CHAPTER VIII. A BATTLE IN THE AIR
Strictly speaking there was at that time no American front. That did not come until later, for the American soldiers, as was proper, were brigaded with the French and British, to enable our troops, who were unused to European war conditions, to become acquainted with the needful measures to meet and overcome the brutality of the Huns.
But even with this brigading of the United States' troops with the seasoned veterans, which, in plain language, meant a mingling of the two forces, there was much that was strictly American among the new arrivals.
Not only were the khaki-clad soldiers real Americans to the backbone, but their equipment and the supplies that had come over with them in the transports were such as might be seen at any army camp in this country, as distinguished from a French or a British camp.
“Well, the boys are here all right,” remarked Jack, as he and Tom made their way toward the headquarters at which they were to report.
“Yes, and it makes me feel good to see them!” said Tom. “This is the beginning of the end of Kaiserism, if I'm any judge.”
“Oh, it isn't going to be so easy as all that,” returned Jack. “We'll see some hard fighting. Germany isn't licked yet by any means; but those, are the boys that can bring the thing to a finish,” and he pointed to a company of the lean, stem, brown figures that were swinging along with characteristic stride.
The place at which Tom and Jack had been ordered to report was an interior city of France, not far from the port at which the first transport from America had arrived. A first glance at the scenes on every hand would have given a person not familiar with war a belief that hopeless confusion existed. Wagons, carts, mule teams and motor trucks-“lorries,” the English call them—were dashing to and fro. Men were marching, countermarching, unloading some vehicles, loading others. Soldiers were being marched into the interior to be billeted, others were being directed to their respective French or English units. Officers were shouting commands, and privates were carrying them out to the best of their ability.
But though it all seemed chaos, out of it order was coming. There was a system, though a civilian would not have understood it.
“Well, let's find out where we're at,” suggested Torn, to his chum.
“Right O, my pickled grapefruit!” agreed Jack with a laugh. “Let's get into the game.”
They were about to ask their direction from a non-commissioned officer who was directing a squad of men in the unloading of a truck which seemed filled with canned goods, when some one said:
“There goes Black Jack now!”
The two air service boys looked, and saw, passing along not far away, a tall man, faultlessly attired, who looked “every inch a soldier,” and whose square jaw was indicative of his fighting qualities, if the rest of his face had not been.
“Is that General Pershing?” asked Tom, in a low voice of the non-commissioned officer.
“That's who he is, buddy,” was the smiling answer. “The best man in the world for the job, too. Come on there now, you with the red hair. This isn't a croquet game. Lay into those cases, and get 'em off some time before New Year's. We want to have our Christmas dinner in Berlin, remember!”
“So that's Pershing,” commented Jack, as he looked at the American commander, who, with his staff officers, was on a trip of inspection. “Well, he suits me all right!”
“The next thing for us to do is to find out if we suit him,” remarked Tom. “Wonder if he knows we're here?”
“I don't even believe he knows we're alive!” exclaimed Jack, for the moment taking Tom's joke quite seriously.
As General Pershing passed on, receiving and returning many salutes, Tom and Jack made their inquiries, learned where they were to report, and went on their way, longing for the time when they could get into action with the American troops.
“Oh, so you're the two aviators from the Lafayette Escadrille,” commented the commanding officer, or the C.O., of the newly formed American squadron, as Tom and Jack, drawing themselves up as straight as they could, saluted when he looked over their papers and their log books. These last are the personal records of aviators in which they note the details of each flight made. They are official documents, but when a birdman is honorably discharged he may take his log book with him.
“We were told to report to you, sir,” said Tom.
“Yes. And I'm glad to see you. We're going to establish a purely American air force, but as yet it is in its infancy. I need some experienced fliers, and I'm glad you're going to be with us. Of course I have a number who have made good records over there,” and he nodded to indicate the United States, “But they haven't been under fire yet, and I understand you have.”
“Some,” admitted Jack, modestly enough.
“Good! Well, I'm to have some more of our own boys, who are to be transferred from the French forces, and some from the Royal Flying Corps, so with that as a start I guess we can build up an air service that will make Fritz step lively. But we've got to go slow. One thing I'm sorry for is that we haven't, as yet, any American planes. We'll have to depend on the French and English for them, as we have to, at first, for our artillery and shells.”
