CHAPTER X—CORPORAL DON

Not long after this there came another very interesting day in Don Hale’s life. He had graduated from the first and second classes and was to make his first flight in the air.

Only those who have gone through a similar experience can understand Don Hale’s feelings when he seated himself in the cockpit of a much-used though sturdy little plane and laid hold of the controls. No veteran airman or famous “ace”^[7] could possibly have felt more exultant or proud.

The school by this time had become very full, and many of the élèves were obliged to await their turn; so there were always plenty of spectators on the field; and these generally paid particular attention to the boys who were making their first trial spin in the air. This all added to Don Hale’s tremendous desire to make a good showing; for he still had vivid recollections of his preliminary experiences with the “penguins.”

“Now, remember, make no attempt to turn in the air,” commanded the moniteur in charge. “Perfectly straight flights only; fly no higher than thirty feet above the ground.”

“Get out your tape-measure, Donny,” giggled Roy Mittengale. “Remember, every foot adds to the jolt of the fall at the bottom.”

“Don’t try to imitate Lieutenant Thaw so much that you’ll hurt yourself,” advised Ben Holt.

“Safety first in airplanes means not to go up at all,” chimed in another.

Don, however, wasn’t paying the slightest attention to these jocular remarks, for the mechanic had his hand on the propeller.

It certainly was a wonderful sensation to the young airman when he felt the machine suddenly begin to move, slowly at first, but rapidly gathering momentum, until, like a high power motor car, it was racing at a speed which made him almost gasp for breath.

Presently the boy gritted his teeth together, and, with a peculiar feeling suggestive of I-wonder-what-is-going-to-happen-next state of mind, pulled back gently on the control stick.

And then, abruptly, he realized that the monoplane was traveling ahead with a most wonderful smoothness. The wind rushed past, lashing and stinging his face with its terrific force, but the heavy goggles prevented his eyes from being affected.

Don Hale glanced over the side of the cockpit, and, a little to his dismay, discovered that he was just skimming a few feet above the surface of the earth.

A quick pull on the control stick sent the monoplane racing aloft, and before the boy, trembling with excitement, could bring it to an even keel he was far above the height limit set by the instructor.

At first Don Hale had been acutely nervous—even fearful and apprehensive. To him it was a very marvelous thing to be actually off the earth, the pilot of a real flying machine. And it scarcely seemed possible that the machine should require so little attention. Like a flash, all the unpleasant feelings that had disturbed him vanished.

Jubilant, exultant, almost ready to shout with the sheer joy of the exhilarating sensations he was experiencing, Don Hale once more looked earthward. How strange the ground looked flying beneath him at incredible speed! How high above it he appeared to be! If anything should happen to his machine a fall from that height might produce most serious results.

With one swift, comprehensive glance, his eyes took in the boys at various points on the field and the planes which, for one reason or another, were resting here and there on the turf. Then his greatest desire and ambition in the world was to descend—to return to that haven of safety.

Yes, flying was easy enough; but when it came to making a landing—that was where the difficulty began.

Nervously, Don switched off the current and pushed the control stick forward.

And, to his utter dismay, the plane seemed to be falling headlong at an acute angle—the ground to be fairly shooting up toward him.

For one brief instant he had a terrible vision of a fatal smash-up. Then, a pull of the lever in the opposite direction brought the nose of the machine upward again. And following this, to the boy’s intense surprise and relief, the monoplane dropped in the most gentle fashion to terra firma, taxi-ing across the field, its speed rapidly diminishing.

When it had come to a stop Don found his face bathed in perspiration and his pulse throbbing in a way that it had seldom done before.

“By George! Am I actually here!” he muttered.

Notwithstanding the fact that the boy had made a mighty good landing and could hear shouts of approval coming from the distance he was too honest with himself to be gratified with the achievement. He knew that it was simply a case of good luck.

“But just wait till next time!” he muttered, grimly. “By George, the earth never seemed so fine before!”

A number of Annamites presently appeared and turned the machine around.

It was not for some time, however, that Don’s nerves quieted down sufficiently for him to put his airplane into motion. With a fervent hope that fate would be as kind to him as it had been before, he switched on the ignition and once again faced the blasts of wind.

Then came the delicious moment of soaring upward—the ecstasy of feeling himself borne through the air as swiftly as the arrow from an archer’s bow and that sense of wonderful freedom which the airman alone can enjoy.

As before, he glanced downward, and a humorous thought came into his mind.

“Certainly I’m the biggest thirty feet that was ever known above the ground,” he murmured. “I hope I don’t fly to the moon.”

With astonishing rapidity the distant hangars, from hazy, indistinct objects, became strong and clear. He could see the students and instructors, watching, it seemed to him, with an interest and close attention that fired his spirit with the keenest determination to make a landing that would surprise them.

He did.

But the machine was not badly wrecked, nor was he himself injured by the fall of fifteen feet.

It was merely a case, Mittengale genially explained, in which the earth happened to be that many feet lower than it should have been.

