CHAPTER XVIII—THE RED SQUADRON

When Don Hale saw the red planes of Captain Baron Von Richtofen behind him he certainly received the shock of his life. The oncoming storm, the sense of solitude and the great expanse above the clouds had all lulled him into a sense of security.

A moment’s indecision nearly finished his career as a combat pilot. Streams of bullets were flashing past, and one of them, crashing through the little curved wind shield in front of his head, brought him to a realization that only the quickest possible action could save his life.

He did then what many a flying fighter had done before him. A quick movement of the control lever dipped the rear ailerons, sending the plane almost vertically downward toward the earth. With the engine stopped, he tipped to one side, and the machine entered the vrille, or spinning nose dive.

With frightful velocity, turning on its axis, the Nieuport dove through the agitated storm-clouds. The wind roared past him as it had never roared before, singing and moaning, like the strains of some wild, weird symphony as it beat against the plane’s wires and supports. Gasping for breath, almost dazed by the fearful whirling motion, the boy, nevertheless, felt the joy of triumph surging within him. He had cheated the birds of ill-omen of their prey. He could laugh at their efforts. They would never catch him now that he knew of their presence in the sky.

Down, down shot the little biplane through an obscurity so dense that nothing could be seen in any direction. And soon, while still surrounded by the heavy vapors, it straightened out parallel to the earth, and, shaken and rocked by the wind, sailed swiftly ahead.

But at that instant, just as all danger seemed to be passed, Don Hale made another most alarming discovery—something had happened to his motor, and though he strove with the utmost desperation to get it started it persistently refused to work.

“Tough luck!” he burst out, aloud. “This is the worst ever! Here I am miles over German territory.”

Filled with apprehension, with all sorts of dreadful fancies running through his mind, and the dread and uncertainty of it all making his nerves tremble and twitch, the young combat pilot volplaned through the clouds.

Presently he skimmed through the thinner mists, and saw the darkened and sombre-looking earth beneath him. His head was still aching from the effects of the headlong plunge. His breath, too, came in short and painful gasps. But all these physical manifestations were almost unnoticed in the pilot’s excited state of mind.

Was there nothing that he could do to avert the fate for which he seemed destined?

There must be. Surely his career as a combat pilot was not going to come to such an inglorious end!

Feverishly—energetically, Don Hale continued to manipulate the levers that controlled his motor. But there was no sign of it awakening into life. And all the while he was gliding nearer and nearer the earth.

Now the vague, indefinite blurs of color were becoming definite forms and shapes, and the meaningless patches of light and dark houses and trees.

Sick at heart, feeling that everything was lost, with the direst fear of an impending tragedy uppermost in his mind, the boy at length sat back in his seat, and, for the first time, paid close attention to the ground that seemed to be rapidly rising to meet him.

He had concluded that in the all-pervading gloom the Germans had not discovered his presence, but almost immediately the anti-aircraft batteries got into action and the surrounding air became suddenly filled with exploding shrapnel shells.

Now he could hear their viciously-sounding detonations, and the steady crackling of the guns which had sent them aloft.

Though faint and weak, the instinct of self-preservation asserted itself, enabling him to turn the machine this way and that, in an effort to dodge the hail of missiles. The Nieuport was wildly careening from side to side or dropping short distances at lightning speed; and, to add to his dismay, streams of “flaming onions,” like rockets of a greenish hue, darted toward the helpless airplane, sparkling brightly in the darkened atmosphere.

Yet, despite the terrible reality of the situation, it seemed to Don that he was going through some strange, weird dream. Dumbly, he wondered how soon the end would come. Only a miracle, it seemed, had saved him thus far. He could not expect such good-fortune to continue. He seemed to stand on the dividing line between life and eternity.

And when a strange, inexplicable calmness had taken possession of him and he felt resigned to the impending fate, the resounding din of the batteries below and the ear-splitting, appalling detonations of the shells suddenly ceased, and he was gliding through the smoke-filled air as unmolested as though on his own side of the line.

What did it mean?