“We can fly French or British planes,” remarked Tom.
And, as my old readers know, the air service boys had had experience with a number of different models.
“We can fly a Gotha if we have to,” said Jack. “One came down back of our lines last month, and we patched it up and flew it for practice.”
“I hope you can get some more of that practice,” said the commanding officer with a smile.
“But, now that you're here, I'll swear you in and see what the orders are regarding you. I'm afraid there won't be much fighting for you at first—that is strictly as Americans. I understand our air front, if I may use that term, will have to grow out of a nucleus of French and English fighters.”
“That's all right, as long as we get the right start,” commented Tom.
It was necessary to swear the boys into the service of the United States, even though they were natives of it; since, on entering the Lafayette Escadrille, they had been obliged to swear allegiance to France. But this was a matter of routine where the Allies were concerned, and soon Tom and Jack were back again where they longed to be—enrolled among the distinctive fighters of their own country.
They were assigned to barracks, and found themselves among some other airmen, many of whom were student fliers from the various aviation camps of the United States. Few of these youths had had much practice, though some had been to the Canadian schools. And none of them had, as yet, fought an enemy in the air.
To aid and instruct them, however, were such fighters as Tom and Jack, and some even more experienced from the French, Italian and British camps, who had been detailed to help out the United States in the emergency.
The next few weeks was an instruction and reconstruction period, with Tom and Jack often filling the roles of teachers. They found their pupils apt, eager and willing, however, and among them they discovered some excellent material. As the commanding officer of the new American air forces had said, the planes used were all of English or French make. It was too early in the war for America to have sent any over equipped with the Liberty motor, though production was under way.
After this period had passed, Tom and Jack, with a squadron of other birdmen were sent to a certain section of the front held largely by American troops, supported by veteran French and British regiments.
It was the first wholly American aircraft camp established since the beginning of the World War, and it was not even yet as wholly American as it was destined to be later, for the aviators were, as regards veterans, largely French and English. Torn and Jack were, in point of service, the ranking American fliers for a time.
There had been several sharp engagements across No Man's Land between the mingled French, British and French forces and the Huns, and honors were on the side of the former. There had been one or two combats in the air, in which Tom and Jack had taken part, when one day word came from an observation balloon on the American side that a flock of German aircraft was on the way from a camp located a few miles within the Boche lines.
There was a harried consultation of the officers, and then orders were given for a half score of the Allied machines to get ready. Two veteran French aces were to be in command, with Tom and Jack as helpers, and some of the American aviators were to go into the battle of the air for the first time.
“The Huns are evidently going to try to bomb some of our ammunition dumps behind our lines,”' said one officer, speaking to Tom. “It's up to you boys to drive 'em back.”
“We'll try, sir,” was the answer. “We owe the Huns something we haven't been able to pay off as yet.”
Tom referred to the loss of Harry Leroy. So far no word had been received from him, either directly or through the German aviators, as to whether he was dead or a prisoner. Letters had passed between Bessie and Nellie and Jack and Tom, and the sister of the missing youth begged for news.
But there was none to give her.
“Unless we get some to-day,” observed Tom as he and his chum hurried toward the hangars where their machines were being made ready for them.
“Get news to-day? What makes you think we shall?” asked Jack.
“Well, we might bring down a Fritzie or two who'd know something about poor Harry,” was the answer. “You never can tell.”
“No, that's so,” agreed Jack. “Well, here's hoping we'll have luck.”
By this time there was great excitement in the American aviation headquarters. Word of the oncoming Hun planes had spread, and not a flier of Pershing's forces but was eager to get into his plane and go aloft to give battle. But only the best were selected, and if there were heart-burnings of disappointment it could not be helped.
Two classes of planes were to be used, the single seaters for the aces, who fought alone, and the double craft, each one of which carried a pilot and an observer. In the latter cases the observers were the new men, who had yet to receive their baptism of fire above the clouds.
Tom and Jack were each detailed to take up one of the new men, and the air service boys were glad to find that, assigned to each of them, was the very man he would have picked had he had his choice. They were eager, intrepid lads, anxious to do their share in the great adventure.
