About the time that Corporal Orris Erwin was able to take his place again as a fighting aviator, Sergeant Blaine, returning from a long scouting raid over in the enemy's territory, met the boy in the broad drive of the aerodrome looking about him rather strangely. He threw an arm over Orry's shoulder, and drew him along to the door of the Aero Club.
"Been in here?" he asked. "It is great! They asking 'bout you the day we left. Heard about Cheval?"
Orris, not feeling like talking, shook his head, vouchsafing:
"Nothing only that he went along with your squadron at the last minute."
"Poor chap! He won't raid with us again. He went down near Essen. There was where we were to unload most of our bombs. But Archie got him. Down he went -" Blaine's eyes grew moist at the memory.
Erwin understood. "Nothing more?" he ventured.
"Nary thing, except that we gave the Krupp works hell for about fifteen or twenty minutes. You should have seen the explosions."
"That part was good. Say, Blaine," Orris, was looking, thoughtful, "has it ever struck you how terribly uncertain a thing life is —"
"Oh, rats!" Blaine shook his smaller companion as they neared the club door. "Stow that sort of talk and thought! Don't do you a bit of good or those that hear you. See?"
"Still, since my last flight with you, these thing will run across my mind. What is up now ? You in on anything yet?"
"I've heard — but don't whisper a word — that we're on for a job of sausage driving next. Nothing sure, though."
Sausages is the slang term for gas observation balloons which go up at certain points and observe the enemy's positions or maneuvers before and during battle on the earth below. Sausages do not fight back much but are protected by support battle planes and in other ways.
Reaching the clubroom door, they entered, Blaine pushing his comrade forward and saying with mock politeness:
"Let me present my comrade Erwin, or Orry, I like to call him. While doing the Boches the other day at Appincourte Bluff, the Boches came mighty nigh doing him. But here he is, what's left of him. Jolly him a bit. He feels bad!" The last tweak in allusion to Orry's remark on the uncertainty of life.
'There were a dozen or more of the air lads in the room and cigarette smoke tinged the air. Towards Erwin, now recovered after nearly a three week's "lay-off" on account of his burns and other wounds, there was a general rush of friendly hands and voices.
"Oh, you bully l'ill boy! If I hadn't been kept so busy would have gone round to jolly you up a bit. But I kept hearin' from you all the same."
This from Milton, or "Milt" Finzer, a Louisville lad, now in the Royal Flying Corps for more than a year. "Don't it seem wallopin' to see you in the clubroom again!"
"Orry, you stale mutt," this from an Americanized Pole, without a trace of foreign accent, "I'm too glad to see you to talk much about it. When we bombers got back from the raid that night and neither you nor Lafe had showed up, I felt bad enough. Later when Lafe came in with a German plane and a half dead Boche inside, we felt better. But we missed you, Orry."
"Did you really and truly miss me?" Erwin asked, this not in a spirit of doubt or incredulity, but only to hear his friend reemphasize it. One likes at times to have welcome truisms reechoed over again. It is human nature I suppose.
"Look here, Lex Brodno, you're a Pole —"
"Don't spring that on me again, even in joke I am an American, it my folks did come over from Warsaw."
"Bully! We're all one over here. That's the way to talk!" Erwin was getting back his old-time spirits. "All one in the good old U.S. All one over here — eh? Oh, you sinner!" The two walked over to a table, interrupted at every turn by those who wanted to welcome Orry back to the club again.
The following morning Erwin resumed his daily stunt of practice, but was heightened mightily in spirit by noticing in the hangar where he had usually gotten his machines a bright new scouting plane, small, with a tail like a dolphin's, an up-to-date machine gun mounted along the top, just where the one pilot at the wheel could handily squint through the sights.
"Why, it's British — one of their latest makes," informed Erwin, much pleased. "It's — let's see." He was squinting at the monogram. "B-X-3. No. 48."
Just then Blaine and Finzer strolled up.
"Going out for a little spin, Orry?" queried Blaine, throwing open wider the hangar door. "Look at 'em! Ain't they beauts?"
There was a row of eight of these snug-built machines, all the same type and monogram, all with machine guns strapped solidly to the fuselage of each, and with motors of great power and pliability.
"You can do anything with these chaps," remarked Milt, "except fly to the moon. But these motors would take you a long way. As for stunts like diving, circling, dipping, playing dead and the like, you never saw the like. I only hope we go out soon. I learn there's a new raid on the taps."
