By the time the excited crowd had piled outside powerful search-lights were reaching up into the starlit heavens, lifting out of the gloom with strange and fantastic effect the thin veil of clouds which here and there stretched across it.
Even amid the booming of the anti-aircraft batteries and the sharper staccato reports of the machine guns from various parts of the field, all blending into an unearthly din, the droning of the motors high in the air could be distinctly heard. Like a pyrotechnic display, luminous bullets, searching for the invaders, shot up into the sky, often piercing the low-hanging clouds; and mingling in with them were vicious little spurts of fire which told of the explosion of shrapnel shells.
The majority of the pilots, familiar with the dreadful danger which menaced them, made a wild dash for the underground shelters. But Don Hale and a few others, fascinated by the awe-inspiring scene and situation, remained.
“Isn’t this awful!” cried Bobby Dunlap, with a distinct tremolo in his voice. “Great Scott!”
At that instant a loud, though dull boom from the explosion of a bomb had added its quota of noise to the raging inferno of sound.
It hadn’t landed so far away, either, and, as Don Hale, in the grip of fear and excitement which he found impossible to control, strove to pierce the gloom, three reports, even louder, followed one another in quick succession.
“Great Cæsar!” cried Bobby Dunlap. “It seems as though they are going to wipe the aviation camp off the map. It’s time for us to run for our lives.”
And with these words, jerked out so fast that they were scarcely intelligible, he started off on a headlong sprint to join those who had sought a haven of safety.
But even then neither Don, George nor Albert could tear themselves away from the singular scene that was passing before their eyes. Every search-light—every gun was being used. Dazzling streams of whitish light crossed and criss-crossed or swept in wide circles over the sky—the darkness of night seemed to be rent asunder. Flaming bullets were rising by the thousand.
Notwithstanding the terrific defense of the French batteries the German bombs continued to fall. Their appalling detonations seemed fairly to shake the ground.
It was a situation wherein the tragic and the terrible held full sway. No man alive could have stood it without fear and trembling; for, at any instant, one of the bombs might have fallen into their very midst.
And then, while they stood there, motionless, silent, their pulses quickened by the emotions within, they saw something which brought husky exclamations from their lips.
It was the sight of a German plane, spectral and ghostlike, sailing serenely along in a dazzling sea of light. Flying this way and that, it now and then almost disappeared in the obscurity beyond, but, inexorably, it was pulled back into the field of vision by the ever-moving rays. And then a second and a third plane sprang into view, all appearing as pale, ethereal and ghostlike as the other.
And as the pilots kept their eyes fixed upon this wonderful and singular spectacle, which seemed to combine the elements of the supernatural and unreal, they became witnesses to a scene which is given to but few in this world to see.
Suddenly, just beneath the foremost machine, now in the full glare of light, there appeared a tiny flash of fire, a tiny burst of smoke—the circling flight was ended. Almost simultaneously with the explosion of the shrapnel shell the battleplane began to fall, at first slowly, as though the airmen near the clouds were desperately seeking to regain control.
What was going to happen? A few seconds would tell.
They were thrilling seconds, too, to the little shivering knot of spectators by the bureau.
“Ah—ah!”
A long-drawn, shrill exclamation came from Don Hale.
The plane, after wobbling and staggering for the briefest instant, began a spinning dive toward the earth; and before it had gone many hundred feet a portion of one of its wings was seen to become detached. Almost instantly came a little burst of ruddy flame, rapidly increasing in intensity, until, at last, the airplane was blazing from end to end. Like a flaming meteorite, the doomed machine, still bathed in the dazzling white glare, continued its frightful plunge.
Down, down, it came, whirling and spinning, growing larger and more distinct with each passing second, and leaving behind it a long sinuous trail of sparks and inky smoke.
Absorbed—enthralled by the terrible spectacle, Don Hale almost forgot the danger that ever menaced them.
But before the plane had reached the ground the peril of their exposed position was brought forcibly to his mind by another loud report from a bursting bomb. It seemed to have fallen nearer at hand than any of the others; and he was just about to urge his companions to leave when, without warning, there came a frightful and appalling explosion, so terrible in its power that he found himself jerked off his feet and thrown violently forward.
Shocked, dazed and bewildered, he struck the turf at full length, where he lay as motionless as if the end had come.
He was brought to his senses, however, as suddenly as though ice-water had been dashed into his face. The explosion had hurled aloft great masses of earth and debris; and now, like a descending avalanche, they began beating upon the ground close about him with thuds and bangs and crashes.
With a startled cry, the boy staggered up. A clump of earth struck him on the back with almost stunning force; a piece of board crashed down at his feet, and in wild haste, he began the retreat that should have been made before.
And, to add to the danger, spent bullets from the shrapnel shells came pelting down.
The distance to the nearest underground shelter was very short, but it seemed like a mighty long way to the frightened runners. Could they reach it?