Don said very little. It rather jarred his sensibilities to hear the mirthful laughter and bantering remarks and to see the Annamites towing an extraordinarily wobbling machine toward the repair shop. And, besides this, to add to his disturbed state of mind, the moniteur, a boyish chap named Boulanger, very loudly called attention to the error which had caused the accident, between times roundly scolding him.

“Quite a neat little bawling out!” chirped Dublin Dan, soothingly. “It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.”

“I don’t include that word in my vocabulary,” exclaimed Don, with a half smile.

But though Don Hale’s start in the third class had not been particularly auspicious, nevertheless, by the end of the day he managed to gain sufficient mastery over the plane to receive a “Pas mal, Hale!”—“Not bad!” from the same moniteur who had chided him.

That evening, while lying in his bunk, he summed up the situation in regard to himself. There were other pupils who had made faster progress, but the boy felt sure that what he had learned he had thoroughly learned. He knew, however, that there was a tremendous amount of work ahead of him before he could possibly hope to equal the skill of the most humble flyer of the Lafayette Squadron—a squadron which he devoutly hoped to join.

Difficulties have the effect on some natures of spurring them to greater zeal and determination; so it was in the case of Don Hale. Each failure, each “bawling out,” each chorus of laughter only acted as a stimulus.

In a little less than a week he had acquired sufficient skill in driving the machine in straight courses across the field to be promoted another step—that is to the tour de piste, or tour of the aviation field at a height of about three hundred feet.

This was, of course, designed to teach the airmen how to make their turns in the air, an operation requiring the greatest accuracy and care. Up to this time Don thought he had enjoyed about all the thrills that it was possible to have, but the first tour de piste undeceived him. All the other experiences faded into insignificance when compared to this. In his splendid isolation from all mankind, he was filled with a certain sense of awe a little unnerving at first. He was in a situation where no power save his own could be of any avail, and on the first two or three occasions involuntary tremors shook his frame as the Bleriot monoplane banked, or swung around at an angle.

Happily, however, there was no tragedy to record. With increasing confidence, Don dared to rise higher, and within a few hours had reached the required altitude. From this elevation he viewed with absorbed attention the wonderful panorama, which, like a colored map, was outspread before him, revealing fields of various forms, shapes and colors, and patches of woods and hills. And dividing the landscape were light lines—the roads—running in all directions.

His first tour was satisfactory to himself and his instructors. The turns held no terror for him.

Following this several days of bad weather put a stop to the work of the school. During the enforced inactivity Bobby Dunlap had his curiosity and interest in Victor Gilbert and Jason Hamlin still further heightened by a violent altercation between the two, although neither he nor any one else was near enough to overhear the conversation. The fact, too, that the young chaps had evidently been just on the point of indulging in a physical encounter made the “Gilbert-Hamlin affair,” as Bobby termed it, decidedly interesting.

“I’m going to find out all about it some day,” he laughed, nodding his head emphatically.

“Bully boy!” chuckled Sid Marlow.

When the period of dull weather was over Don Hale started in with greater zeal than ever. He was doing his best to equal the record of T. Singleton Albert, who had so far recovered his nerve that he had no hesitancy at all in executing the vrille.

By gradual degrees, Don took his machine to greater altitudes, until, at length, he was making the tour de piste at a height of three thousand five hundred feet. Now feeling somewhat like a veteran, he was fully prepared when the order came for him to perform some of the simpler evolutions in the air. One of these consisted in spiraling down to the earth with the engine shut off and landing almost directly beneath the point at which he started. Another was to volplane swiftly downward, and then, while still several hundred feet in the air, bring the machine to a horizontal position and swing around either to the right or left.

These exercises proved to be a pretty severe test on his nerves, and at first affected his head and stomach in a truly distressing manner; but constant practice, combined with a determined will, finally enabled him to gain the mastery over them, and he began keenly to enjoy the great and thrilling swoops through space.

At length there came a time to which he had been looking forward most anxiously, and that was the beginning of his training in a big Caudron biplane, a rather slow but safe machine. This meant that Don Hale’s stay at the École Militaire de Beaumont was nearly at an end.

There were now but two tests before him, one known as the petit voyage and the other the grande voyage. The first was a sixty mile trip and return; the second a triangular journey, each side being about seventy miles in length.

By the time Don had passed these successfully T. Singleton Albert and Victor Gilbert had gone to the great finishing school located at Pau, in the southern part of France.

It was indeed a happy moment to Don when he received his “Brevet d’Aviateur Militaire” from the War Department, which made him a corporal in the French army. This merely meant, however, that he had graduated from the school at Beaumont, and, like the two who had preceded him, was sent to take a course in “acrobatics” at Pau.

Pau, he found, was very delightfully situated, and within sight of the snow-capped Pyrenees.

With even added zest, Don Hale entered into the work before him. It was more dangerous than anything he had attempted in the school at Beaumont; but the tactics he learned were of extreme importance, being precisely those used in air fighting on the front.