Blaine was nosing about one of the machines that was like the others, only a trifle larger and had an observer's seat behind the pilot's.
"That's your, Sergeant?" queried Erwin, slightly emphasizing the last word.
"Bet your bottee wootees, Corporal!" Another slight emphasis on the last word. "As for yours, take your pick. They're all exactly alike. We must go into preliminary practice today."
For an answer Erwin mechanically rolled out the machine he had first examined, and prepared for a short flight.
"After all, all, these are much like the planes we used at Vimy last year."
"Some improvements and stronger motors added thought," said Blaine."Going to give it a try-out?"
"Yep! Thought I'd like to get my hand in a bit before we go out in squad formation." He nimbly vaulted into his seat over the rim of the fuselage, or the body of the machine, as two mechanics pushed forward behind the wings.
An upward flip and the alert planes rose gently into the air, and Erwin was off. His head was cool, his brain active, and more than all his hands were steady.
About this time Finzer had rolled out another plane and almost immediately rose behind Orris.
The two were at once climbing high, higher, until at an elevation of two to three thousand feet they began to circle, climb and dip in a way that reminded one of two high-flying birds playing at tag far up in the blue expanse of sky above.
Then Erwin's machine did a flip, bringing it above the other machine and "onto its tail," the favorable position for aerial attack. Suddenly Finzer turned his nose earthward and began a whirling dive. Erwin followed; the other coming at once into horizontal poise, turned his nose towards Erwin — the perfect position for pouring a rain of shot as the other passed.
Of course all this was mere practice, the full handed exercise of the fighting aviator, through which he keeps brain, eye and hand in trim against the perilous, heroic few seconds when he must fight to save his life and machine.
Meantime Blaine, along with Brodno, the Americanized Pole, and one or two others, strolled about, lazily watching the maneuvers above, and telling stories more or less related to their and fighting experiences flying.
Presently down came the two fliers, each with heightened color and full of that fresh buoyancy which short, lively flights are apt to create. Both were flippantly arguing as to which one had got the best of the other.
"I own up that I am a little bit stale, Milt. But you wait until we go out for squadron practice. I'll show you!"
"Yes, you will," replied Finzer, good-naturedly caustic. "Perhaps I'll show you another trick or two then."
And so the chaffing went on as the lads adjourned to the eating-house for lunch.
This meal over, a bugle sounded from the parade ground near the grove of trees. It was the general summons for squadron practice. As the boys filed out, each in full flying rig, they saw Commander Byers on the field, watching the mechanics roll out the machines. There were a dozen or more of the fighting planes, like those which Erwin and Finzer had used for morning practice. In the east, from over a monotonous expanse of scarred and war-torn country, came the sullen roar of artillery at the front, a stern reminder that real war was close at hand.
Each aviator at once mounted his own machine, Blaine as squad sergeant in the one he had indicated to Erwin earlier in the day. Erwin took his, while Finzer, Brodno, and a real American lad from Butte, Montana, were assigned to others of these fast, nimble, scouting planes that are really the wasps of the air, carrying their sting with them, always ready and willing to bite.
Meanwhile at each machine two mechanics, under the eye of the airman, went carefully over the mechanism until all were satisfied. Up they went, singly or in pairs, gyrating playfully, always climbing, and swooping higher, higher, until to the naked eye they became mere dots in the clear sky.
By this time it was noticeable that they had somehow divided into two squads or escadrilles; and at a signal from Commander Byers down below they began maneuvering like two hostile squadrons about to engage in aerial battle. Thereupon ensued a display of battle tactics that would have been bewildering to an unaccustomed spectator.
These vicious little fighting planes reminded one more of air insects than of birds. In their forward rushes many of them were doing more than two miles a minute.
"Watch out!" said the Commander, his glass at his eyes. "The Sergeant is going to loop."
True enough, Blaine's machine took a nose flip. He was riding upside down. Then he was level again. The rest of his squad followed suit, then followed their leader at a daring angle, all of them straight and level again. The first plane in the other line, driven by Erwin, began to loop the loop sidewise, rolling over and over, not unlike a horse rolls over when turned out to grass. The others behind him began much the same tactics while the first line drew away as if preparing for counter moves.