The explanation was simple. The Germans below had at last realized the truth. They were merely waiting for the machine to drop into their midst. It was a galling thought. Not three hundred feet below he could see them. And that picture of men gathering together in groups, of men running and gesticulating, made a curious impression upon his overwrought brain.

Many a time he had heard the boys jocosely referring to the words “Kamerad, kamerad,” and for the first time he was in a position to realize fully what that cry must have meant to some of those who uttered it. And after the glorious, boundless freedom of the air—of the vast spaces—how could he stand the horrors of a detention camp, where men, penned in like sheep, were guarded and fed almost as if they were so many captured animals!

Now he was one hundred feet nearer the earth—one hundred feet nearer the clutch of his enemies—and, with the smoothness of a toboggan, the machine was still gliding downward. Yes, the journey would soon be over! He began to think of what the boys of the escadrille would say. In his mind he pictured them sitting around the supper table, speculating as to his unhappy fate.

How strange—how remarkable it seemed to be right there among the enemy! Still held in the grip of an unnatural calmness, he gazed indifferently at those gray-clad figures whose upturned eyes were fastened upon the descending machine.

Now only seventy-five feet separated him from the ground. He would be glad when all was over.

“There won’t even be any chance to set fire to the machine,” he groaned, aloud. “The Germans will capture it intact. And who knows to what use the crafty Boches may put it! But they’ll hear no ‘Kamerad, kamerad!’ from me.”

Suddenly a revulsion of feeling swept over the boy. The sight of the Germans crowding around seemed to fill him with an anger he could not repress. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in impotent wrath. And with this fierce rebellion against the cruel fate that awaited him his thoughts flashed back to Captain Baron Von Richtofen and his scarlet planes. How little he had thought when hearing about them in the Café Rochambeau that that selfsame Squadron of Death was destined to play a part in his own career!

For hardly a moment had Don ceased his efforts to get the engine running, and though it seemed useless—a futile task—he renewed them once again. And just as he was about concluding that nothing remained to be done but make a landing on a field toward which he had been heading, his ears caught a sound which fairly electrified him.

“At last!” he gasped.

With a preliminary cough, one of the cylinders of the motor started to work. Could it actually be possible?

A fierce, wild hope, painful in its intensity, seized upon Don Hale. It was an agonizing moment—a moment in which he suffered all the torture of a mind agitated by the most violent conflict between hope and fear.

And while the combat pilot was vaguely wondering if he had received just another cruel stab the old familiar, deafening roar, with startling abruptness, began to resound.

Uttering a shrill whoop of joy, Don Hale sent the Nieuport upward.

No music composed by the world’s greatest masters could have sounded more sweet to him than the steady reverberations of the engine. It still seemed unbelievable—something that could not be. All the joys of a man who, having given up hope, is unexpectedly granted a reprieve were his, as the airplane buffeted its way against the teeth of the ever-freshening wind.

The disappointed Germans immediately sprang to the attack, and the little Nieuport was running the gauntlet of rifle and revolver fire. Fast as it flew, the bullets sped faster, and though the combat pilot could not hear their wicked hum and zip he knew that leaden missiles were flashing all about him, for several holes again appeared in the upper plane.

“Can I make it! Can I make it!” he kept repeating.

Sometimes that wild race against such heavy odds seemed hopeless. He dared not rise too high, for that would give the antiaircraft gunners a chance of bringing him crashing down to the earth. True it was, that many of the infantrymen seemed so paralyzed with astonishment at the sight of a wildly-speeding Nieuport right over their heads as to forget to fire.

As moment succeeded moment, and Don Hale remained unscathed, he peered cautiously over the side of the cockpit. Now he was flying above a little village fairly swarming with the troops of the Kaiser. He could see the heavy camions rumbling through the streets and all the sights typical of military operations which he had observed on the opposite side of the trenches.

The thumping of his heart having in a measure subsided, and the chilling tremors almost disappeared, he found this flying over the enemy’s country, in spite of the bullets that continually sped toward him, a strangely fascinating game.

The little village was presently left far to the rear, and the speeding plane was again over the open country, with its whitish roads and green fields dotted here and there with farms and houses.