About the middle of his course Don Hale was ordered to report to the Mitrailleuse school at Casso, on the shore of a lake, where soldiers in all branches of the army are trained in the use of machine guns. In a two-seater, piloted by another airman, Don Hale practiced firing at captive balloons and moving targets on the lake.

At first it proved very difficult, but constant work soon enabled him to meet the requirements of his instructors.

After the completion of this training he returned to Pau for a short period. Following this he went to Plessis Belleville to add a few final touches before being assigned to combat duty in one of the escadrilles.

The boy’s greatest ambition was to join the Lafayette, where he might be near his chum George Glenn, and he passed through a period of much anxiety before the matter was finally settled in the affirmative by the military authorities.

Proud and happy indeed, in his neatly-fitting uniform, with the corporal’s stripes on his sleeve and the golden wings and star insignia on his collar, Don Hale set out on his journey to join the escadrille, then encamped not far from Bar-le-Duc, near the Verdun front.

CHAPTER XI—THE LAFAYETTE

Of all the flying corps in France none performed more valiant deeds or became more renowned than the Lafayette, composed of Americans who journeyed across the sea to help the French in their struggle against the invading hosts. Whether it was in answer to the call of adventure due to the love of thrills and excitement, or to the fascination of a new and wonderful sport, or simply from a sense of duty, are questions of no particular moment—the members of the flying corps are to be judged solely by the remarkable work they accomplished.

The fame of such combat pilots as Rockwell, Prince, Chadwick, MCConnell, Lufbery, Hall, Walcott and numbers of others is of the kind which will last as long as history itself. Never again, perhaps, will men be called upon to repeat their triumphs.

The day Don Hale arrived was an epochal one in his life. George Glenn and T. Singleton Albert met him at the station in a little village crowded with soldiers and permissionnaires.

“I can’t tell you, Don, how glad I am to see you; and yet I’m almost sorry to see you,” exclaimed Albert, enigmatically. “You’re in for excitement that will make your days as an ambulance driver with the Red Cross seem tame by comparison.”

“And they were plenty thrilling enough to suit me,” laughed Don. “What’s the latest news?”

“That this little village was recently bombed.”

George Glenn pointed to a sign painted on the side of a building.

“‘Cave Voûté,’” read Don, aloud.

These caves, he knew, were underground retreats, where the soldiers or inhabitants could find a refuge in case of a bombardment or a bomb-dropping expedition of the enemy.

“One good thing—our camp is outside the range of the guns,” said George.

As the boys walked through the little village, which, during the earlier stages of the war, had been the scene of many an exciting event, Don Hale could not help but remarking on the changed appearance of T. Singleton Albert. There was a gravity and sedateness about him which he judged to be caused by the dangers to which the airmen are constantly exposed.

“Had any exciting adventures yet, Drugstore?” he asked.

“Plenty of them,” responded Albert. And then a light which Don Hale had never seen before flashed into the young chap’s eyes. “Yet, in spite of that, I wouldn’t have missed this experience for all the world. Flying has all the joys, the thrills and excitement of every other sport beaten a thousand miles. I certainly owe a whole lot of thanks to Lieutenant William Thaw.”

The three found plenty to talk about, though they were often obliged to let their lively tongues slow down on account of the lines of marching troops and the almost endless procession of motor trucks passing in both directions.

In about three-quarters of an hour they reached their destination—the headquarters of the famous Lafayette Escadrille, which happened to be, at this time, in a beautiful little villa, situated in the midst of spacious grounds.

A number of the American pilots cordially greeted him, and Don was very glad to see among them Victor Gilbert.

After meeting the courteous French captain of the escadrille the boy was shown to a room on the second floor, which he was to share with several others.

Outside of the hazardous nature of their occupation, the members of the American Squadron, unlike the “doughboys” and poilus, lived a life of ease and comfort. They had orderlies who attended to their needs, comfortable feather beds to sleep upon, and their meals, prepared by a French chef, were eaten in a dining-room which delighted the eye by its most artistic furnishings and decorations.

It would have been very hard to analyze Don Hale’s feelings on this particular occasion. Expectation, eagerness, happiness and impatience, all seemed to hold sway over his thoughts, and though the reality was before him he could scarcely believe that he actually had become a member of the famous American Squadron.

After a substantial lunch, still in the company of George Glenn and Albert, Don journeyed to the aviation field not very far away.

With the utmost eagerness, he gazed about him. He saw numerous hangars, rest tents and various wooden structures. And, besides these, parked at one side, were ponderous motor trucks, trailers and several automobiles.

Attached to the great encampment were mechanicians, chauffeurs, telephone operators, Red Cross attendants and motor-cyclists—for the business of flying has its prosaic side as well as its thrills. Somehow or other it reminded Don of a country fair on a large scale, and it would have seemed to him very natural indeed had his eyes alighted on a barker, mounted upon a rostrum, exhorting a crowd of spectators to enter. There was a certain air of grimness and sternness, however, about the men whom they encountered that soon removed this impression. From the east came the sullen rumble of countless guns. Sometimes it was low, like the mutterings of distant thunder; sometimes it swelled into a volume, as if a storm was about to burst, and then, like the sighing of the wind, almost faded away.