Quickly the machines were made ready, and quickly the fighters climbed into them. The roar of the motors was heard all over the aerodrome, and soon the machines began to mount. Up and up they climbed, and none too soon, for on reaching elevations averaging ten thousand feet, there was seen, over the German lines, a flock of the Hun planes led by two or three machines painted a bright red. These were some of the machines that had belonged to the celebrated “flying circus,” organized by a daring Hun aviator and ace who was killed after he had inflicted great damage and loss on the Allied service. He and his men had their machines painted red, perhaps on the theory that they would thus inspire terror. These were some of the former members of the “circus,” it was evident.
“It's going to be a real fight!” cried Tom, as he headed his machine toward one of the red craft. Whether the green man Tom was taking up relished this or not, knowing, as he must, the reputation of these red aviators, Tom did not stop to consider.
Then, as the two hostile air fleets approached, there began a battle of the clouds—a conflict destined to end fatally for more than one aviator.
CHAPTER IX. THE FALLING GLOVE
Numerically the Hun planes, were superior to the American fleet of airships that quickly rose to oppose them. That probably accounted for fact that the Germans did not turn tail and scurry back beyond the protection of their own anti-aircraft guns and batteries. For it was seldom, if ever, they went into a fight when the odds were against them.
On came the Fokkers and Gothas, the black iron crosses painted on the wings of the machines standing out in bold relief in the clear air. The sun glinted on the red craft which were in the lead, and besides Tom, who headed for one of these, a French ace darted down from a height to engage the red planes.
“See if you can plug him when I put you near enough!” cried Tom to his observer, who had the reputation of being a good shot with the Lewis gun. Practice with the machine weapons in aeroplanes had been going on, for some time among the new American aviators. “Let him have a good dose!” cried Tom. “If you miss him, then I'll try!”
Of course Tom had to shut off the engine when he said this, as no voice could have been heard above the roaring of the powerful motor. But when he had given his companion these instructions and had ascertained, by a glance over his shoulder, that the lad understood for he nodded his head, Tom again turned on the gasoline, and the propeller, that had been revolving by momentum and because of the pressure of air against it, took up its speed again.
Straight for the red machine rushed Tom, and a quick glance told him that his companion was ready with the gun. The weapon to be worked by the latter was mounted so that it could be aimed independently of the aeroplane. Tom also had a gun in front of him, but it was fixed and could be aimed only by pointing the whole craft. Once this was done Tom could operate the weapon with one hand, steering with the other, and, at times, with his feet and knees.
There came several sharp pops near Tom's head, and he knew these were machine bullets from the Hun aviator's gun, breaking through the tightly stretched linen fabric of the wings of his own plane.
“Let him have it before he plugs us!” cried Tom to his companion, though of course the latter could not hear a word. An instant later Tom heard the Lewis gun behind him firing, and he saw several tracer bullets strike the Hun machine. But they were not near the aviator himself, and did no material damage.
“Guess he's too nervous to shoot straight,” reasoned Tom. “I'll have to try my own gun,” he decided.
Tom noticed that the Hun was climbing up, trying to get into a position above the American plane, which is always an advantage. And the air service boy knew he must not let this happen. Quickly he shifted the rudder and began to climb himself. But he was at a disadvantage as his machine carried double, while the red plane had only one man in it, an ace beyond a doubt.
“I've got to get him now or never!” thought Tom. Once more he shifted his direction, and then, as he had his gun aimed just where he wanted it, he pressed the lever and a burst of bullets shot out and fairly riddled the red plane. It seemed to stop for an instant in the air, and then, quivering, turned and went down in a nose dive, spinning around.
“No fake about that!” mused Tom, as he leaned over and looked down from the height. “He's done for!”
And so, the Hun was, for he crashed to the ground behind the American lines. The incident did not affect Tom Raymond greatly. It was not his first killing. But when he, glanced back toward his companion, he saw that the other was shrinking back as if in horror.
“He'll get over that soon enough. All he has to do is to think of what the Huns have done—crucifying men and babies—to make his heart hard,” thought Tom.
Whether his companion did this or not, did not disclose itself, but the fact remains that when Tom flew off to engage another Hun machine the lad back of him rose to the occasion and shot so well that Fritz veered off and flew back over his own lines, wounded and with his craft barely able to fly.