Panting, perspiring, almost desperate, they crossed the last lap of the intervening space and fairly threw themselves into the crowded bomb-proof shelter.
Their wild and unceremonious entrance brought exclamations from the crowd. But no effort was made to speak, however, for, amid the mighty, crashing chorus of the guns, voices could scarcely have been heard.
Huddled together in the shelter, which was dimly lighted by a single oil lamp, feeling the earth trembling beneath their feet, the pilots listened with awe to the sound of the explosions. It was mighty unpleasant to be cooped up—mighty unpleasant to think of what might be happening to the hangars and the little fighting Nieuports, and when, after what seemed to be an interminably long time, the din of the anti-aircraft guns and bursting bombs began to slacken, Don Hale gave a big sigh of relief.
“I guess it’s all over, boys,” he shouted.
“I’m going to make the Germans sorry for this,” cried Bobby Dunlap.
As the crowd, headed by Don, made for the door the firing had ceased, and, in contrast to the terrific racket of a few moments before, the comparative silence seemed almost strange and unnatural. The giant search-lights were still sweeping the sky, but the enemy had evidently been driven away.
Intent upon finding out as quickly as possible what damage had been done, Don Hale and George Glenn hurried toward the point where the bombs seemed to have fallen most thickly. Men were hurrying this way and that, and officers could be heard shouting their orders. It quickly developed, however, that the camp, very fortunately, had sustained but little damage. Great pits had been dug in the ground by the force of the explosions, the end of a hangar demolished, and two machines and a little storehouse destroyed.
“Now I feel very much better,” declared Don. “Honestly, I never expected to see that Nieuport of mine again.”
“From the amount of noise they made, one might have thought the whole camp was going skyward,” declared George. “Before the Boches have a chance to pay us another visit, Don, let’s beat it for the villa.”
“Done as soon as said,” exclaimed Don.
Long accustomed to the terrors and scares of the war zone, the boys had now entirely recovered from the effects of the bombardment from the sky.
With a number of others, they climbed into a big camion and were driven to their headquarters. On the way they saw encampments of soldiers in the fields, their tents, with lights inside, showing as faintly luminous spots in the darkness. Now and again a long convoy lumbered along the road; batteries were moving up nearer the front; reserves, too, passed them, marching steadily and silently, the rhythmic sound of their steadily-tramping feet sounding weirdly in the night.
And though no particular incident marked the journey, Don and George were thoroughly glad when they reached their comfortable room in the ancient villa.
Tired, after the many hours of work and excitement, they immediately turned in.
And thus ended another day.
During the following afternoon Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were detailed, with eight other pilots, to act as an escort to a big Caudron photographic machine, which was to make a trip to a point many miles inside the German lines in order to take photographs of a railroad centre.
Don Hale’s machine on this occasion was armed with eight rockets, with dart-like heads, four on either side of the fuselage. These are designed for the purpose of destroying observation balloons, bullets from the machine guns not being sufficiently large for the purpose. The rockets are projected into space at terrific speed by means of powerful spiral springs, and ignite at the instant of departure.
The art of photography has been a great factor in the world war, driving secrecy from its cover and enabling the opposing forces to make an almost complete record of what was taking place on the other side of the line.
The two-seater Caudron machine which the combat pilots were designated to protect was armed with only one swivel gun. The cameras, pointing downward, were attached to the sides of the fuselage, and in order to take a photograph it was necessary only to pull a string.
It was rather late when the commanding officer gave the signal for the departure. In a spiraling flight, the Nieuports rose in the air, and, at an altitude of about six thousand feet, waited for the photographic machine to meet them at their airy rendezvous.
Immediately arranging themselves in a V-shaped formation, with the big Caudron at the apex, the fleet of planes headed for “Germany.” Very soon some of the fighting Nieuports dropped below the machine they were escorting, while others soared a thousand feet above.
The weather was hot and sultry, and frequently the swiftly-speeding planes cut through patches of lazily-floating clouds, which left shining drops of moisture clinging to spars and struts. They sailed high above a long line of French observation balloons, and could see others belonging to the enemy—faint yellowish dots in the distance. But Don Hale was paying very little attention to them, for the famous town of Verdun, responsible for some of the most desperate battles ever fought in the history of the world, appeared before his eyes. Here and there were great gaps among the red-roofed houses, showing where the high-explosive shells of the Germans had shattered and torn and blown everything to pieces. Faintly, he could see those mighty forts—Vaux and Douaumont and, in another direction, the famous Mort-Homme, so valiantly defended by the French.
And the same scenes which he had witnessed on all his trips over the front were again before him—the haze of smoke floating high above the battle-field, the batteries in action, the flashes of the exploding shells, and the airplanes either hovering like flocks of birds or patrolling the lines.