A patrol was just about to leave for the front, and Don watched the Nieuports taxi across the ground, rise one after another in the air, and, after gaining a high altitude, soar in a V-shaped formation toward the battle front.

The boy thrilled at the sight, and his eyes followed the fast-flying planes until they were lost to sight behind a thin veil of whitish clouds.

“Of course, I’m pretty sure you know just what kind of work we are doing here,” said George Glenn, “but, notwithstanding, I am going to tell you a few things. Our squadron belongs to what is known as the group de combat, and it has a definite sector to cover.

“A patrol is always kept over the enemy’s lines, not only to prevent the German pilots from entering ours but to make their lives as full of spice and adventure as we possibly can.”

“Still, we have a lot to do besides fighting,” put in Albert. “Sometimes our duty is to protect the two or three-seater bombardment planes, the avions de réglage, or airplanes used by those who regulate the artillery fire, and the observation and photographic planes. The mission of the big ‘birds,’ although they are armed with two guns, and sometimes three, is a purely defensive one.”

“Quite often,” chimed in George, “escorting bombardment and photographic planes, we travel quite a long distance into ‘Germany,’ as we call the other side of the barbed wire entanglements.”

“It must be wonderful!” cried Don.

“Some of our experiences are, I can assure you,” returned George, with a half smile. “Now, Don, here is something the captain is going to tell you, and if you value your life and my piece of mind you will implicitly obey his instructions.”

“Fire away!” said Don.

“It is to stick by the formation—always! The Germans have a habit of pouncing down upon stragglers, and unless the pilot combines skill, resourcefulness and courage in equal proportions, or sheer good luck intervenes, it is apt to be good-night.”

“You can trust me not to get lost,” said Don, with a serious look in his eyes. “But, boys, I want to see my plane—I must see my plane, and, as the captain is right here on the field, I reckon he’ll show it to me.”

In this view Don was not mistaken; and presently a mechanic rolled out of one of the hangars a small machine, slender of fuselage and beautiful in its proportions. On the tapering body was painted an Indian’s head similar to the one on Lieutenant Thaw’s machine.

“As you see, all of the planes are numbered,” remarked the captain, “and, in addition, each of the pilots has some special mark on the fuselage to distinguish his from the others.”

“Yes, Monsieur le Capitaine,” said Don, with a grin of delight.

“This machine has a motor of two hundred horse power and can travel at a speed of about one hundred and forty miles an hour,” continued the commander. “And at times you will need it all,” he added, dryly. “When may you go up? This afternoon. I will detail Sergeant Reynolds to accompany you in his plane. The German lines must not be crossed, under any consideration, for several days at least.”

“Oh!” murmured Don.

This was a great disappointment to the boy; for he possessed that daring which youth is prone to indulge—a daring which may often lead to disaster, and, as often, be a means to safety.

The captain, after introducing him to the mechanic who was to look after the Nieuport, walked away.

The next half hour was one of unalloyed delight to Don Hale. He spent it in examining the plane, the various nickel plated instruments with which the cockpit was furnished and the Vickers gun, with its belts of cartridges.

To fire this stationary weapon the pilot would have no need to remove his hand from the controls. The instruments consisted of a compass, an altimetre to register the height, a speed indicator and several others. Then there was a map in a roller case.

The top of the plane was camouflaged by means of spots of a greenish and brownish color; and besides the concentric circles of blue, white, brown and red on the wings the end of the tail had been painted with the tricolor of France.

Though Don Hale, as a rule, was a pretty calm lad, he found it hard to conceal his nervous tension.

His preliminary flight that afternoon, however, was really nothing more than a repetition of those he had taken while in the training schools. A green pilot was not to be fed to the hungry Boches, and he stood in no more danger from that source than if he had been hundreds of miles away.

On the following days the sergeant led him a little further toward the fighting front. And then, having received all the protection which wise counsel and advice could afford, the young airman was pronounced ready to begin his career as a combat pilot.

CHAPTER XII—ABOVE THE CLOUDS

On a certain morning, just after sunrise, Don Hale, in his fur-lined combination suit, leather aviation helmet, and provided with heavy goggles and gloves, was strapped in his machine. It was one of a row of six, which, in almost perfect alignment, were ready to go aloft.

There was the greatest activity and noise about the flying field. The air was filled with the roar, the drone and the hum of many motors; and in this sea of sound the reverberations of the distant guns were, for the time being, completely lost.

Don had received his instructions to fly at the rear of a formation of six machines, following one another at a distance of fifty metres. This vol de groupe would patrol the German lines for a period of several hours.