All at once he saw something in the distance which caused him to turn his plane in a northwesterly direction. It was a faintish, elongated yellowish spot suggestive of a giant caterpillar, lying close to the ground.

“A balloon—an observation balloon which has just been pulled down!” cried Don Hale to himself. “I’ll get a closer look at it. Great Scott!”

From some totally unexpected quarter he was once again being fired at, and a sharp metallic ring told him that some portion of his engine had been struck by one of the marksmen below.

Once more he passed through an instant of overwhelming anxiety.

But the steady droning roar of the powerful engine brought cheer to his heart.

“No—no; not yet!” he muttered. “I still have a chance to cheat the Boches.”

The thrilling adventures and narrow escapes through which Don Hale had passed instead of lessening his courage and determination had increased them, though he fully realized how strangely the elements of chance had favored him. That sharp ping of the bullet striking the engine acted on his nature like a spark applied to gunpowder, arousing all his combativeness.

As the plane neared the giant observation balloon a sudden and daring idea flashed into the young combat pilot’s mind, and then, almost for the first time, he thought of the part he had played in preventing the destruction of the photographic machine. Why couldn’t he add another feat to his credit?

“By George, I’ll make a good try!” he cried, his pulse beginning to tingle anew.

The Nieuport was now almost upon the huge, unwieldy monster, and Don could plainly see the details on its smooth and shining surface.

The balloon, anchored to a heavy motor tractor, swayed gently from side to side as the cable to which it was attached was drawn down by a windlass. Dozens of men, too, were aiding in its descent by pulling on smaller ropes.

A touch on the control stick sent the Nieuport climbing upward. Then, precisely at the proper moment, Don Hale put an end to the ascending flight, and turning the nose of the machine downward, he shut off the engine and dove straight for the great gas bag.

He had a vision of soldiers scattering in every direction—and they ran like men who were seized with all the mad and unreasoning panic of animals fleeing before a forest fire. There was something ludicrous—almost absurd—in the picture they made which, even in that intensely dramatic moment, involuntarily brought a half smile to the face of the stern, grim-visaged boy in the pilot’s seat.

Don Hale knew that he was running a most appalling risk—indeed tempting fate in a way he had never done before, and staking his life upon his ability to make a success of his daring venture.

The instant for action had come. His machine was pointed directly toward the slick, rounded surface of the balloon.

It made a most alluring target.

Don pushed a button, and by this action fired the eight rockets fastened to the sides of the fuselage.

Instantly there came a resounding, awesome roar, and eight fiery trails, each headed by a brilliant greenish light, were flashing toward the balloon.

Before the pilot could come out of his dive several of the rockets pierced the silken envelope, and from as many points there came vivid bursts of flame—the days of usefulness of that particular “sausage” were certainly over.

Elation was in Don Hale’s heart. And then, just as he redressed^[9] the machine, he caught a quick glimpse of a mighty burst of flame, which, enveloping the balloon from end to end, rose in ruddy viciously-curling and leaping tongues high in the air. In a moment the Nieuport had passed far beyond.

Casting a look over his shoulder Don saw an extraordinary spectacle—masses of flaming gas swept off by the breeze and illuminating the surrounding gloom.

Triumphant—proud indeed, the boy decided to take no more risks, but make straight for the aviation ground, and, if good fortune still held sway, perhaps reach it before the rapidly gathering storm had burst in all its fury.

Notwithstanding the whirl of excitement, the young pilot had vaguely impressed upon his mind the disturbing truth that the lightning was steadily growing brighter—the reverberations of thunder heavier. To handle the Nieuport successfully in the wind and rain he knew would be a most difficult task.

The boy began to feel, now, the inevitable reaction.

He was seized with a consuming anxiety to be away from the midst of danger. But the rushing currents of air being dead against the Nieuport it seemed to be just crawling along.