As they passed over the trenches the Caudron and its escorting Nieuports rose to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet; for the air beneath them was filled with the little balls of black smoke which told that the “Archies” would have liked nothing better than to bring them crashing to the earth. The pigmy and futile efforts of the gunners, however, only served to amuse Don Hale. How harmless the exploding shells appeared! Yet how terrible they were when viewed at closer range!
At various points, silhouetted against the blue of the sky or the scintillating white of the clouds, he could make out hostile airplanes which, as was often the case, were keeping well to the rear of their own lines.
Would they be attacked?
Don Hale scarcely thought so, or, at least, not so long as the formation kept together.
Thus, with his mind at comparative ease, he thoroughly enjoyed the swift flight through the cool air high above the earth. Gazing over the side of the little cockpit, he studied the territory occupied by the Germans with an interest which familiarity never seemed to lessen. Occasionally Don’s view of the network of roads, the tiny villages and the farms, surrounded by their vari-colored fields, was blotted from view by the constantly increasing layers of fleecy white clouds. Their shadows were chasing each other over the warmly-tinted earth.
The wind was blowing straight into “Germany,” and, to Don Hale, the weather conditions seemed to be fast becoming ominous and threatening. This thought at length became a little disquieting. If anything should happen to their planes while over the enemy’s country it might mean a descent; and a descent would undoubtedly mean capture—an inglorious end to a flying career—a fate particularly dreaded by the airmen.
“I won’t be sorry when this trip is over,” muttered Don to himself. “This kind of life certainly gives a chap fifty-seven different kinds of feelings.”
Owing to the great velocity of the flying flotilla, their destination, a town of considerable size, soon afterward came into view, and the whole formation volplaned to a lower level. Now they plunged through the clouds. And on emerging Don could see many evidences of life and activity going on below. Here and there were aviation fields bordered by gray hangars. Almost directly beneath a column of troops on the march suggested so many tiny ants creeping slowly over the ground. A long line of moving dots on a white road indicated a convoy going up nearer the line, while on a railroad leading into the town the eager and interested young combat pilot espied a train traveling, apparently, with a strange and sloth-like motion.
And now the peaceful character of the voyage came to an end. The “Archies” were at work again, and on every side, and dangerously near. Don Hale saw the wicked, lashing little balls of black smoke, though the explosions of the shells could scarcely be heard. Nor were the flying men threatened by the anti-aircraft batteries alone: Albatross and Fokker machines were approaching. And, in order that the enemy planes might not gain too great an altitude and be in a position to dive down upon them, the leader of the flotilla gave a prearranged signal; whereupon several of the convoys began following him to a higher level.
Don Hale, however, had been instructed to remain below, while the photographs were being taken, and the prospect was not altogether a pleasant one. He well knew that the Caudron would take all sorts of risks in order to obtain the desired pictures; and the protecting Nieuports, to fulfil the duties imposed upon them, must all expect to run a fiery gauntlet of shrapnel.
Down—still further down, as though unmindful of their spiteful presence, the big Caudron flew in a circling flight directly over the town.
Now in light, now in shadow, the collection of buildings made a pleasant picture. The golden cross surmounting the spire of the lone church occasionally reflected the mellow rays of the sun, and, like a jet of fire, sent its light into the sky.
But these were things to which Don Hale paid not the slightest attention: his mind was wholly wrapped up in the work ahead of him. He was playing a game in which life and liberty were at stake, and, as the Nieuport rocked and shook in the currents of the air disturbed by the almost continual explosions of the shrapnel shells, he warily watched the movements of the enemy planes.
Somehow or other, now that the perilous moment had come, he felt neither excited, apprehensive nor alarmed. An almost unnatural calmness seemed to have a hold upon him; and even when he saw a hole suddenly appear on the left-hand side of the upper plane, which meant that a piece of flying lead had pierced it, he did not lose his steadiness of hand or presence of mind.
He seemed to be fairly surrounded by the bursting shells. In every direction he turned they were there to meet him. The “flaming onions,” too, were beginning to cut their fiery passage through the air; and as they traveled with terrible swiftness the danger from them was even greater than that from the anti-aircraft guns.
Around and around soared the photographic machine; and around and around soared the Nieuports, both above and below. It was a veritable ride of death, with a chance that some of the combat pilots would pay the penalty for their daring, and be recorded in the brief official communique as among the missing or the dead.
Suddenly the photographic machine darted downward. Don Hale, with his eyes fixed upon it, almost held his breath with suspense and apprehension. It seemed scarcely possible that the pilot could rise again.
However, just as this gloomy thought was becoming fixed in his mind, the airplane began to ascend.
Intuitively, the boy realized that the dangerous mission of the photographer and his pilot was over; for, like a captive bird escaping from its imprisoning cage, the Caudron shot steadily upward, and was soon far beyond the reach of the guns below.
The lower escorting planes, which many times had come close to destruction, immediately followed.