Don Hale found himself murmuring over and over again: “At last!” And though he tried his best to still the rapid pulsations of his heart—to control a hand that had an extraordinary tendency to tremble, it was without avail. He was going up to face peril of the gravest sort.

Was anything going to happen?

Just then he felt almost afraid to think of what the fates might hold in store for him.

Presently he saw the captain wave his hand as a signal, and a moment later the leader of the patrol rose in the air. The others followed.

There was just an instant more of waiting for Don Hale, and then he, too, was rolling over the ground.

As readily as a leaf borne aloft by a gust of wind the Nieuport answered to the controls and began spiraling upward.

The six machines rose directly over the field, and at a height of about two thousand feet the leader headed toward the east, the others taking up their respective places in the formation.

Higher and higher the fleet of wonderful little machines ascended, and Don Hale glancing over the side of the cockpit, saw a wonderful panorama of the rapidly-receding earth, which the early morning sun was tinting with a soft and poetic glow. The most delicate tints of brown and green were broken here and there by darker notes of a purplish hue, indicating patches of woods. Crisscrossing the earth in all directions were the roads—thread-like lines of palish gray, and, as though some giant hand had scattered them carelessly about at widely distant points, were clusters of little glistening dots—villages, or what remained of villages. Now and again the boy’s eyes caught sight of pools, mirroring on their surfaces the delicate tones of the sky or the clouds above, and presently the river Meuse came into view—a faint and hazy line.

His practice in the school at Pau had taught Don how to preserve his place in the vol de groupe, which, when the tremendous speed of the Nieuport is considered, is far from easy, and he had never made a better effort than at the present time. The new member of the Lafayette Squadron remembered vividly the stories he had heard concerning the fate of youthful and venturesome pilots who had disobeyed the commander’s orders.

Eagerly, he kept his eyes open for enemy planes. He could not see any, but he did perceive, far below him, on both sides of the line, numbers of grotesque-looking observation balloons, or sausages, as they have been jocularly christened.

Now the altimetre registered a height of over ten thousand feet—they were approaching the battle-front. Don Hale was about to get his first view of “Germany.”

The boy, however, was too excited—too absorbed in the contemplation of the singular scene below him, and, at the same time, so occupied in handling his plane that he did not feel any tingling sensation of fear.

The battle-ground was covered with a thin veil of purplish smoke, and where the delicate shadows lay thickest on the earth he could occasionally distinguish the flashing lights of the guns or of exploding shells. But it all seemed very distant—very remote. The clouds of smoke from the bursting projectiles and innumerable batteries were but tiny spots amid the surrounding haze. Don realized that a vigorous bombardment from both sides was going on and that a devastating hail of missiles was creating havoc and destruction in the opposing trenches and far to their rear. Then he had a swift glimpse of that irregular brownish stretch of land running between the hostile forces—“No Man’s Land,” the most sinister, the most barren, the most mutilated strip of earth that has ever existed since the world began.

The patrol leader was now mounting higher, and the reason became almost instantly apparent. The air straight ahead had become filled with round puffs of viciously-spurting black smoke. The “Archies” were according the early morning visitors their usual warm reception.

A second more, and not so many yards away there suddenly appeared the largest and wickedest-looking puff of all, and, above the roar of the motor, the startled Don Hale could hear the explosion of the shrapnel shell launched by the German gunners.

The next instant he felt a terrifying thrill. His airplane was falling through space.

Almost stifled by the air rushing past, with a horrifying vision of impending catastrophe, the boy, nevertheless, managed to keep his wits about him. But escape seemed impossible. A perfect hail of “Archies” popped up in the air to the rear, to the side and to the front of the falling machine, the control of which he was desperately trying to regain.

Though his agony of suspense seemed long drawn out it was but a moment when the terrifying descent was over and the machine again flying parallel to the earth.

It was almost miraculous that it had not been riddled with the fragments of the bursting shrapnel shells. The din of their almost continuous explosions was ringing in the aviator’s ears, and in the violently-disturbed air the Nieuport was rocking and plunging like a boat in a heavy sea.

“Never fly in a straight line” was the advice which had been given to Don before setting out on the expedition, and after the first few moments of suspense had passed Don Hale managed to sufficiently calm his jumping nerves and follow this instruction. He turned the nose of his machine upward, and, in a zigzagging flight, shot like a rocket into the blue depths above.

A little later he found an infinite relief in seeing the black thunderbolts exploding hundreds of yards below.

But where was the rest of the patrol? They seemed to have utterly vanished. A strange sense of loneliness such as he had never known before took possession of him. And then, like a flash, he recalled George Glenn’s words: “The Germans have a habit of pouncing down upon any stragglers they may happen to see.”

Were there any enemy scouts about?

He cast a swift, comprehensive glance over the vast expanse of sky.

A number of planes were to be seen far to the rear of the German lines, but whether friends or enemies the new combat pilot could not possibly determine. At any rate, he was sure his companions must have ascended to the cloud level, now close overhead.