Beyond, in the further sky, two opposing machines having detached themselves from the rest were playing with each other like kittens with wings. One was making rapid evolutions, the other following, and clinging to the set course in a series of whirls with its own wing-tip as a pivot.
Below, the comments went on from the staff surrounding the Commander, who would say now and then:
"Look you there! Was that not fine?"
"Hard to beat," seemed to be the general verdict. "Fritz will have to open his eyes tomorrow."
And so the show above went on. A flock of little birds chirped and flopped past the group below. What pikers they seemed by comparison, with the show going on above — far above! And now they were descending in long spirals, each squad by itself, yet preserving the mathematical distance required, both from the opposing squad and at the same time keeping the line prescribed for such tactics during drills at the home grounds.
Particularly did Blaine distinguish himself in the daring of his stunts. Erwin was hardly behind him. They looped again, they rolled, they did the wing and tail slides, doing the last until they fell almost perpendicularly a thousand feet. Finally they righted hardly two hundred feet above the earth; then shot upward again at almost incredible speed.
And now the two leaders circled slowly as their respective squads followed on towards the ground, some falling, drifting like dead leaves, others slanting lazily as they passed the leaders, and on down, alighting at last each in his appointed place or thereabouts.
And then the two leaders began circling and swooping more and more rapidly until those below felt the whirring rush of air as the two planes swept by so low that one imagined that an arm would nearly touch them.
All hands knew it was rivalry — the rivalry of stunts. Yet to stand below and watch those steel engines falling down on you from the skies took the same kind of nerve to keep from dodging as only airmen themselves are gifted with by practice.
Finally all this drew to a close. The machines at last ranged themselves at opposite extremes of the landing stage and with a final swoop both were apparently upon the spectators as with the rush of a whirlwind. Yet, dizzy as it looked, it was mathematically timed. The two planes flattened as if by magic; they rose, dipped again and, passing each other in the down grade, saluted methodically as they passed the Commander. Ten seconds later their wheels dropped gently on the gravel at either end of the parade ground two tired looking aviators left their the waiting mechanics and walked soberly to the others.
The stunts were over for the day.
"Well, well, Orry! How do you feel after your stunts of yesterday?"
This from Sergeant Blaine as he jumped from his bunk in the aerodrome dormitory the following morning just as the dawn was breaking.
Erwin, still drowsing, opened one eye. The next instant, remembering what the day probably hold in store for him, he threw off the covers and leapt from his bunk. At the same time, in order impress Blaine with his general fitness, he hit the big Sergeant a mock blow on the midwind region where, according to ring history, Fitzsimons dropped Corbett in their historic championship fight. Then he sprang back, arms and fists feinting.
"Can't you see how I feel?" he retorted. "Want to try me more?"
"Nit, you shyster, nit!" Blaine was laughing as he recovered, retreating and grimacing, as if in mock misery. "I don't want no more solar plexus stuff at this stage of the game. I guess you're all right."
"Bet your thick cocoanut I am! I was a bit drowsy at first. Say,Lafe, you know I must be in on this, whatever it is."
"Sure! I was at first a bit afraid that all those air stunts might have frazzled you a little, seeing you are just out of hospital."
"Honest Injun, Lafe, I'm all right! Don't you forget to remember that!"
"Well, then, get your clothes on. I want to talk to you private like." And Blaine sauntered off, lighting, a cigarette, while Erwin hastily put on his clothes. Going out soon, he encountered Blaine on the parade before the hangars where the starting of planes usually began.
It promised to be a lovely day. Not a cloud was in the sky. Off to the east a lone airplane was, soaring high over No-Man Is-Land, doubtless one of the night scouts that are maintained along that portion of the front.
Said Lafe:
"Last night after the rest of you had gone to the clubroom, Byers sent for me and told me briefly what he wanted us to attempt today. You know those sausages the Boches got now, over back of that bluff you unearthed the day you came home after our last raid?"
"Appincourte?" Orris blinked and nodded. "I ought to remember."
"Well, the French have tried a time or two to get them, but the Boche planes have been too much for them so far. Kept them so busy fighting back, they had no time to do much bombing. And now word has come from headquarters that they must go. Must! See?"
Erwin nodded. He took a deep breath, feeling already the lift in the pure morning air. Blaine continued:
"Well, Anson was to have headed this raid, but he's been promoted also. He's an ensign now. I am in his place and they made you corporal under me for two reasons. One was on account of the stunts you did along with me; then for what you did after you went on your own hook and busted into that Boche communicating trench which made them try to Archie you and thus exposed to us what they had done in making themselves at home under Appincourte Bluff."