And then Don Hale, strange to say, began to feel the effects of a reaction. The hand, so steady in the midst of terrible peril, now trembled slightly. He found it hard to shake off a curious foreboding—a foreboding that sometimes sent chills along his spine—that much might happen in that perilous return journey over a hostile land.
To show that his fears were entirely justified, when once again the boy gazed aloft he discovered that some of the bolder enemy scouts, now assembled in a formation as formidable as their own, were hot on the trail of the fast retreating Americans.
“Looks like a scrap,” murmured Don.
The pilot cast a look at his machine gun and belt of cartridges, all ready on the instant.
Should he have to use them? He hoped not; yet it looked that way.
And all the time the wind was steadily increasing in force, making necessary the closest attention and most extreme care in handling the biplane. Thus, with the elements against him and surrounded by the gravest danger, Don Hale decided that by the time he reached the aviation field, if he ever did, he should be able to recount a tale as interesting as any of those he had often heard.
Occasionally he glanced over the side of the fuselage, to see the big Caudron, now considerably below him, sometimes skimming close above the clouds and sometimes enveloped in masses of vapor. He very well knew that if an attack were made the photographic machine would be the principal object sought for, owing to the value of the records it was carrying.
And while Don was busily reflecting upon this he suddenly realized that action both above and below him had begun. He could see several planes whirling and darting about, and though the rapid reports of the machine guns were unheard amid the roar of his motor he caught sight of narrow lines of smoke left by the passing tracer bullets.
“Great Julius Cæsar!” he muttered. “I am in for it. I wonder when my part in the show begins!”
It came much sooner than he had expected. While several of the Lafayette machines below and to the rear of the Caudron were engaged in deadly combat by the enemy a fighting plane with the ominous Maltese crosses on its wing flashed past Don Hale, diving vertically toward the tail of the Caudron.
The crucial moment had arrived. Don Hale’s heart was throbbing fast again; his lips were compressed; his eyes flashing. Then, without a second’s indecision—without a thought of the consequences—he, in turn, began a headlong swoop through space.
In a moment or two he shut off the motor; for he was about to execute that evolution taught in the acrobatic school at Pau known as the “Russian Mountain.” Although he had performed it many times under different circumstances, the terrific downward rush never failed to make him gasp for breath. It was the same on this occasion, and his ears seemed to be almost bursting. The rushing wind beat fiercely against him, its whistling notes, ominous and threatening, ringing out loudly. Like a plummet dropped from the clouds, he still plunged in a vertical descent. Now he dashed past, dangerously close to some of the fighting machines, and through an air filled with tracer and flaming bullets.
By this time the Caudron was desperately trying to avoid the enemy in the rear. But it seemed impossible that it could escape from the marvelously swift and brilliantly maneuvered German plane. This machine had just succeeded in gaining an advantageous position when Don Hale swept by.
Now he pushed the control stick away from him, which, raising the ailerons, caused the machine, with startling abruptness, to end its fall and come out on an even keel.
Though jarred and dizzy, the combat pilot lost not a second in starting the engine. Another movement with the control lever, and the Nieuport was shooting upward directly toward the tail of the German plane. Its pilot was already busily engaged in pouring a hail of bullets in the direction of the Caudron.
Don had gone through some thrilling experiences in the war zone, but there had been nothing like this. He realized that the fates had decreed that through his efforts alone the safety of the photographic machine depended. Never before had he fired a Vickers gun in actual combat, and for the briefest interval of time an overwhelming sense of agitation—of excitement gained a hold upon him; and before it had passed, and while the perspiration stood out on his face, he took aim, operating the gun with his left hand, and fired.
He could hear the spitefully-crackling reports; he saw the bursts of smoke spreading outward and upward. Then his machine swept past, in an ascending flight, at a distance of not more than fifty yards.
It was a strange sensation to be gazing upon an enemy’s machine so close at hand, and, in his instantaneous glance, the details seemed to be indelibly impressed upon his mind. He saw the helmeted pilot turn; and for the fraction of a second the two gazed into each other’s faces.
Before Don Hale could maneuver his plane, in order to renew the attack, he passed through some instants of terrible suspense.
Had his shots taken effect? Or was the photographic machine doomed, after all?
But what the boy saw when he looked again made him feel like uttering a shout of joy. The machine with the black crosses on its wings was descending abruptly, with erratic movements.
“I got him!” breathed the boy.
Triumphant, with his fighting blood aroused to the highest pitch, the young combat pilot, yielding to the now irresistible call of battle, shot toward anotheravion de chassewhich bore the enemy’s markings. He had not gone very far, however, when he was startled by a fusillade of flaming bullets, passing close to his wings on the right.
A German pilot had stolen upon him from the rear, and Don was in the worst possible position to defend himself.
Instantly he sent the nose of the Nieuport upward, gave the control lever a swift jerk forth and back, and, like a flash, the machine described a complete backward somersault, while its pursuer shot past beneath.