For the first time the pilot dared to rise higher. He was passing over one of those desolate stretches which told most eloquently of the terrible conflicts which had taken place. Everywhere great shell-holes, in places overlapping one another, pitted the earth, and the bottoms of many were partly filled with muddy water left by recent rains. Of all the desolate, depressing sights which the eyes of man could look upon this seemed one of the worst. It was as though a blight had descended upon the earth, to wither and destroy everything which lay in its sinister path. Not a village—not a house remained; all were in crumbling ruins. Even the streets themselves could not be traced; and of the trees and patches of woods there remained but grotesque, gaunt trunks, entirely stripped of branches and leaves.

Of course this was not a new sight to the boy, and, under the circumstances, he paid but little attention to it. Thoughts of the trenches over which he must pass, and of the flying “Archies” the plane would be sure to encounter were in his mind. He must ascend still higher.

“This has been a trip, sure enough!” muttered Don. “But if I get through safely I’ll never regret it. To-day, I feel that I have done my bit for the Allied cause.”

Continually, he glanced in all directions. Vigilance was the price of life. Many an airman had been stealthily approached from behind and brought down without ever knowing what had struck him, and in the gloomy shadows cast by the heavy storm-clouds it was doubly necessary to search the heavens for every sign of the foe.

But, in spite of all the pilot’s extreme care, he was destined to make presently another discovery—a discovery which once more set the blood throbbing in his temples. It was the sudden appearance, at about his own altitude, of another of Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s planes. It had approached dangerously near, too, before he was aware of its presence.

It took Don Hale an instant to recover his wits. One moment he had seemed to be alone in the vast expanse, and in the next he was confronted by one of the scarlet enemy.

With lightning velocity the Boche bore down upon the Nieuport, and before Don Hale could make a move to alter his course luminous bullets were cutting a fiery trail through the gloom about him.

CHAPTER XIX—THE PERILOUS GAME

At times, when the gravest dangers threaten, the human faculties, in some mysterious way, gain a strength and mastery which completely banish terror. Such was the case with Don Hale. As quickly as it was humanly possible to do so, he turned his plane so that the engine was between him and the showers of bullets. Then, obeying the injunction that self-preservation is the first law of nature, he set the Vickers machine gun into action.

And thus began a terrible duel in the air just beneath the tossing edges of heavy and turbulent masses of vapor. It seemed almost certain that one of the machines must be quickly sent crashing and hurtling downward.

The German pilot was evidently a master of his machine, and his evolutions were performed with the greatest brilliancy. Don Hale had a confused vision of a scarlet object flashing around, above and below him with inconceivable rapidity. And he himself, in order to avoid the enemy, was obliged to execute the most thrilling and daring maneuvers.

And at every favorable opportunity the wicked crackling of the machine guns rang out. Each pilot was fighting with that desperation which characterizes a hunted animal, brought to bay. To Don Hale it seemed more like some thrilling, wonderful sport than an actual combat in which defeat might mean the end of all things earthly. Scores of tracer-bullets, leaving for an instant their long, thin trails of smoke, sped by him whichever way he turned, some passing close to his seat between the planes.

The fight was so fast and furiously contested that Don felt sure it must come to a speedy termination. Every instant he expected to see the bullets from his Vickers put an end to the battling career of that lone member of Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death. Yet, extraordinary as it seemed, the enemy plane continued to flash and circle about him with dazzling speed,—so fast indeed that only a confused and blurred vision of its movements was registered on Don Hale’s brain. Waves of dizziness swept over him; his face was smarting and stinging from the terrific rush of air, while a touch of air-sickness, a malady which sometimes affects even seasoned flyers, was beginning to threaten him.

But, notwithstanding, he managed to keep a firm grip upon all his faculties. One instant of panic—one instant of relaxation he knew would be enough to bring this strange air duel to a dramatic and tragic conclusion. His main effort was to keep zigzagging behind the enemy’s tail, and thus make him waste his bullets on the empty air.

In this he was not always successful. Often he found himself facing the sinister-looking scarlet Albatross, to get instantaneous glimpses of its hooded pilot glaring toward him.

And even in those terrible moments, when the machines threatened to crash into one another, Don Hale could not help thinking what an amazing thing it was that he and this man, whom he had never met, whom he had nothing against, and who, equally, had nothing against him, should be fighting desperately, with all the ferocity of maddened tigers.