Still thrilled at the thought of his narrow escape, he sent the biplane climbing higher aloft. Nothing in his school days could be compared to this flight, a flight in which danger threatened every moment

Plunging into a cloud, the machine became enveloped in soft and fleecy masses of vapor. Not a thing could Don see in any direction. It was a most weird and curious sensation, he found, to be sailing so far above the earth, in the midst of the fog; and though he experienced a certain sense of freedom from danger he had an unpleasant feeling of half suffocation, which impelled him to escape as soon as possible from their enfolding embrace.

Now, through a jagged opening he caught a glimpse of the earth, and just a moment afterward something happened which gave him the greatest scare he had yet had in his brief flying career.

A shadowy object—so faint as to be scarcely discernible—flashed into view to his right, and, while he gazed toward it as though fascinated, in a second of time it had grown into an object of seemingly gigantic proportions, though still so faint in outline that he could scarcely take in its exact form.

Another instant and the phantom-like plane had swept past with lightning speed, leaving in its wake powerful currents o wildly swirling vapor, while the airplane, caught in the eddy, staggered and shook.

“Whew! That was another close call!” breathed Don. “Sure enough!—this isn’t a game for weak nerves. Hello—goodness gracious!”

The Nieuport had shot above the strata of clouds.

Even though his nerves were still tingling, his pulse throbbing violently, the combat pilot could not repress a gasp of admiration as he gazed out over the immense expanse of billowy forms that stretched in every direction in a vast circle against the soft blue field of sky.

It was still early, the sun had not risen high, and its rays, falling upon the clouds, tinted them with the most delicate of rosy hues.

“I almost seem out of the world,” murmured Don, a trifle awesomely.

“And how perfectly safe it looks I—just as though one could float about on the clouds and be in no danger of taking a header to the earth. But where am I in this curious world above? And, more important than all, where are the other planes? I’d be in a nice position, shouldn’t I, if some of Captain Richtofen’s Red Squadron should happen to come along! What shall I do?”

The boy found that skimming close to the fleecy, ever-changing billows, sometimes dipping into them, was a fascinating sport. Up there everything was peace, loneliness and quietude. It seemed almost incredible that only a few miles below, on the earth he had just left, a terrible war was being waged and that every moment tragedies and horrors were taking place.

But the time for decisive action had come.

Boldly, though not without some trepidation, he plunged back into the clouds. Then came a brief period of dense obscurity, followed by a weird, spectral illumination, as the daylight struggled to pierce the masses of moisture-laden air; and presently the Nieuport was again in full view of the shell-torn, battle-scarred earth, far over a hostile country.

Many planes could now be seen, some below, some faint and hazy in the distance, others comparatively near

And while Don was scanning each in turn, hoping to recognize the familiar Indian’s head on the fuselage, he suddenly became conscious of the fact that not very far away a fight in the air had begun. Probably half a dozen or more combat pilots were engaged; and, almost forgetting, in his interest and excitement, the danger of his position, Don Hale watched the wonderful spectacle, with his nerves at the keenest tension.

Every acrobatic performance which he himself had learned at the advanced school at Pau was being used by the rival airmen.

Now and again one or another went down in a spinning nose dive, as though the machine were totally out of control; but instead of crashing to the earth it would right itself, and, with almost incredible speed, rise again to the attack. Fairly leaping over one another, flashing this way and that, narrowly avoiding collisions, they soared upward or swooped down, as a flock of enraged birds fighting among themselves might have done, and, faintly, the enthralled Don Hale could hear the vicious crackling of the machine guns, steadily spurting forth their messenger of death, and see the faint smoking lines left by the tracer ballets.

Were any members of the Lafayette Squadron engaged in the conflict?

The boy mentally voiced this query over and over again as he flew around in a sweeping circle, keeping far above the contenders.

He felt an almost irresistible impulse to join in the fray, and but for the fact that the squadron commander had explicitly ordered him to act only on the defensive probably would have done so. He had seen many a fight from the ground, but then the thrills were of a decidedly different nature from those which came while he was in the pilot’s seat of an airplane.

A moment more, and, just as suddenly as the battle had begun, it ended. One of the combat planes began to fall, turning over and over in the air, now and then the dull gray wings with the Maltese crosses clearly outlined against the floating masses of smoke below.

Into these it plunged and disappeared from view.

Thankful that neither his compatriots no any of the Allied airmen had been the victim, yet shuddering at the thought of the human life which had been sacrificed to the greed of the God of War, Don Hale headed for the west, having satisfied himself that the Allied planes, now rapidly retreating, belonged to a French air squadron.

The black, sputtering “Archies” were beginning to burst beneath him again, one coming so dangerously near that once more a sort of consternation gripped him.

“This won’t do at all!” he muttered. “A little bit nearer the ceiling for me!”

He was approaching the lines and “No Man’s Land” and following its tortuous course with his eyes he observed in many places the sudden bursts of smoke which told of the explosions of high-calibre shells. All about him the atmosphere was hazy and the distance entirely obscured.