The almost breathless Don Hale realized that his escape had been of the narrowest sort—that he was still in the gravest peril. Other machines were speeding toward him. The odds were entirely too great for an inexperienced combat pilot. Moreover, he had caught a glimpse of three new French planes coming to the rescue. Don’s own safety lay in the clouds just above, and he flew toward them with all the speed of which his Nieuport was capable.
And in that upward journey, brief though it was, he sensed rather than saw that the air close about him was filled with fiercely contesting planes, darting, swirling, almost tumbling over one another. The atmosphere, too, was literally criss-crossed by the multitude of faint bluish lines left by tracer bullets.
When the clouds closed about Don Hale and he found the view completely obscured, he experienced a wonderful sensation of relief. Yet his nerves were pretty badly shaken. Like the game hunter who has momentarily escaped the lion’s claws yet knows that the mighty animal is lurking near to renew the attack, his thoughts of what the immediate future might have in store for him sent renewed tremors through his frame.
War is a cruel and pitiless thing, in which compassion and the kindlier impulses of the human heart have no place. He himself could give no quarter, nor could he expect any.
And now there was something else besides the relentless foe which began to cause him anxiety—even alarm. The weather conditions had been becoming steadily worse, and the force of the wind, still blowing steadily into “Germany,” made the movements of the Nieuport like that of a boat wallowing in the trough of a heavy sea. Sometimes, without an instant’s warning, he found himself dropping like a shot, and the next moment, as though raised on the crest of a mighty billow, sent shooting upward.
The clouds were growing thicker; the curious, half luminous light was being replaced by a deep and forbidding gloom, not like that of night or of anything else he had ever seen. And through this weird and seemingly unnatural darkness there occasionally came gleams of spectral bluish light which told him that the greatest artillery in the world was rapidly getting ready for action, and that before long it might be expected to break loose in all its majestic power.
Where was he?—far over the German territory? He could not tell; yet it seemed very likely that such was the case. At any rate, he must make for home. How?—below the clouds? No. There are limits to which one’s nerves can be subjected. He must climb through them and fly above. Single-handed it would not do to face those lying in wait below. He felt terribly alone—terribly friendless.
The darkness was suddenly torn asunder by a brighter flash and, for the first time, he heard a sullen rumble, which, beginning like the roll of muffled drums, rapidly increased until it was sounding in a crashing crescendo.
“Great Scott! This is about the worst ever!” muttered Don. “Yes, I certainly shall have something to talk about—only, it will be too much! I never expected that I’d be witnessing a storm from a balcony seat.”
He tried to impart a little jocularity to his tone, but the attempt was unsuccessful.
It was a pretty awesome thing to be amid the storm-clouds, with the coppery colored and bluish gleams now playing almost constantly about him; and this singular situation conjured up all sorts of strange fancies.
Now the wind was buffeting the Nieuport wildly about, tearing against the fuselage and planes in heavy gusts.
But at last Don Hale’s heart was gladdened by the sight of a circular patch of misty light; and presently shooting through a ragged opening in the clouds he saw the illumination spreading out on every side and caught a glimpse of blue in the great expanse above. Probably the most inspiring thing he had ever seen, it lifted a load from his mind. As the shadows produced a depressing effect, so the light seemed to radiate optimism and cheer.
Presently the flying Nieuport carried him to another world equally as strange as the one through which he had just passed. Just below him, to the limits of vision, there extended, like a soft and moving blanket, the billowing forms of the wind-swept clouds.
And skimming across their surface was the grotesquely-shaped shadow of the speeding aeroplane.
Then it suddenly occurred to Don that his situation wasn’t so very much improved after all. During the mêlée and his subsequent experiences he had totally lost track of his bearings. In which direction was the aviation camp? That was a question he could not begin to answer. One thing alone cheered him—he was, at least, headed for the French lines.
And while debating in his mind how soon he might dare to make a plunge through the vapor he happened to glance behind him. And that single glance was the means of causing him to make a discovery—a discovery that was so startling, so terrifying that the blood seemed to almost freeze in his veins.
Bearing down upon him, and almost within firing range, were two great Albatross planes—both of a scarlet hue.
There could be no doubt about it—they belonged to Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.
During the afternoon of the same day that Don Hale was destined to have his great adventures George Glenn and Bobby Dunlap, off duty, decided to take a little jaunt about the surrounding country.
Leaving the main highway the boys struck off toward the southeast.
The road sometimes took them past stuccoed walls, gray, chipped and broken by the ravages of time; and here and there, rising high above the faded red coping, were the tall and graceful poplars so characteristic of the landscapes. Once in a while, the two, their youthful curiosity aroused, peeped between the bars of the entrance gates to get a look, if they could, at the mansion so secluded from public gaze.
Presently the boys were descending a steep road which led down to a little village at the base. Occasionally, between the trees, they caught glimpses of red-roofed houses, and the spire of an ancient church, all serenely beautiful in the midst of a peaceful landscape.