Not all the American machines fared as well as this, however. Jack was in poor luck. The first burst of bullets from the German he engaged punctured his gasoline tank, and he was obliged to coast back to his own aerodrome to get another machine, if possible. He was also hit once in the leg, the wound being painful though not dangerous. He received first aid treatment and wanted to get back into the fight, but this was not allowed, and he had to watch the battle from the ground.
The fight was fast and stubborn, and in the end the American forces won, for at a signal from the remaining red plane, which seemed to bear a charmed existence, as it did not appear to be hit, the others remaining of the Hun forces, turned tail and scooted back to safety.
But they had left a toll of five machines sent crashing to earth, four of them each containing two men. The leading French ace was killed, a severe loss to the Allied forces, and three of the American machines were damaged and their operators severely wounded, though with a chance of recovery. By American machines is meant those assigned for use to Pershing's forces, though the craft used up to that time were of French or English make. The real American machines came into use a little later.
“Well, I think we can call it one to our credit,” said Tom, as he rejoined Jack after the battle.
“Yes. But you had all the luck!” complained his chum. “It went against me, and the lad I took up. It—”
“Never mind; it'll be your turn next,” replied Tom, consolingly.
And so the new American aviators received their baptism of fire, and, to their credit, longed for more.
More credit was really due the American forces than would be indicated by the mere citation of the losses inflicted on the German side in this first air battle. For many of the American fighters were “green,” while not one of the Huns, as was learned later, but what had several Allied machines to his score. And so there was rejoicing in General Pershing's camp, even though it was mingled with sorrow at the losses inflicted.
Busy days followed, Tom and Jack were in the air much of the time. And when they were not flying they were delivering talks to new students, who were constantly arriving. They found time once to run into Paris on their day of leave, to see Bessie and Nellie, and they went on a little picnic together, which was as jolly as such an affair could be in the midst of the terrible war. Nellie had received no word of her missing brother, and Jack and Tom had no encouragement for her.
Then came more hard work at camp, and another battle of the air in which the American forces more than equaled matters, for they fairly demolished a German plane squadron, sending ten of the machines crashing to earth and the others back over the Hun lines, more or less damaged. That was a great day. And, as a sort of reward for their work, Tom and Jack were given three days' leave. At first they thought to spend them in Paris, but, learning that neither Bessie nor her mother nor Nellie could leave their Red Cross work to join them, the two lads made other arrangements.
“Let's go back and see the fellows in the Lafayette Escadrille,” suggested Tom.
“All right,” agreed Jack.
And thither they went.
That they were welcomed need not be said. It was comparatively quiet on this sector just then, though there had, a few days before, been a great battle with victory perching on the Allied banners. The air conflicts, too, had been desperate, and many a brave man of the French, English or American fliers had met his death. But toll had been taken of the Boches—ample toll, too.
The first inquiry Tom and Jack had made on their arrival at their former aerodrome had been for news of Harry Leroy, but none had been received.
It was when Tom and Jack were about to conclude their visit to their former comrades of the air that an incident occurred which made a great change in their lives. One sunny afternoon there suddenly appeared, a mere speck in the blue, a single aeroplane.
“Some one of your men must have gone a long way over Heinie's lines,” remarked Jack to one of the French officers.
“He is not one of our men. Either they were all back long ago or they will not come back until after the war—if ever. That is a Hun machine.”
“What is he doing—challenging to single combat?” asked Tom, as the lone plane came on steadily.
“No,” answered the officer, after a look through his glasses. “I think he brings some messages. We sent some to the Germans yesterday, and I think this is a return courtesy. We will wait and see.”
Nearer and nearer came the German plane. Soon it was circling around the French camp. Hundreds came out to watch, for now the object of the lone aviator was apparent. He contemplated no raid. It was to drop news of captured, or dead, Allied airmen.
Then, as Tom, and the others watched, a little package was seen to fall from the hovering aeroplane. It landed on the roof of one of the hangars, bounced off and was picked up by an orderly, who presented it to the commanding officer.
Quickly and eagerly it was opened. It contained some personal belongings of Allied airmen who had been missing for the past week. Some of them, the message from the German lines said, had been killed by their falls after being shot down, and it was stated that they had been decently buried. Others were wounded and in hospitals.