The combat, which seemed to be long-drawn-out but which in reality occupied only a very short time, was brought to an end by Don Hale. As the German plane, momentarily occupying an advantageous position, dove toward him, firing as it came, the combat pilot of the Lafayette Escadrille performed an evolution known as the renversement. He sent the Nieuport with meteor-like swiftness upward, and, while making a partial loop, flying head downward, the red Albatross flashed beneath him.

Still defying the laws of gravity, Don Hale straightened the course of his plane, so that it was flying horizontally in a direction exactly opposite to its line of flight at the beginning of the evolution. He then cut off the motor and operated the ailerons at the sides of the planes, which caused the machine to turn over sideways in a semicircle, and thus bring it back to a natural position.

The renversement was made with such remarkable swiftness that before the red Albatross could swing around to renew the attack Don was shooting in an upward drive straight for the shelter of the clouds.

Almost like a bullet from a machine gun he entered the lower strata and continued to climb, safe at last from the enemy who had sought to destroy him. But the lightning glared brighter than ever; the thunder rolled more ominously. He felt sure that only a short distance away the rain was falling in torrents.

Quite naturally, the boy’s brain was in a whirl, but a feeling of thankfulness that after encountering so many perils he had escaped unscathed predominated.

Finally emerging from the murky darkness into the light above, Don, scanning the heavens with the most earnest attention, could see no signs of other planes.

“Well, I have had all the adventures I wish for one day!” he soliloquized. “Whew! It was certainly a series of nightmares! Now I’ll just stay up here, wait until the storm is over, and after that beat it so fast for the airdrome that a marmite wouldn’t stand any chance in the race. How wonderful it is to be up here in this bright sunshine! It seems as though I must have drifted into the arctic regions by mistake. This is certainly great!”

It was, indeed, a singular scene upon which the combat pilot gazed. The upper surfaces of the ever-rolling and tossing clouds, of the purest and most dazzling white, like a vast field of snow and ice, stretched off to the limits of vision. It seemed like a glimpse of another world—a world of wonderful and impressive solitude. Not a sign of life could be seen in all that great circle. There was nothing to link one’s thoughts with the world below.

As before, Don saw the shadow of the wind-buffeted plane fantastically skimming over the crests of vapor. Very soon vivid lightning was flashing from cloud to cloud and the rolling, booming reverberations of thunder were beginning to fill the upper region with solemn and awe-inspiring volumes of sound.

Don felt that he must rise still higher. Every gleam filled him with a strange foreboding; it seemed as though, no matter which way he traveled, there was no possibility of escaping the gravest danger. The pilot was having difficulty, too, in navigating the Nieuport in the sweeping gusts of wind. Sometimes it was carried rapidly aloft like a chip on a rising wave, to drop, a moment later, with a suddenness that almost took away his breath.

His altimeter began to register an increasing height, and at length the boy, in an icy region, was looking down upon far-off masses of clouds.

If the young combat pilot of the Lafayette Escadrille had not been so intensely lonely or so worn out with excitement and fatigue, he would positively have enjoyed the strange and unique experience. But now he most ardently hoped that the fury of the tempest would soon abate.

Over what part of the country was he? Perhaps he had gone miles and miles out of his course. There was no way to tell.

And what if anything should happen to his engine, as it had done before?

Now and again his thoughts involuntarily became fixed upon such an eventuality, causing, anew, chilling tremors to sweep through his frame. As important, now, as the beating of his heart were the pulsations of the motor. It filled him with a sense of awe, and his keenly-listening ears were attuned to catch the slightest change in the never-ceasing roar of the engine.

“By this time the boys must think I’m a goner,” he communed to himself, aloud. “Poor George Glenn! I’ll bet no one dreams that I’m away up here, condemned to sail around in great circles until warring nature gets over its tempestuous fury. And, oh boy, but it’s cold! Even with these heavy gloves, my hands are becoming numb. I’m beginning to realize now just how an icicle feels. I don’t know where I am, but I certainly wish I were somewhere else!”

Time began to drag out interminably. Anxiously, he kept glancing down upon that glorious, shimmering, white expanse in the hope that he might discover signs of the clouds beginning to break away—of some little ragged opening through which he might get a glimpse of the earth. But it always presented the same monotonous expanse.