"Yes, yes! Come to the point, Lafe! What is it you and I have got to do today, or whenever it comes off?"
"Don't be so impatient. The second reason is because they now think you have nerve enough for most anything, and that we two, working together might succeed in puffing off this sausage business best in our own way."
"You mean we are to bomb them where and when we please?"
"No — of course not! But Byers, who is the real head here, thinks you and I, taking as many other chaps along as we please, can force our way in our fighting planes to where these pesky gas keep hanging and spying on us, and literally blow them to dashed smithereens. See?"
"But how? Their Archies will blow us to Hades and be gone before we reach anywhere near. It looks like a forlorn hope —"
Blaine smiled, as he interrupted with:
'Like Balaklava, eh? Or old Pickett's third day charge at Gettysburg?"
Erwin did not reply. Blaine continued:
"If we go strong enough and swift and low enough, we'll got there; and, once there we'll do the bombing all righty!"
"And in broad daylight, too?"
"I don't say that, Orry. All this is strictly between you and me. Byers rather favors a daylight raid as affording a better chance to regain our own lines, either after bombing or in case we fail. But we're not going to fail . These dratted sausages have got to come down!"
"Are you sure they stay up at night?"
"Ever since we busted up that bluff you exposed, there they stay day and night, half a dozen or more. And my own notion is that if we have a new offensive here, which I think looks likely to a man up a tree, those blamed sausages will give the Boches too much leeway in nosing out ahead what we might be trying to do in getting ready."
"Well, what else? Will Captain Byers leave it to you? "
"I think he will . Having tried every other way and failed, he will let us — you and me in private but me in public, decide upon the way we'd prefer. Both of us have been over the ground. We know how far we have to go. I also know about what the Boches have got behind those balloons. It was only a few miles from there that we — you and me — got that Taube and the German aviator. Believe me, unless things have changed mightily, there isn't much there in the way of reinforcements or more planes or anything."
"You've been back there since?"
"You bet! Finzer and I went over there the day before you left the hospital. The Boches have no notion that our side is doing anything here, except air-raiding in No-Man's-Land or using our planes. That is one reason the headquarters thinks that it is a good place to — to do something."
"Well Lafe," Orris spoke deliberately, "you know I am with you. Tell me as much or as little as you please. I'll follow you to the last notch."
"I knew it!" Blaine grasped his comrade's hand and nearly wrung the fingers off. "Well, keep mum! Don't say anything to anybody but me. If Byers says anything, give him to understand you are in it from the word go, but no more. We'll win out again. Hear me?"
For reply, Erwin shook his released fingers, regarded Blaine with mock reproach, and volunteered:
"I'll agree to everything after that grip, I'm with you to the death.But don't do that again."
Blaine laughed gleefully as he turned away, patting Orris on the shoulder approvingly.
"I always thought you were a sticker, Orry."
"That's better 'n being a slicker or a slacker, isn't it?"
Again the big fellow laughed as he hurried off towards the Captain's quarters at the far end of the grounds.
The day passed quietly. From time to time, Blaine held private conferences with various members of the flying squad. These were mostly Americans who had either served a year or two at the western front, or were more recent arrival who had joined because of special aptitude for flying.
During the day sundry scouts penetrated here and there over the enemy lines and their report were favorable for the plan Blaine had in mind. A risky plan, yet promising well if skillfully carried out.
Towards night he had a last conference with Byers, who had more than hesitated over the proposed program, yet gave in before the Sergeant's enthusiasms.
"I agree," said the commander. "But it is risky. It can be done. Yet whether you are the man to do it — well, we'll know in the morning. Do your best. Be prudent; not too prudent; but at the same time try to be wise to things as they come up. Remember I have more responsibility than you. Your responsibility is only to me. It ceases where mine begins."
"Don't fear, Captain. Let what Erwin and I did the other night be duly considered. I need your full support —"
"Young man, you have it!" Here Byers took Blaine's hand and shook it heartily. "Bring back as many of your squad as you can, but above all carry out your program."
Night came, and with it a comfortable fog that rose white and misty, good for the purpose in hand. The clocks were pointing towards seven when something like a dozen men, wearing the regulation uniform, gathered at the usual open space, while from the doors of several hangars mechanics were silently rolling out machines.