Now rapidly becoming familiar with the new game, Don began to feel more like himself. For the first time he could understand how it was that the experienced pilots learned to treat with comparative indifference the angry shrieks of the attacking “Archies.”

At length Don Hale discovered the patrol of Lafayette machines flying in a perfect formation just over the enemy’s line.

After facing the dangers of the sky alone the sense of relief and pleasure that the sight of friends near at hand afforded him was delightful indeed. He felt like uttering a whoop of joy.

“Considering all such experiences as I’ve just had once is too much!” he muttered to himself. “And this time you can just bet I’ll not get separated.”

Nor did he. The patrol, which was only policing the air, led him into no further danger, and, consequently, when the two hours was over and they headed for the aviation field, nothing had occurred to add more thrills to those he had already received.

Don Hale, however, was thoroughly glad to see the great encampment coming into view; and equally glad when he had spiraled down to the earth and made an almost perfect atterrissage.

Waiting machinists helped him out of the cockpit; and as he answered the questions fired toward him the boy felt as proud and happy as any of the “aces” whose fame has spread throughout the world.

His first reconnaissance over the enemy’s line was something he could never forget

CHAPTER XIII—THE FARMER

Several weeks passed, during which Don Hale became thoroughly familiar with and accustomed to the work of the escadrille. The boy was surprised to find how soon the unpleasant feelings which had assailed him on his first day’s sortie over the lines had worn off. True, he did pass through some harrowing moments—terrible moments, in which it seemed as though he was doomed to destruction. But, in general, familiarity with the dangers brought that indifference which a seasoned veteran in any of life’s great games usually acquires.

By this time the young aviator had engaged in practically every kind of work done by the squadron. He, in company with other pilots, had acted as escorts to the big Caudron bombarding machines, the artillery regulating planes, and those whose duty it was to travel over the enemy’s country, observing and taking photographs.

During several of these trips he had been introduced to what the boys pleasantly termed “flaming onions.” These are balls of fire sent in a stream from a special gun, and they travel with tremendous speed. Fortunately, however, these sportive attempts of the Germans did no damage to either him or his machine.

During a vigorous attack when the French had succeeded in capturing and holding several of the German trenches he learned a great deal about contact patrol. This consisted of working in conjunction with the infantry, keeping them informed of everything that was taking place on the other side of “No Man’s Land,” guarding them in every way from surprises and doing all that was possible to facilitate their “Going over the top” by flying low over the ground and vigorously attacking the enemy’s troops.

Contact patrol was the most dangerous work of all; for the pilots ran not only the risk of being struck down by the shells from the east but also by those sent by their own batteries in the rear.

Occasionally, too, he joined expeditions which set out to destroy the big observation balloons which hung constantly in the sky, and on one of these trips he had seen an unwieldy monster, somewhat suggestive of an elephant with its trunk cut off, sent flaming to the ground.

But there was a sad, a tragic side connected with all the splendid and courageous work accomplished by the combat pilots. There were some who never returned, and who were listed in the official “communique”^[8] as being among the missing. There were others, too, whose planes, riddled by the enemy’s bullets, were sent crashing earthward, to be smashed and splintered and torn apart by the terrific impact.

Those were days of gloom and sorrow; but the inevitable had to be accepted.

Two events which interested Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were the arrivals, at different times, of Bobby Dunlap and Jason Hamlin. The meeting between the latter and Victor Gilbert was of a nature no more cordial than that at the training school.

Gilbert glared at the other, demanding gruffly:

“You seem to find it hard to keep away from my company. There are other Franco-American Squadrons.”

“Thank you for your charming and subtle intimation,” rejoined Hamlin, dryly. “Let me say, however, that I pulled every wire I could so that I might have the pleasure of joining this squadron.”

“Frightfully agreeable, I’m sure!” muttered Gilbert, turning away.

“I say, Peur Jamais,” exclaimed Don Hale, some time later, “how is the Sherlock Holmes business getting on?”

Bobby wagged his head mysteriously.

“Maybe I’m on the trail of something, and maybe I’m not,” he responded. “What do I think it is? To quote a classical remark: ‘I have nothing to say at this time.’ Bombs aren’t the only things that make explosions. Now let us drop the mystery.”

“That’s better than dropping a bomb,” laughed Don.

“That depends upon where you drop it,” chirped Bobby. “But, believe me, Donny, that Hamlin person is some flyer. He’d make an eagle so ashamed of himself that he’d swear off flying and stay on the ground forever. I believe he could almost fly by waving his arms in the air.”

“Wish I could!” sighed Don. “It would come in mighty handy if a fellow’s plane were shot away from him while he was five miles in the air.”

Often pilots when off duty gathered in the bureau, or office, where reports were turned in and other necessary routine work of the squadron transacted. Hanging on the wall was a very large map of the sector, amazingly complete, showing the location of German aviation centres and even the points where their observation balloons were anchored. Naturally, from time to time, there were changes in the map, and the members of the squadron often found great interest in studying it and speculating as to its appearance a few months hence.