“Not yet! Not yet!” he sighed.

Like a rider driving a fractious steed, he was obliged to pay the closest attention to the navigation of the speedy Nieuport; and as the unruly horse may sometimes take the bit in its mouth, defying the will of its master, so the airplane, aided and abetted by the gale of wind, often gave him cause for the greatest anxiety.

Between the blue heaven above and white clouds below, he kept on flying in great circles, having in his ears the never-ceasing reverberations of the rolling and booming thunder. Would it never end! How long was he condemned to remain so high aloft?

The sun, at length, was descending in the west and before very long must disappear behind the distant masses of vapor. More than once Don considered tempting fate by a descent through the clouds, and each time the peril deterred him. How would it be possible for the Nieuport to live amidst such a raging storm!

“No, no! I can’t risk it,” muttered Don. “By George! Was a human being ever placed in such a position before? Just now I can’t say that I want to enjoy the caressing touches of those wind-blown clouds on my cheek.”

Bravely, the boy tried to divert his mind, but the physical discomforts, besides the increasing sense of being out of the world, made it quite impossible. The storm had now reached its height. Forked tongues of lightning were flashing incessantly in the clouds, illuminating the interior of their swiftly-flying masses with a weird and spectral bluish glare.

“Not yet! Not yet!” sighed Don, again. “Great Scott! I can’t stay up here forever. This is certainly a case where a fellow needs a friend. Hello! Something besides clouds and blue sky at last!”

Far below, just tiny specks, the pilot had observed a flock of birds, skimming close to the ragged, tossing edges of vapor—so close, indeed, that at times they became lost to view as it closed about them.

That sight was, indeed, a grateful one to the lone occupant of the upper air. He turned his machine to watch them, until at length they grew faint in the distance, then became lost to sight, leaving him to feel more alone than ever.

As the sun crept still lower toward the horizon, the effects began to change; the arctic whiteness was being replaced by softer and more mellow tints; delicate purplish shadows filled the hollows of the clouds, and the deep blue of the sky above was slowly fading. The scene constantly grew more wonderful and impressive. The rays of the great coppery-colored ball, at last partly submerged in the clouds, were tipping the masses of flying vapor with an orange glow. Sometimes their varying forms suggested mountain peaks or stretches of rolling hills; sometimes the keenly imaginative Don Hale could see in them suggestions of fairy-like cities, with minarets sparkling like spots of golden flame.

The knowledge that the day was coming to a close made him more and more eager to begin his homeward journey. But, with a persistency that was exasperating—alarming—the storm continued to expend its fury. Still there was not a rift—not a sign to give him either cheer or hope.

And now a new worry—a new apprehension—began to attack him; the gasoline was giving out. He could not hope to keep up his flight much longer. The thought made the blood fairly pound in his temples.

Thrilling as all his adventures had been, was fate going to crown them all with one infinitely more thrilling—infinitely more dangerous?

The combat pilot shuddered as he pondered over the situation. Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s dreaded Squadron of Death seemed indeed puny and insignificant when compared with the tremendous forces of nature which he must eventually face.

A short reprieve from the terrible danger remained. He could not yet bring himself to make that great plunge—a plunge where all the elements of chance were dead against him—where he could expect no mercy—where no human power save his own could be availing.

Five minutes passed; then ten. He dared not delay much longer. With a tense and drawn face, Don Hale again peered over the side of the cockpit in an effort to discover some point where the storm had spent its force.

There was none.

“It’s as bad as staking one’s life on the flip of a coin,” he groaned. “Well, here goes!”

The boy firmly pursed his lips, operated the ailerons by means of the control lever, and, next instant, the plane was speeding downward. He could see the golden lights and purple shadows apparently flashing up to meet him; he could feel the plane, in the grip of the stronger currents of air, shivering and trembling.

And then a saying of the French pilots came into his mind: “The plane fell like a dead leaf to the ground.” Was his Nieuport, too, destined to “fall like a dead leaf to the ground”?