Each aviator gave a few comprehensive looks and touches to his own plane, just to reassure himself that things were all right. Then came a brief moment or two of silent waiting. There were no, spectators. Even the rest of the men at the aerodrome did not appear. This was according to orders.
Out in front stood Captain Byers, attended by Blaine and Erwin, talking in low, indistinct tones. Finally Byers looked at his watch.
"Time's up, I guess. Do your best, you two. You, Blaine, will veer to the right as you approach the enemy trenches. You, sir," to Orris, "will draw to the left. Your squads will follow their respective leaders. Should you meet opposition before you reach the balloons, don't flinch. Pour on more speed. Don't signal unless necessary but obey signals when given. Au revoir, lads! Don't come back until you have delivered the goods."
Back went the Sergeant and Corporal, each to his own machine, which headed a short double line holding six planes, or a dozen in all.
At a quiet signal the leaders rose, spiraling into the upper darkness. Presently all had vanished, zigzagging in an easterly direction. About this time there came a sudden blue flare as a solitary rocket shot upward from beyond the grove of trees that that marked the landing place within the enclosed area that formed this aerodrome.
Instantly Byers was on the qui vive, he being nearest the point indicated by the blue flare. Bursting into a full run, he sped towards the spot, at the same time breaking in on several sentries unobtrusively posted about the grounds where the raiders had departed.
"Scatter lads!" he ordered. "Hurry! Spies at work! Halt any one you see, no matter who! Bring 'em in!"
Never halting in his race, he made directly for the spot whence the flare of the rocket had gone up. As he neared the trees, the sounds of a child's voice came to his ears, just inside the grove. It was remonstrating to some one.
"D — don't, papa! I — I want to get the pieces. My! Wasn't it pretty —"
Another voice, hoarse, gruff, stopped the childish words, but what it said was indistinguishable. Byers looked around. Two of his sentries were near, all of them running.
"Did you hear that child?" queried the captain. "Scatter! Don't let either child or the grow one escape. Be spry! Watch out!"
As Byers uttered the last exclamation, a running figure emerged from the shadow of the nearer trees and started full tilt towards the quarters where the cook's galley was. All three, running hard had slightly scattered, in order to intercept the fugitive should he try to dodge amid the various buildings.
Swift as were the pursuers, the fugitive was more speedy.
At one instant they saw him in a twinkling of light from one of the open doors. The next instant the form was gone. There came a faint echo of half-smothered infantile cries.
Byers dashed by the lighted door, then stumbled over a small form on the ground and there rose another wail, now of terror if not of pain.
Quickly the captain picked up the small figure in big arms and ran on, holding it gently, yet firmly, and saying:
"There, there, little one! I won't hurt you!"
"D — don't you hurt my pa, " wailed the small figure in his arms. "He — was only making show for me —" More crying.
Where was the man? Only one clew had the captain. The fellow was round-shouldered, or seemed so in the glimpse Byers caught of them just before he dropped the child. Presently, one after another of the sentries came in, breathless yet unsuccessful. Somehow the fugitive had vanished, and look as they might, no further sign of him was seen.
"Skip around some more!" ordered the captain. "Try every door you pass. The fellow must be around somewhere. Call me if necessary. I'll be on hand."
While the baffled sentries did as directed Byers who was a father himself, placed the child on a convenient bench beside him, patting its head soothingly with one hand while he searched his pockets with the other. Then he produced the remnant of a package of chocolate drops, part of the contents of a box recently received from home.
"Like candy?" he asked, putting some of the candy in the child's lap."Good candy — right, from my home across the sea."
This in such French as Byers could command, which was plenty for the purpose. At first the child, whom he now perceived was a girl, would not try it, but presently a sight of the sweet was more than it could stand.
Seizing the offered sweets, it began to eat greedily.
"My papa have no sweets like this," munching greedily. "Who you?Where my papa?"
"Know where your pa stays? I take you back to him."
For an answer the girl jumped down, still clutching the candy. She took Byers' hand, leading him back by another alley amid buildings here devoted to the culinary department of that cantonment. One of the sentries appeared. The child pushed on, leading Byers, who cautioned the sentry to say nothing, but to follow.
"What is your papa's name?" asked the captain.
"He name Bauer — Monsieur Bauer —" The child suddenly stopped.