“No word from Harry,” said Tom, sadly, as the last of the relics from the dead and the living were gone over.
“Well, I guess we may as well give him up,” added Jack. “But we can avenge him. That's all we have left, now.”
“Yes,” agreed Tom. “If we only—?”
A cry from some of those watching the German plane interrupted him. The two air service boys looked up. Another small object was falling. It landed with a thud, almost at the feet of Tom and Jack, and the latter picked it up.
It was an aviator's glove; and as Jack held it up a note dropped out. Quickly it was read, and the import of it was given to all in a simultaneous shout of joy from Tom and Jack.
“It's word from Harry Leroy! Word from Harry at last!”
CHAPTER X. STUNTS
Truly enough, word had come from the missing aviator, or, if not directly from him, at least from his captors. The German airmen, falling in with the chivalry which had been initiated by the French and English, and later followed by the Americans, had seen fit to inform the comrades of the captured man of his whereabouts.
“Where is he? What happened to him?” asked several, as all crowded around Tom and Jack to hear the news.
Jack, reading the note, told them. The missive was written in very good English, though in a German hand. It stated that Harry Leroy had been shot down in his plane while over the German lines, and had fallen in a lonely spot, wounded.
The wound was not serious, it was stated, and the prisoner was doing as well as could be expected, but he would remain in the hands of his captors until the end of the war. The reason his whereabouts was not mentioned before was that the Germans did not know they had one of the Allied aviators in their midst.
Leroy had not only fallen in a lonely spot, but he was made unconscious by his fall and injuries, and when he recovered he was lying near his almost demolished plane.
He managed to get out his log book and other confidential papers, and set fire to them and the plane with the gasoline that still remained in the tank. He destroyed them so they might not fall into the hands of the Germans, a fate he knew would be his own shortly.
But Harry Leroy was not doomed to instant capture. The blaze caused by his burning aeroplane attracted the attention of a peasant, who had not been deported when the enemy overran his country, for the young aviator had fallen in a spot well back of the front lines. This French peasant took Harry to his little farm and hid him in the barn. There the man, his wife, and his granddaughters, looked after the injured aviator, feeding him and binding up his hurts. It was a great risk they took, and Harry Leroy knew it as well as they. But for nearly two weeks he remained hidden, and this probably saved his life, for he got better treatment at the farmhouse than he would, as an enemy, have received in a German hospital.
But such good luck could not last. Suspicion that Americans were hidden in the Frenchman's barn began to spread through the country, and rather than bring discovery on his friends, Leroy left the barn one night.
He had a desperate hope that he might reach his own lines, as he was now pretty well recovered from his 'Injuries, but it was not to be. He was captured by a German patrol. But by his quick action Harry Leroy had removed suspicion from the farmer, which was exactly what he wished to do.
The Germans, rejoicing over their capture, took the young aviator to the nearest prison camp, and there he was put in custody, together with some unfortunate French and English. The tide of war had turned against Harry Leroy.
So it came about that, some time after he had been posted as missing and when it was surely thought that he was dead, Harry Leroy was found to be among the living, though a prisoner.
“This will be great news for his sister!” exclaimed Jack, as the note dropped by the German airman was read over and over again.
“Yes, she'll be delighted,” agreed Tom. “We must hurry back and tell her.”
“And that isn't all,” went on Jack. “We must try to figure out a way to rescue Harry.”
“You can't do that,” declared a French ace, one with whom the air service boys had often flown.
“Why not?” asked Tom.
“It's out of the question,” was the answer. “There has never been a rescue yet from behind the German lines. Or, if there has been, it's like a blue moon.”
“Well, we can try,” declared Jack, and Tom nodded his head in agreement.
“Don't count too much on it,” added another of their friends. “Harry may not even be where this note says he is.”
“Do you mean that the Germans would say what isn't so?” asked Tom.
“Of course! Naturally!” was the answer. “But even if they did not in this case, even if they have truly said where Leroy is, he may be moved at any time—sent to some other prison, or made to work in the mines or at perhaps something far worse.”
Tom and Jack realized that this might be so, and they felt that there was no easy task ahead of them in trying to rescue their chum from the hands of the Germans. But they were not youths who gave up easily.