Now George and Bobby came acrosspoilusresting on either side of the highway. And then, to bring the grimness of warfare once more to their minds, a Red Cross ambulance, leaving behind it a long trail of yellowish dust, rumbled up the hill, carrying its load of wounded to the base hospital further to the rear.
Arriving at the bottom of the incline the two found themselves on a road which turned abruptly. Soldiers were billeted in the village; and in the courtyards and out on the streets were rolling kitchens, while parked at various points they saw huge camions awaiting their turn to carry supplies toward the front. Evidently but few of the inhabitants remained; and the reason was at once apparent—there was scarcely a house which did not show some evidence of scorching shell fire or the devastation caused by bombs dropped from the air.
George and Bobby soon passed the quaint old church, no longer a place of worship but a hospital, and continued on, soon leaving behind them the village, with its soldiers, camions and other paraphernalia of war.
“Now let’s take a rest,” suggested Bobby, at length.
“You’ll not hear any objections from me,” said George. He turned his gaze toward the east, adding: “I hope to goodness Don doesn’t run into trouble over the front to-day.”
“I’m with you there, Georgie,” said Peur Jamais, gravely. “I never saw such impolite fellows as those Boches. Just the other day one of them chased me for miles, and all I did was to empty a belt of cartridges in his direction. Honestly, I believe he wanted to hurt me.”
“I guess you’re about right,” laughed George.
“Hello! just cast your eyes along the road. But do it gently, though, so as not to hurt them. Do you see that chap yonder—about to cross?”
“My vision being extremely good, I can.”
“Don’t you see anything familiar about him?”
George, after taking a long and earnest look at the blue bloused figure, nodded his head.
“Yes; to be sure. It’s the peasant who’s been visiting our escadrille.”
“Correct, old chap. And say, did you ever notice how chummy he’s gotten to be with Jason Hamlin? Funny combination, that—a college highbrow and an humble, downtrodden tiller of the soil. By the way, Vicky Gilbert certainly has said some funny things to Jasy.”
“Have you found out yet what the scrap is all about?”
Peur Jamais pondered an instant before replying, and then said, slowly:
“From what Vicky said it looks as if he thought Hamlin was, or rather wasn’t—— No, that he was, I should say——” And here the young combat pilot broke off abruptly, to further remark, after a few moments of earnest reflection: “No—I reckon I’d better wait until further developments. One day I happened to say a few words to one of the chaps about it when along waltzed the captain, who had overheard; and he said to me: ‘What do you mean?’ Crickets! It was awful!” Bobby began to grin broadly. “It reminded me of the time I used to get hauled up in the principal’s room to explain certain things that had happened in the classroom. But, I say; let’s skip after the old boy, and interview him.”
“What’s the good?” asked George.
“None at all. But what’s the good of staying here? Coming?”
“First tell me what the captain said.”
“‘No!—a thousand times no!’ as the persecuted heroine in the play has it. Later on—perhaps. Just now my sole desire in life is to inflict some of my French upon the humble plodder.”
Without further ado, Peur Jamais started off and George, with a good-humored smile, followed.
It took the boys but a few moments to reach the road where the peasant had been observed; but although he had been walking very slowly the man was not in sight. The road was as deserted as a road could be.
“Hello! That’s rather odd!” cried Peur Jamais. “A shabby way to treat a couple of would-be interviewers, I call it. In classic language, I wonder where he’s at!”
“That oughtn’t to be a hard job for Sherlock Holmes the Second to find out,” suggested George.
Bobby laughed and began studying the surroundings with keen attention.
In the fields were growing crops, all bathed in bright, clear sunshine. Little clumps of trees and patches of woods dotted the landscape, while, far off, the irregular contour of the hills limned itself with hazy indistinctness against the brilliant sky. To the left a touch of blue, like a bold splash of paint upon canvas, indicated a pond, and nearer at hand rose three sturdy oaks, majestic specimens of their kind. Just behind these Peur Jamais espied a house.
“I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that’s the peasant’s castle,” he remarked. “Suppose we journey over there, Georgie, and see! I declare! I won’t be satisfied until I learn a bit more about him. It’s a little odd that such an uncouth specimen should take so much interest in an aviation camp.”
“Mild adventures, after our strenuous ones, have a sort of appeal to me,” confessed George. “So I’m quite willing.”
Following the road for a short distance the boys found a narrow path leading across the field; so they headed for the ancient oaks and the house behind them.
They had expected to see some evidences of farming, some indications of laborers in the fields beyond, but on arriving at the structure, a typical old farmhouse, everything wore a mournful and deserted air, as though all human activity and endeavor had long ago departed, leaving the building to crumble and decay.
“It seems that we’ve had all our pleasure for nothing,” grumbled Peur Jamais. “Nobody can be living in this old shack. But as a deserted house is anybody’s home, I’m going in.”
“I’ll share the danger with you,” laughed George.