"What is the matter, little one?" asked Byers, pulses thrilling under a vague suspicion. But here the sentry, forgetting the captain's caution, interposed with:
"I know him, Sir! Hermann Bauer, our assistant quartermaster -"
'Hush-h-h!" admonished Byers, frowning, shaking his head and pointing at the child, now staring at him wonderingly, then pouting as she queried:
"You no hurt my papa?"
The door of a nearby house suddenly flew open and a fleshy, round-shouldered man appeared. He saluted, then said:
"Good evening, Messieurs! I see you have my little girl with you."
"Monsieur Bauer!" The captain stood up, ignoring the other's salute."I suppose you know that you are now under arrest?"
"It is what I feared. May I take my little girl inside?"
"Yes, provided the sentry and I go with you."
"You may as well: you'll go anyway. Please do not give me away."
With remarkable nerve, Bauer lifted the wondering child to his arms and led the way inside.
Five minutes later he emerged, the captain and the sentry on either side, and set out amid childish protests from within.
"She overtook me while I was on my way," he confessed. "It is fate, I guess."
Then the three started on the way to aerodrome headquarters.
About this time came the sounds of heavy firing over No-Man's-Land.
"That is one result of your rocket, Bauer, Byers, grimly.
Once clear of the Allied front line of trenches, the double platoon of planes spread out on either hand, flying swiftly yet keeping near the earth. This was strange for so formidable a squadron of fighting, one-man planes that usually soar up to lofty heights, far from the direct range Fritzy's Archies.
But their instructions were clear, and each trained pilot knew just what he had to do. Swiftly and still more swiftly they flew. The night mists, growing yet more opaque, promised, favorably. Appincourte Bluff, just beyond the little river, could hardly be seen at all, but the roar of the motors overhead indicated that something might be on the wing. Without question few advance sentries still remained near the ruins that once had been a capacious subterranean chamber. From there the Germans had doubtless expected to emerge in assault, while their artillery made the essential barrage to stay any possible resistance while their infantry crossed the stream. But the Allied bombardment, made possible by Erwin's daring final flight across the Bluff towards his own quarters, had made Appincourte futile so far as that assault went. Still Fritz might be there. He was there — that is, a few of him. They were watching for a signal - the blue flare of a rocket that should tell Fritz of another air raid.
But the noise of motors close above confused his calculations. Why were the Entente airmen flying so low? Might they not be up to more devilment with regard to Appincourte? The blue flare had gone up.
But it happened that Fritz did not see it. Fearing now that many bombs might be dropped their defenseless heads, and with the whir of many motors in their ears, all the time growing louder, nearer, the small squad of night sentries, scudded as one man for the small dugout. This had been made immediately after the Bluff was wrecked by the bombardment. In there they cuddled, expecting the deafening explosion of many bombs over or on their heads, determined to fly back to their advanced trenches at the first let-up of the expected deluge.
But no bombs descended. The motor thunderings passed, then dwindled, but towards the east. What did that mean?
Their sergeant was telephoning hurriedly as to what was happening:"Airplane motors close overhead. No bombing yet. Watch out."
Thus it happened that Bauer's first (and last) signal was rendered void insofar as it went. The raiders escaped the German fire for the time being. Moreover, they were puzzled. Why should the Allied "schwein" fly so low, yet do no harm where once they had wrecked things only a few days before? What were they up to, anyhow?
This query was not answered at once. The telephones roused the Huns in the front trenches. Yet it puzzled them, too. Hitherto the bombing on both sides had been done mostly from far above. Such skimming the ground across No-Man's-Land might mean anything.
Presently the thrum of approaching planes became more and more audible along that portion of the front.
From his plane Blaine made private signal to the others to put on all speed. Erwin did likewise. Consequently it was not a minute before the raiders were upon the front trenches, going at the rate of two miles a minute. Each man in those planes sat with an open nest of hand grenades within easy reach. The handle of the gun crank was handy, its deadly muzzle pointed along the top of the fuselage of each mobile plane.
Then a pistol shot rang out, and at the signal grenades were dropped as the now far extended line passed over those open trenches in which troops were massed. For, be it known, that fatal blue flare from the aerodrome a dozen or more miles away had filled those trenches yet more full of human cannon fodder. Hence the bombing was all the more deadly.
Passing the trenches, at another signal, the hostile planes nimbly wheeled, shot back again and poured forth more bombs upon those trenches. Still again they wheeled and traversed them for the third time.
