And while they were on the way the pilot made the most perfectatterrissage[6]any of them had ever seen.
T. Singleton Albert, who had not yet left, was enthusiastic in his praise.
“Oh, boy, wasn’t that jolly fine!” he cried. “And——”
He got no further; for just then some one bawled out with much gusto and boisterousness:
“It’s a machine belonging to the Lafayette Squadron!”
“The Lafayette Squadron!” echoed a number of others, the rather shrill and falsetto voice of Drugstore being plainly heard.
Sure enough, the insignia of the famous flying squadron—the face of an Indian warrior, now faded and worn by the rains and snows which had beaten upon it, could be clearly distinguished on the body of the rakish-looking plane.
Don Hale forgot all about the dreary prospect ahead of him for the day in his absorbed contemplation of the visiting biplane. Then his glances fell upon the aviator just on the point of stepping from the nacelle, or cockpit.
“Hello!”
He uttered the word aloud and excitedly.
The appearance of the aviator was thoroughly familiar. He had seen pictures of him many a time. A curious thrill shot through the boy; for suddenly he realized that he was looking upon William Thaw, the famous American Ace, one of the most commanding figures of the Franco-American Flying Corps.
Others, too, among the crowd had recognized the renowned aviator, and a burst of enthusiastic cheering ending in a “Rah, rah, for Thaw!” rang out.
The famous ace smilingly bowed his acknowledgments, remarking:
“Many thanks, fellows! I thought I would just take a flyer over here to pay a brief visit to my old friend, the commandant.”
“But—but—you didn’t actually come all the way from the front, Lieutenant Thaw, did you?” almost stuttered T. Singleton Albert, whose eyes were fixed with strange intensity on the trim, though mud-bespattered little Nieuport.
“Oh, yes! Had quite a scrap, too, just before leaving. Did I get the Boche?” Lieutenant Thaw smiled genially. “No. I think that particular Teuton must have had faith in the old adage that ‘He who fights and runs away may live to fight another day.’ Now, boys, I suppose it’s quite safe for me to leave the machine here until I return?”
Being assured that it was, the aviator, with a wave of his hand, started trudging through the soggy field toward the commandant’s office.
By this time Don Hale and Albert were making a close examination of the Nieuport. Both took a look at the cockpit, beautifully finished in hard wood, and at the upholstered pilot’s seat, and studied the brightly-shining nickel-plated instruments which tell the pilot practically everything he needs to know while in the air.
There was something else, too,—an ominous-looking something else—which attracted and held their interest—a Vickers machine gun, the firing of which is so perfectly timed that the bullets fly between the whirling propeller blades.
To Don Hale, and, doubtless, to many others, that weapon, catching and reflecting numerous gleams of light, was almost awe-inspiring. And, to add to these feelings, they presently discovered several bullet holes in both the upper and lower planes, silent and eloquent testimonials of the perils which always face the intrepid and courageous fighters of the air.
At first Albert had been quite talkative—that is for him; then, as he walked around the machine, studying every detail with the same interest that a connoisseur might have displayed in the contemplation of a rare and priceless piece of statuary, he suddenly became silent. Finally his mild, unassuming air deserted him, and, straightening up, he exclaimed, loudly:
“Fellows, I’ve changed my mind. Nobody is ever going to call me a quitter. I’m not going to leave the school after all. No, sir! I’ll keep at the flying game; and, by George, I’ll get to the front, too.”
Following his sudden and almost vehement outburst, there came a silence.
But it was quickly broken. And as loud as had been the cheering for the visiting aviator it distinctly held second place to that which greeted T. Singleton Albert’s unexpected declaration.
The boys shook his hand and slapped him delightedly on the shoulder.
“Julius Cæsar! The Germans are going to pay dearly on account of this unexpected visit of Lieutenant William Thaw,” cried Roy Mittengale.
“Poor Baron Von Richtofen and his Red Squadron of Death!” laughed Bobby Dunlap. “Just think of all those gallons of red paint gone to waste! Drugstore, your nerve is simply grand!”
A little later, when the American lieutenant returned, the students told him about the incident, whereupon he, too, heartily congratulated Albert.
“We need young chaps like you at the front,” he declared. “The air service is of the greatest importance. It has been called the ‘Eyes of the Army.’ The game, too, is wonderfully thrilling—wonderfully interesting. Let me wish you much glory, success—and safety.”
As he spoke, he climbed into the cockpit.
Don Hale gave the propeller a whirl and, presently, amid a chorus of good-byes, the Nieuport started off. Faster and faster it moved over the field, sending streams of mud and water flying in every direction, and, at last, gaining sufficient momentum, it glided into the air.
The crowd watched the biplane until it had disappeared in the murky, moisture-laden air.
“Boys, I’ll never forget this day,” declared Drugstore. “It’s strange how little things may alter the whole course of a person’s life!”
And every one, quite as solemnly, agreed with him that it was.
[5]
School for advanced students.
[6]
Atterrissage—landing.