That question must soon be answered.

For one brief instant he pulled up the machine. During that interval of time, short as it was, he had a terrifying vision of a quivering, glimmering light which filled the whole surrounding air. The appalling boom and crash of thunder overwhelmed the sound of the motor. He seemed to be sailing just above some frightful inferno resembling nothing he had ever before encountered.

With a sinking feeling at his heart and a muttered: “Now!” the pilot once more turned the nose of his machine downward.

The dreaded plunge was made.

In a second’s time he had left the gold and purple of the upper world and was immersed in the storm-clouds. As though dipped in an icy bath, he felt cold chills running through him and running through him again. Flash after flash of lightning, blinding in its bluish glare, momentarily tore asunder the darkness, and he had instantaneous glimpses of phantom-like masses of vapor and portions of the moisture-laden machine gleaming with a sharp, metallic light.

Electricity seemed to be forming all about him. He could not rid himself of a terrible fear that the machine might get into the path of one of those zigzag streaks of flame chasing each other in every direction. The thunder was cracking like pistol shots multiplied a thousand fold. It came, too, in wild, gurgling notes, or in mighty, deafening detonations that dazed and bewildered the pilot.

In the anguish of his soul, he cried out, not once but many times:

“I am lost! I am lost!”

And so it really seemed; for the bravely-battling plane, almost shaken to pieces by the onrushing wind, was driven first one way and then another, or beaten back, threatening at every instant to topple over on its back and complete the rest of its journey in an uncontrollable spinning dive.

Don Hale was fairly gasping for breath. Every bone in his body ached. His brain was dizzy and reeling. But that powerful instinct of self-preservation implanted in every one prevented him from giving up in utter despair, though he fully expected that the airy caverns of the clouds would be the last thing his eyes were ever destined to look upon.

With teeth gritted together, he fought on, matching his wits and brains with the seething, shrieking vortex that toyed with the plane and seemed bent upon his destruction. And each hard-won victory brought a little more hope to his heart and lessened the strain on his overwrought nerves. Yet it all appeared unreal, unnatural and unearthly—like a chaos—nature itself in the grip of anarchy.

But how thick were the clouds? He could not understand why he should be so long immersed in their humid depths.

However, when torrents of rain presently began thudding and splashing against him he realized that he must be approaching the lower surfaces. How earnestly he longed for the moment to come! Each blinding glare of lightning, each mighty peal of thunder still had a terrifying effect. He could not rid himself of an awful dread that the fates would, at last, decide against him.

Thus, when the Nieuport actually staggered through the last strata, the boy almost felt as if it was something scarcely to be believed. He could not realize that the most terrible part of the voyage was over and that as he had cheated the Germans in their prey so had he cheated the Storm King.

But dangers were not yet ended. All around him extended a curious expanse almost as obscure, almost as gloomy and murky as that through which he had just passed. And where was he to land? In what direction lay the encampment of the Lafayette Escadrille? Don was even in doubt as to whether he had gone beyond that devastated strip of territory—“No Man’s Land.”

“I reckon there’s nothing to do but trust to blind luck,” he murmured to himself. “Ah, old earth—good old earth—I never appreciated you so much before!”

Down, still further down glided the Nieuport, while the boy strove to pierce the enshrouding darkness.

At last the very faintest of blurs brought an exclamation of joy to his lips. But as the utmost caution was necessary in approaching the earth, he began to volplane at an angle less steep. It would be the easiest thing in the world, he knew, to smash the biplane in landing, and thus bring disaster at the journey’s end.

But still everything was too indistinguishable, too hidden by the rain and shadows for him to gain any idea of the nature of the terrain. All he could make out were faint and mottled grayish patches merging insensibly into one another.

A decision must soon be made. The gasoline was running dangerously low.

Still nearer the earth, like a storm-tossed gull, the Nieuport descended.

It was only a few hundred feet in the air when Don Hale made a discovery that brought a hoarse cry from his lips.

He had seen the faintest possible gleams of ruddy color tingeing the gray gloom to the west.

What was that light? What did it mean?