By this time machine guns began to spatter their deadly contents among the darting planes, while further back the anti-aircraft guns gave forth searching roars as to what they might should a plane be hit.
It was enough so far as it went. Now for the gas-bags, the sausages; for these observation balloons were the real object of all this nocturnal pother.
"Forward!" came the signal again and, steering to the left, rising higher from the forty to fifty foot level they had hitherto kept, the squadron made for the rear line. Here rose a shadowy line of oval bags, so shaped as to qualify them for the term "sausage" as humorously fitted to these defenseless spying observatories. In daytime their elevation enabled them to see over a great expanse of that level, war-ruined region.
There they were, open carriages below, in each a small group of Fritzies with machine gun and bombs handy for use in times like the present. But here, too, Fritz was at a decided disadvantage.
Evidently no raid was anticipated, for here they swung, hardly half manned except by the few constituting the night watch. In and out among them shot the fast planes, the machines belching their deadly hail, with Fritz apparently too dazed by surprise to make much resistance.
Using explosive bullets that would flare sparks of fire at the moment of contact, soon those bags of gas were ignited, one after another. Down rope ladders the occupants climbed or dangled, dropping off to hit the ground maimed or lifeless. By this time, however, the Archies were pouring a rain of shells from the machine guns at the assailants with murderous and often fatal effect.
One plane after another sagged, lamely drooped and went to earth crippled or in flames. It so happened that Blaine and Erwin nearly met in, mid-air as each verged close in a final assault on the last balloon.
Seizing his megaphone, Blaine shouted:
"We'll down this one, then home!"
Bang - puff! A burst of flame enveloped the last sausage, and Blaine was already mounting higher, higher, when he saw Erwin's plane go zigzagging earthward at a gentle angle. One of his wings had been shattered, the remnants flopping as they fell. Orris, working at the controls, partially righted, then staggered on, and finally mounted upward, showing his chief that he would make the home trip if nothing further happened.
Blaine himself tried to follow. But something was wrong. He fell, half gliding, and finally landed with his planes too much shot to up for the machine to float longer.
"I'm a goner, unless something happens," he thought.
"Where was he? In that last staggering rise the sergeant was vaguely aware that just beyond some trees under him was an open space of some kind. Could he make that open space? The front enemy trenches and the line where the vanished gas bags had swung were behind him.
"Seems to me I saw one of our planes drifting over this way."
On earth it was darker, more misty, more impenetrable than it had been overhead. His watch, having an illuminated dial, indicated that the time was about ten o'clock. In his rear the darkness was more dense than ahead. Probably his plane had dropped just in the edge of that open space he thought he had dimly seen while up in the air.
While looking over his machine as best he could to see if there was any chance to tinker it up so as to make another flight, he stopped short, his pulse leaping. Then he stood motionless.
"What was that?" he kept thinking, keeping as quiet as possible.
After a lengthy interval he heard rustling amid the trees near by, then a subdued crashing limbs, then an unintelligible moan or groan. After that came a heavy shock as if something or some one had struck the earth.
"I must look into this," he reflected, listening now also for any other sounds of human presence. But all was still near by. Back west there came the dying echoes of the recent scrimmage with the raiders. Hans, having gotten the worst end that deal, seemed to have subsided.
"Fritzy is preparing to look into things. He must know that some of us were knocked out. Doubtless he is getting ready for a more thorough look around."
Without formulating any definite plan, Blaine headed towards where the last sounds of some thing or some one falling had come from. To the left came the far rumble of trains crawling forward on one of the many side lines used by the Huns for war transportation.
From the right came the distant roar of heavy artillery, such as enlivens the front night and day. Yet it was so distant as to insure no connection with the finished air raid that now threatened disaster to himself.
Under the trees the darkness deepened, if such was possible. Where was he going? Could he find his way back to his own crippled plane?
A heavy, yet trembling sigh, terminating in a muffled groan, showed him his next course. Stumbling forward, he almost fell over a body prone across his path. Another groan, then:
"Oh-h-h, Gawd — Gawd!" Blaine thought he recognized something half familiar in the words or voice.
Stooping down, he felt a horrible slime and a mashed something that was not like anything he had ever felt before. He dropped to his knees, drew out his small flashlight, hitherto held in reserve for desperate emergencies, and cautiously turned it on.