The door stood invitingly ajar, and one vigorous push sent it creaking back on a pair of rusty hinges.
All the dreary and forlorn appearance which marked the exterior of the ancient farmhouse was to be met with in the interior. Dust lay thick on the floors, and a few pieces of broken-down furniture added their quota to the depressing atmosphere.
“This place is enough to give a fellow the creeps!” declared Bobby. “Just imagine how nice it would be strolling around here on a stormy midnight, with lightning the only illumination. Hello!—goodness gracious!”
A very unexpected interruption had caused Peur Jamais to utter the exclamation.
Quick footsteps had sounded. And, as both boys, a little startled, but more surprised, hastily glanced at an open doorway leading to another room, they saw a blue-bloused figure suddenly appear.
It was the peasant for whom they had been seeking.
At another place and under different circumstances this meeting would have been a most ordinary and commonplace event, but, somehow, in the shadowed and deserted farmhouse it seemed to have imparted to it a curiously dramatic effect.
It was Peur Jamais who broke a rather intense and awkward silence.
“Hello! You are here after all!” he cried.
“Ah! So it is some of my young friends, the aviateurs Americaines!” exclaimed the peasant. His manner was that of a man who had been startled by an unlooked-for intrusion, and, in consequence, felt considerably displeased. “In France, mes amis, before entering a dwelling one usually knocks.”
“So we do when we enter a dwelling,” said Peur Jamais, airily. “But what in the world are you doing here?”
“And, may I inquire, what in the world are you doing here?”
“We came to see you.”
“You came to see me! How did you get here?”
Thereupon George Glenn, who had a more fluent command of French than Bobby, smilingly explained.
“But, you must remember, people cannot go everywhere they please without knowing that they have the right,” said the peasant, chidingly.
“Well, since we’re here we’re here,” said Peur Jamais. “However, Monsieur, you certainly can’t be staying in a place like this?”
“I believe I have not as yet given any information as to my place of residence.” The Frenchman’s tone clearly conveyed a hint that he was annoyed at the curiosity which Bobby displayed. “Houses are like men, mon ami: they live their allotted time, and then their days are done.”
“Well, come on, Georgie, let us take a look at the old place,” cried Peur Jamais.
And Bobby, with a merry laugh, started for the adjoining room.
But his passage was unexpectedly blocked.
His passage was unexpectedly blocked
His passage was unexpectedly blocked
The peasant had stepped in front of him, saying in a firm tone:
“Must I remind you, my young friend, of what I said just a few moments ago?”
Bobby was surprised—so much surprised, indeed, that for an instant he stared at the peasant without speaking; and his scrutiny was so searching, so earnest, that the man, as though finding it either annoying or disconcerting, moved toward a shadowy corner of the room.
“But what have you got to say about it?” blurted out Peur Jamais, at length. “It isn’t your house; so I’d like to know why we mayn’t go up-stairs?”
“Like good soldiers, we must sometimes obey commands without knowing the reasons for their being given,” said the peasant, gravely. “So I am sure you will consider me neither impolite nor unobliging if I refrain from speaking further on the subject.”
“Certainly, Monsieur,” put in George, quickly. “We have no wish to intrude. Come on, Bobby.”
Peur Jamais, however, his face wearing a rather curious expression, began to interrogate the Frenchman, beginning with this rather unusual question:
“What’s the best time to plant potatoes?”
The peasant smiled genially.
“Are you thinking of starting a farm?” he queried.
“No; I am merely a seeker after information.”
“Then I would advise you to buy a copy of some agricultural paper which treats such questions exhaustively. And now, if you will pardon me, I will sayau revoir!”
“No objections, I’m sure!” grumbled Bobby. “I hope your farm prospers. It’s quite a hard life, isn’t it?”
“That depends upon a man’s health, strength and temperament,” countered the peasant, in an unruffled tone. “Goodbye!”
He laid just enough emphasis on the last words to cause the boys to nod and then walk slowly outside.
They had progressed but a few yards when Bobby began to laugh and chuckle in a most peculiar manner. Then his face suddenly became grave and stern.
“Georgie, I think I’ve made a discovery—quite an astonishing discovery, too,” he exclaimed. “That man is as much a peasant as either you or I. He’s merely a bit of human camouflage; he’s masquerading—do you get me?—masquerading! And what’s the answer?”
Peur Jamais’ brow was knit. His hands were clenched.
“I am willing to admit that just now he did not either speak or act exactly like a peasant,” said George.
“You’ve said something, Georgie,” declared Bobby, very earnestly. “Listen!” As they walked slowly, side by side, he gripped George Glenn’s arm. “Ever since that night old Père Goubain talked to us about spies I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open. Well, do you want to know what I think the answer is?—that mysterious peasant is a spy—yes sir, a confounded spy. Why has he been nosing around the aviation camp? Why didn’t he want us to go up-stairs? Oh yes, it’s all as clear as day. Who knows—it may even have been he who was the means of sending those bombing machines to spill a little fireworks on the camp!”