“May we keep this note?” asked Tom, as he and Jack got ready to depart. Having fallen on the camp of the escadrille with which they were formerly quartered, it was, strictly speaking, the property of the airmen there. But having been told how much the sister of the prisoner would appreciate it, the commanding officer gave permission for Tom and Jack to take the glove and note with them.
“Let us know if you rescue him, Comrades!” called the Frenchmen to the two lads, as they started back for their own camp.
“We will,” was the answer.
Nellie Leroy's joy in the news that her brother was alive was tempered by the fact that he was a German prisoner.
“But we're going to get him!” declared Tom even though he realized, as he said it, that it with almost a forlorn hope.
“You are so good,” murmured the girl.
Jack and Tom spent a few happy hours in Paris, with Nellie and Bessie—the last of their leave—and then, bidding the girls and Mrs. Gleason farewell, they reported back to the American aerodrome, where the young airmen were cordially welcomed.
There they found much to do, and events followed one another so rapidly at this stage of the World War that Tom and Jack, after their return, had little time for anything but flying and teaching others what they knew of air work. They had no opportunity to do anything toward the rescue of Harry Leroy; and, indeed, they were at a loss how to proceed. They were just hoping that something would transpire to give them a starting point.
“We'll have to leave it to luck for a while,” said Torn.
“Or fate,” added Jack.
“Well, fate plays no small part in an airman's life,” returned Tom. “While we are no more superstitions than any other soldiers, yet there are few airmen who do not carry some sort of mascot or good-luck piece. You know that, Jack.”
And even the casual reader of the exploits of the aviators must have been impressed with the fact that often the merest incident—or accident is responsible for life or death.
Death often passes within hair's breadth of the intrepid fliers, and some of them do not know it until after they have made a landing and have seen the bullet holes in their machine—holes that indicate how close the missiles have passed to them.
So, in a way, both Tom and Jack believed in luck, and they both believed that this same luck might point out to them a way of rescuing Harry Leroy.
Meanwhile they were kept busy. After the big battle in the air matters were quiet for a time on their sector of the front. The arrival of new fliers from America made it necessary to instruct them, and to this Tom, Jack and other veterans were detailed.
Then began a series of what Jack called “stunts.” In order to inspire the new pupils with confidence, the older flying men—not always older in years—would go aloft in their single planes and do all sorts of trick flying. Some of the pupils—the more daring, of course—wished to imitate these, but of course they were not allowed.
The pupils were first allowed merely to go with an experienced man. This, of course, they had done at the flying schools in the United States, and had flown alone. But they had to start all over again when on French soil, for here they were exposed, any time, to an attack from a Hun plane.
After they had, it was thought, got sufficient experience to undertake these trick features by themselves, they were allowed to make trial flights, but not over the enemy lines.
Tom and Jack gave the best that was in them to these enthusiastic pupils, and there was much good material.
“What are you going to do to-day, Jack?” asked Tom one morning, as they went out after breakfast to get into their “busses,” as they dubbed their machines.
“Oh, got orders to do some spiral and somersault stunts for the benefit of some huns.” (“Hun,” used in this connection, not referring to the Germans. “Hun” is the slang term for student aviators, tacked on them by more experienced fliers.)
“Same here. Good little bunch of huns in camp now.”
Tom nodded in agreement, and the two were soon preparing to climb aloft.
With a watching group of eager young men on the ground below, in company with an instructor who would point out the way certain feats were done, Torn and Jack began climbing. Presently they were fairly tumbling about like pigeons, seeming to fall, but quickly straightening out on a level keel and coming to the ground almost as lightly as feathers.
“A good landing is essential if one would become a good airman,” stated the instructor. “In fact I may say it is the hardest half of the game. For it is comparatively easy to leave the earth. It is the coming back that is difficult, like the Irishman who said it wasn't the fall that hurts, it was the stopping.”
“Give 'em a bit of zooming now,” the instructor said to Tom and Jack. “The boys may have to use that any time they're up and a Boche comes at them.”
“Zooming,” he went on to the pupils, “is rising and falling in a series of abrupt curves like those in a roller-coaster railway. It is a very useful stunt to be master of, for it enables one to rise quickly when confronting a field barrier, or to get out of range of a Hun machine gun.”