It glimmered across a face — a face at once familiar and horrible. A well-known face, yet so ghastly in its bloody disfigurement that Blaine shivered, drew back, then bent downward and forward.
"Finzer!" he gasped. "My God! Is this you?"
The one eye left faintly opened and the gashed lips muttered, though Blaine shuddered as he saw by the flashlight that the man's face and head were so torn by machine gun spatter that it was only a question of minutes, if not seconds, before he would be dead.
As it was, Finzer's one eye recognized his sergeant. He tried to speak, but vainly. Finally, with an effort that must have been a last clutch at his vanishing strength, he flung his mashed and bloody hand on a paper pad, with pencil laying by. One sentient gleam; then he gave up the ghost. What did Finzer mean by that last gesture?
With reluctance Blaine picked up the pad and read the following words now almost illegible with blood.
"Boche got me. Machine back by log pile. Good shape. Landed in tree.Done for. Saw you drift this way. Get machine if yours won't —"
Sadly Lafe drew the body of his friend aside, covered it with his leather blanket coat, piled brush over it, and drew meditatively back, saying:
"Poor Milt! It's all I can do for him now."
Again he scanned the penciled lines, remembering that his own machine was in bad shape. "Maybe Milt's will do better. I'll see. Where's that log pile?"
His question was suddenly answered by his stumbling against something for he had already started on the search, having repocketed the tell-tale flashlight. No knowing when a stray ray might be seen by some enemy eye and its cause investigated.
Groping about, he discovered Finzer's machine half slanting down one side of the log pile. It had fallen through a tree top, hitting the logs. Milt, already blind, wounded unto death, had tumbled out, crawling a few feet, where he lay dying until Blaine heard and found him.
Swiftly Lafe righted and trundled the machine to a small, clear place. Risking the flashlight again, he briefly inspected it. Aside from sundry bullet perforations and certain unimportant scars in the wings, it was all right. The tank was pretty full yet, the interior mechanism in fair order, and the wheels propelling it in such good shape that Blaine soon had it back in the open space where he had been compelled to come down. As for the near-by woods, there was not much real life there. Long ago the ruthless shelling had reduced most of the timber to scraggy, scarred skeletons. Still they were dangerous to planes when trying to land — or to rise again. So he quickly transferred such of his belongings as he cared to save, placing them in Finzer's machine, and then assured himself that everything would work right when it came to rising again. All was ready. Another thought came.
"I ought to fire this plane of mine. Too good yet to fall intoFritzy's hands. He'd soon have it ready again."
Pushing Finzer's plane still further out m the open, he looked, listened, but still detecting no sign of human nearness, he opened the petrol tank of his plane, touched with a match the running liquid, and jumped nimbly to his seat in Finzer's machine. Applying the power, the plane rolled, skidded slightly then came to a full stop.
"What the mischief is the matter now?"
Out he jumped, vaguely fearful, while the other plane flared up brightly, the red flame mounting high, higher, scarcely forty yards away. In and out among the mechanism he fumbled, turned, twisted, adjusted, until from a distance came the sound of hoofs — galloping hoofs.
"Good Heavens! The Boches! They're coming? What will I do?"
As he asked this question his eyes, wildly distorted, roamed round the open space now lighted up for a hundred yards or more by the burning airplane.
Just then he happened to look upward, and all at once saw the cause of his present trouble. One of the longer limbs of an old, battle-scarred poplar, partly broken and hanging lower than usual, had caught in one of the top wings, thus halting him as he was about to rise.
"What a fool I am!" This while wrenching loose the ragged wing-end."Let me get out of this somehow!"
Already he was again in his seat, turning on the power, swiftly yet surely manipulating the controls. The high-powered scout and battle plane rose with a rush and almost immediately began to climb, spiraling in long acute sweeps and turns.
"There they come!" breathed Lafe, venturing a last look around down below.
A field battery of horse artillery was emerging from the torn timber into the open space, which the burning plane had already showed Blaine to be a beet or turnip field of considerable extent. The constant roaring of artillery and a continuous red glow on the western horizon made known the cause of the uproar that had been growing for some time back.
"They're fighting hard," conjectured Blaine. "Guess wrecking them sausages must 'a' stirred Fritzy up a bit. Hullo! What's that?"
Already Lafe was a thousand or more feet up. The field battery was now fading from view as the flames of the burning plane died down.