By this time the two had reached the road, and Bobby stopped and leaned against the fence.
“It strikes me that this hasn’t been such a mild adventure, after all,” he continued, with increasing vehemence. “And through it we may be the means of ridding France of a dangerous enemy; just think of it—you and I, Georgie! I can almost hear the commander saying: ‘My brave and loyal friends, in the name of my countrymen, I thank you!’”
“Can you also see the medals pinned to our manly breasts?” asked the other, quizzically.
“I’m not joking, Georgie.”
“I’m sure you’re not. You look just as earnest as if Captain Von Richtofen and his red planes had come over to pay us their respects.”
Peur Jamais sniffed.
“At any rate it isn’t going to be a laughing matter for some one,” he asserted, grimly. “Pretty smart old chap, that! ‘Buy a copy of some agricultural paper,’ eh! No doubt he’s chuckling now at the way he pulled off those evasive answers. But evasions don’t go with court martials.”
“You are certainly correct there,” acquiesced his companion.
“By George, Georgie, you’re an aggravating chap!” exploded Bobby. “By the way you act one might think that this great discovery was of no more importance than reading an agricultural paper. Wake up! You’re right here on earth, and not up among the clouds!”
“I’m trying to do a little discreet thinking before indulging in any indiscreet remarks,” said George. “You know, as Longfellow says: ‘Things are not always what they seem.’”
“Well, I declare! Indiscreet talking, indeed!” almost shouted Peur Jamais. “I suppose your idea is to let the old bird alone, eh?”
“As yet, I haven’t a very clear idea of what my idea on the subject is,” returned George, with a smile.
“And I have such a clear idea of what my idea is that it fairly dazzles me. Great Julius Cæsar!——”
Peur Jarnais blurted out this exclamation with considerable force, and as he certainly could have neither seen nor heard anything to justify its utterance George very naturally demanded an explanation.
“Oh, it’s nothing that would be likely to interest you,” returned Bobby, sarcastically. “Some rather odd thoughts about Jason Hamlin just happened to pop into my mind.” And then, as though ruminating to himself, he added: “Oh, yes, I’m mighty glad we took this walk. It may have an astonishing sequel.”
George pressed him for an explanation, but Bobby merely replied:
“One of these days you’ll find out.”
“But just think of all the suspense I’ll have to endure,” said George, lightly.
Thereupon the march was resumed.
And notwithstanding the fact that both boys were in the uniform of the flying corps they were occasionally obliged by the ever-vigilant sentries to show their credentials.
It was after one of these experiences that Bobby thoughtfully remarked:
“I can’t understand how, with all their care, that old would-be peasant was able to pull off the trick.”
“What trick?” asked George, innocently.
“Trying to kid me, eh?” jeered Peur Jarnais. “But I’m the original kid that can’t be kidded.”
Toward late afternoon, seeing that a storm was approaching, the two took counsel and decided that it might be better to retrace their steps.
“I prefer my shower baths taken in the regular way,” remarked Bobby. “By the looks of it, I should say the weather is going from bad to worse.”
“And we’ll have to move quickly if we expect to escape it,” commented the other.
During the entire trip George had many times felt twinges of anxiety in regard to his chum Don Hale, which he found quite impossible to cast aside. Acting as an escort over a hostile territory was a very dangerous thing for a new pilot to undertake. He could recall many men who had failed to return from such journeys, some of whom were probably languishing in a German detention camp.
Quite a number of the Lafayette Escadrille were at the villa when the boys arrived. But George Glenn found that he was unable to join in the general fun and jollity.
The storm was very severe indeed; and during its height George, unable to bear the suspense any longer, went to the telephone and called up the bureau on the aviation grounds.
“Hello! Is Don Hale there?” he asked.
A pang shot through him as the answer came back:
“No; neither he nor Albert returned with the rest of the escort.”
“Did not return with the rest of the escort!” gasped George. He felt a peculiar dryness come into his throat and into his heart a sinking feeling. “Were the escorting machines attacked?” he asked.
“Yes; there was a lively scrimmage.”
“Great Scott! This is terrible!” murmured George. Then, speaking into the transmitter again, he asked, weakly: “Have you no news of them at all?”
“None whatever,” came the response. “We have telephoned to the observation post at the front, but they can tell us nothing. Hale, however, has been given credit for preventing the destruction of the Caudron machine.”
By this time several others were crowding around. All had become accustomed to tragic happenings and the occasional disappearance of some of their members; yet every fresh event of the kind brought with it the same distressing pangs.
“This is bad news, indeed!” exclaimed Victor Gilbert. “Poor Don Hale! Poor Albert! I wonder—I do wonder what could have happened to them!”
“I hope it will not be the official communique that tells us,” said George, gloomily, as he replaced the telephone on the hook.