Tom undertook this feature of the instruction, as Jack signaled that his aeroplane was out of gasoline, and soon the former was rolling across the aviation field, seemingly straight toward a row of tall trees.
“He'll hit 'em sure!” cried one student.
“Watch him,” ordered the instructor.
With a quick pull on the lever that controlled the rudder, Tom sent himself aloft, but not before a curious thing happened.
On the ground where it had been dropped was a tunic, or airman's fur-lined jacket. As Tom's machine “zoomed,” the tail skid caught this jacket and took it aloft.
Tom did not seem to be aware of this, though he must have felt that his machine was a bit sluggish in the climbs. However, he went through with his performance, doing some beautiful “zooming,” and then, as he was flying high and getting ready to do a spiral nose dive, the tunic detached itself from his skid and fell.
Just at this moment Jack came out from the hangar and, looking aloft and noting Tom's machine, saw the falling jacket. His heart turned sick and faint, for, unaware of what had happened, he thought his chum had tumbled out while at a great height. For the tunic, turning over and over as it sailed earthward, did resemble a falling body.
“Oh, Tom! Tom! How did it happen?” murmured Jack.
The others, laughing, told him that it was nothing serious, but Jack looked a bit worried until the empty jacket fell on the grass and, a little later, Tom himself came down smiling from aloft, all unaware of the excitement he had caused.
CHAPTER XI. OVER THE LINES
“Well, I guess we stay downstairs, to-day,” remarked Tom to Jack, the day following their exhibition flights for the benefit of the air students.
“Yes, it doesn't look very promising,” returned his chum.
Jack looked aloft where the sky—or what took its place—was represented by a gray mist that seemed ready to drip water at any moment. It was a day of “low visibility,” and one when air work was almost totally suspended. This applied to the enemy as well as to the Yankees. For even though it is feasible to go up in an aeroplane in fog, or even rain or snow, it is not always safe to come down again in like conditions.
There is nothing worse than rain, snow or fog for clouding an aviator's goggles, making it impossible for him to see more than a plane's length ahead, if, indeed, he can see that far. Then, too, little, if anything, can be accomplished by going aloft in a storm or fog. No observations of any account can be made, and the aviator, once he gets aloft, is as likely to come down behind the German lines as he is to descend safely within his own.
That being the case, Tom and Jack, in common with their comrades of the air, had a vacation period. Some of them obtained leave and went to the nearest town, while some put in their time going over their guns and glasses and equipment and machines.
Jack and Tom elected to do the latter. There was one very fast and powerful Spad which they often used together, taking turns at piloting it and acting as observer. They thought they might have a chance soon to go over the German lines in this, their favorite craft, so they decided to put in their spare time seeing that it was in perfect shape, and that the two machine guns were ready for action when needed.
“'Would you rather do this than fly, Jack?” asked Tom, as they went over, in detail, each part of the powerful Spad.
“I should say not! But, after all, one is just as important as the other. I hope we get a good day to-morrow. I'd like to do something toward seeing if we can't get Harry out of the Boche's clutches,” and he nodded in the direction of the German lines.
“'Tisn't going to be easy doing that,” remarked Tom. “I'd ask nothing better than to have a hand in getting him away, but I haven't yet been able to figure out a shadow of a plan. Have you?”
“The only thing, I can think of is to organize a big raid on the section where he's held—I mean somewhere near the German prison—and if we bombed the place enough, and created enough excitement, some of us might land and get Harry and any others that might be with him.”
Tom shook his head.
“That'd be a pretty risky way of doing it,” he said.
“Can you think of a better?” Jack demanded quickly.
“Not off hand,” came the reply. “We've got to stew over it a bit. One thing's sure—we've got to get Harry out, or his sister never will feel like going back home and facing the folks.”
“That's right!” agreed Jack. “We've got a double motive for this. But I'm afraid it's going to be too hard.”
“That's what we thought when we rescued Mrs. Gleason from the old castle where Potzfeldt had her caged,” retorted Tom. “But you made out all right.”
“Yes; thanks to your help.”
“Well, we'll both work together again,” declared Tom. “And now let's try this Lewis gun. The last time we were up it jammed on me, and yet it worked all right on the ground.” So they tested the guns, looked to the motor, and in general made ready for a flight when the weather should clear.