As days succeeded days Don, George Glenn, T. Singleton Albert and Bobby Dunlap frequently met in the bureau, and it was on one of these occasions that Bobby took Don Hale aside, and, in a very impressive manner, remarked:

“Do you remember those nights at the Café Rochambeau when old Père Goubain told us a whole lot about German spies?”

“Yes,” answered Don.

“Well, I don’t think he was so very far wrong. I’m brighter than the next person, and it looks to me as if the trail were getting warm.”

“What do you mean?”

Don spoke in a mystified tone.

“Spies—spies!” chuckled Bobby.

“But where are they? Maybe you think I’m a spy?”

“If you are you’d better be careful of little Sherlock,” chirped Peur Jamais.

Some time later, the pilots were rather surprised and amused to see an old French peasant standing out front and gazing in evident wonder at the aviation fields. He was a typical son of the soil, wearing wooden sabots, or shoes; and his faded blue garments showed many traces of his labor in the fields. Almost primitive in appearance, and suggesting the uncouth, illiterate peasants which the French painter Millet loved to depict, he seemed so out of place amidst that most modern of all scenes—an aviation centre—that many of the boys found it rather hard to stifle an inclination to laugh.

“Hello, what’s the news from your section of the universe?” asked Bobby Dunlap, waggishly.

The peasant glanced at him rather stupidly for a moment and then drawled:

“There aren’t enough people left in the place where I come from to be any news. There’s an awful big war going on, isn’t there?”

“Goodness! So you’ve discovered it, too!” laughed Bobby. “Where do you live?”

“Not so very far away.”

“Are you thinking of changing your vocation and becoming an aviator?”

The stolid-looking peasant, evidently seeing no humor in the remark, shook his head and mumbled:

“No.” Then, in a half-embarrassed manner, he inquired: “May I take a glance inside the house?”

“To be sure!” exclaimed Jason Hamlin.

“The world owes everything to the farmer. He is the foundation upon which the world leans. Without him——”

“We’d have to become farmers ourselves,” giggled Bobby.

The peasant, evidently feeling awed by his surroundings, entered the bureau.

Once inside he gazed about him with a sort of abstracted air, uttered a few observations which caused titters of laughter to run around the room, and, presently, remarked to Jason Hamlin:

“This war hasn’t done any good to farming. Pretty big map on the wall. What’s it there for?”

Repressing a smile, T. Singleton Albert attempted to explain, in his own peculiar style of French, whereupon the visiting farmer exclaimed:

“Too bad! But I don’t speak any language except that of my own country.”

A loud laugh went up at the expense of the furiously-blushing Drugstore.

And then Don took it upon himself to impart the information.

“I see!” exclaimed the peasant, musingly.

He walked over to the map and began to examine it, his expression, however, indicating an utter lack of comprehension.

Victor Gilbert, who happened to be among the crowd, remarked in English:

“It’s too bad that the laboring classes should be so uneducated. And the lack of training dwarfs what intelligence they have, so that their minds fail to grasp even simple things.”

The others agreed with him.

But, at any rate, they found the visit of the farmer a pleasant diversion, and all were really sorry when he said good-bye and started for the door.

“That old chap is about the limit,” growled T. Singleton Albert. “Talk about ignorance! It’s a positive wonder he has enough sense to find his way home.”

“And just think!—the poor fellow understands only French,” chirped Bobby Dunlap.

Drugstore was about to retort, when the entrance of several pilots stopped him.

The newcomers had something to tell, too, which aroused a great deal of interest—several of them had had thrilling encounters with Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.

“I feel sure the Baron was there himself,” declared one. “The way those planes were handled was simply marvelous. I thought I had certainly winged a Boche when he went into the vrille; and I swooped down after him for about two thousand feet, intending to make sure of it. But, in some extraordinary manner, he got his plane under control, and before I could realize it I was shooting below him and his bullets were humming a tune past my ears.”

“Oh, boy, that is music I don’t like to hear!” said Bobby, with a perceptible shiver.

“I reckon all of us prefer symphonies of a less dangerous kind,” remarked Gilbert, adding, rather reflectively: “I haven’t had the pleasure yet of meeting that Baron and his pirate crew. Perhaps some day I shall.”

“Then let us hope it will be a red letter day for you,” cried Don.

That night the escadrille was once more saddened by the disappearance of one of its members, and all telephone queries to the observation posts failed to reveal what had come of him. It was feared, however, that he had fallen behind the German lines and been either killed or captured by the enemy.

Many of the pilots remained late in the bureau discussing their fellow aviator’s possible fate, and while they were busily talking the sound of an anti-aircraft gun brought all who were sitting to their feet.

“I wonder if that means a Boche bombing raid!” cried Don Hale, excitedly.

The next instant a frightful din of crashing guns rent the air.

With a common impulse, a rush was made for the door.