This happened two days later, when the fog and mist were blown away and the blue sky could be seen. In the interim the artillery and infantry on both sides had not been idle, and there had been some desperate engagements, with the brigaded American troops making a new name for themselves.
“I guess there'll be something doing to-day,” remarked Tom, as he and Jack tumbled out of bed at the usual early hour. “Clear as a bell,” he announced, after a glance from the window. “Shouldn't wonder but what we went over their lines to-day.”
“And I suppose, by the same token, they'll be coming over ours,” and Jack nodded to indicate the Germans.
“Let 'em come!” exclaimed Tom. “It takes two sides to make a fight, and that's what we're here for.”
Hardly had the two air service boys finished their breakfast, than an orderly came to tell them the commanding officer wanted them to report to him. They hurried across the aviation ground, toward the headquarters building, noting on the way that there were signs of unusual activity among the newer members of the American air forces, as well as among the French and British veterans.
“Must be going to make a raid,” observed Jack.
“Something like that—yes,” assented Tom.
“Hope we're in on it, and the commanding officer doesn't have us take some huns up to show 'em what makes the wheels go around,” went on Jack. “Of course that's part of the game, but we've done our share.”
However, they need have felt no fear, for when they stood before the commanding officer, saluting, they quickly learned that they were to go on a special mission that day—in fact as soon as they could get ready.
“I want you two to see if you can discover a battery of small guns that have been playing havoc with our men,” he said, as he looked up from a table covered with maps. “They're located somewhere along this front, but they're so well camouflaged that no one has yet been able to discover them.
“I want you boys to see if you can turn the trick. The guns have killed a lot of our men, as well as the French and English. We've tried to rush the emplacement, but we can't get a line on where it is for it's well hidden. I asked permission of the British commanding general to send up two American scouts, and he mentioned you boys. Get your orders from the major, and good luck to you.”
“Do you want us to go together or separately?” asked Tom.
“Together—in a double plane. I might say that we are going to try a raid on a big scale over the enemy's lines, and you two will thus have a better chance to carry out your observations unmolested. The Hun planes will have their hands full attending to our fighters, and they may not attack a single plane off by itself. We'll try to draw them away from you.
“At the same time I might point out that there is nothing sure in this, and that you may have to fight also,” concluded the commanding officer, as he waved a dismissal.
“Oh, were ready for anything,” announced Tom. And as he and Jack got outside he clapped his chum on the back, crying: “That's the stuff! Good old C.O. to send us! That's what we've been looking for! Maybe we'll have time to drop down and shoot some of the Huns that are guarding Harry.”
“No chance of that—forget it now,” urged Jack. “We'll clean up this location trick first, and then think of a plan to get Harry away. It sounds hard to say it, but it's all we can do. Orders are orders.”
They were glad they had made ready the speedy Spad plane, for it was in this that they would try to locate the hidden battery, and, having received detailed instructions from the major in command, the two lads climbed into their air plane and started off.
The day was clear and bright, just the sort for aeroplane activity; and it was evident there would be plenty of it, since, even as they began climbing, Tom and Jack saw planes from their own aerodrome skirting ahead of and behind them, while, in the distance and over German-held territory, were Fokkers and Gothas with the iron cross conspicuously painted on each.
Tom and Jack had been given a map of the front, their own and the German lines being shown, and the probable location of the hidden Hun battery marked. This they now studied as they started over the front, Jack being in front, while Tom sat behind him, to work the swivel Lewis gun.
Their Spad machine was one that could be controlled from either seat, so that if one rider was disabled the other could take charge. There were two guns, one fixed and the other movable, and a good supply of ammunition.
“Well, I guess there'll be some fighting to-day,” observed Tom, as Jack shut off the motor for a moment, to see if it would respond readily when the throttle was opened again. “They're closing in from both sides.”
And indeed the Allied planes were sailing forth to meet a squadron of the enemy. But none of the Hun craft seemed to pay any attention to Tom and Jack. Steadily they flew on until an exclamation from Jack caused Tom to look down. He noted that they were over the German lines, and headed for the probable location of the battery that had been such a thorn in the side of the Allies.