With joy surging through his heart, Don Hale thought he knew the answer. The light came from flares, lighted on the aviation grounds, to act as a beacon of safety to belated airmen.

“As sure as I live, that’s what it must be!” he cried. “But——” A sudden doubt entered his mind. “Does it come from ‘Germany’ or France?”

The boy felt, however, that to hesitate any longer would be foolhardy in the extreme. He guided his plane toward the faint light, watching it slowly growing stronger with an inexpressible feeling of thankfulness and relief.

Very soon he could faintly trace the lines of a gigantic letter T, formed by a number of fiercely-blazing fires.

There could be no further doubt; it was certainly an aviation field.

Only the knowledge that he must keep all his faculties alert in order to guide the plane prevented the pilot from uttering a series of jubilant shouts.

Now the blazing flares were becoming clear and distinct. He could make out the tongues of flame, and the illumination spreading out on all sides, to cast a faint, delicate glow for a short distance on the water-soaked ground. Then he began to detect the presence of human beings gathered in little knots or running in the direction of the plane.

Steadying his overtaxed nerves, Don Hale skilfully maneuvered his plane, with the rain and the wind still beating fiercely against him.

A bright flash of lightning—the brightest he had seen since leaving the clouds—suddenly bathed the earth in its vivid glare. And that swift transition from almost the darkness of night to the brilliancy of noonday brought peace of mind to the young combat pilot of the Lafayette Escadrille. What cared he now for Captain Baron Von Richtofen and his Red Squadron of Death or the loud and angry rumbling of his other enemy—the Storm King! For there, right below him, were the familiar hangars, the familiar fields—the headquarters of the escadrille itself.

And, only fifty feet above the ground, he could hear, above the wind, which still played its wild symphony on the wires of the machine, the welcoming shouts and hurrahs of his fellow pilots of the squadron.

Twenty-five feet—then ten! And presently the rubber-tired wheels jarred against the ground, and the Nieuport, traveling a short distance, was brought to a stop by the gusts of wind that bore down upon it.

And that had no sooner happened than Don Hale, the happiest boy in the world, was lifted out of the machine by his loudly felicitating and joyous friends.

The perilous game had been played and won.

CHAPTER XX—HAMLIN

Don Hale was certainly given a tremendous reception; and a short time later, while comfortably seated in a chair at the villa recounting his memorable adventures, was highly gratified to hear T. Singleton Albert verify his statement concerning the destruction of the observation balloon.

“This is the way it came about,” explained Drugstore: “During that scrimmage with the Boches I happened to see Don’s machine, hotly pursued, enter the clouds. And Don being rather new at the game, I thought I’d try to hang around a bit, so as to keep an eye on him if I could.”

“Bully for you!” cried Don. “Albert, you’re a brick!”

“I had a pretty fierce time of it, too, with tracer bullets cutting holes through the air all about me, but, after a while, I managed to slip away from the attacking planes. By that time the scrap was over and the photographic machine and its escort were on their way home.

“Somehow or other, I don’t know why, I had a pretty strong suspicion, Don, that your Nieuport wasn’t among them. So, instead of making for the airdrome, I flew back over the lines, incidentally saying ‘how-do-you-do’ to a number of ‘Archies’ and a bushel or two of ‘onions.’ I shot up pretty high to avoid being shot up myself, and after traveling quite a considerable distance began cutting big spirals in the air. The clouds were looking mighty ominous and threatening, and several times yours truly was tempted to beat it, but, fortunately, something restrained me.

“My Nieuport was away up near the ceiling when, on looking down, I suddenly discovered a plane which appeared exactly as though it was crawling along the ground. Through a pair of binoculars I could see the circles of red, white and blue on the wing tips. Then I volplaned a bit, hoping to make out whether it was your machine or not.” Albert began to laugh. “Yes, I saw the whole shooting match, Don; and the way that big sausage began to blaze after your little interview certainly tickled my fancy.”

“Oh, boy, but wouldn’t I have enjoyed the sight!” giggled Bobby Dunlap.

“Of course it wasn’t possible for me to tell whether it was your plane or not, Don, but after seeing the Nieuport begin to climb to a higher altitude I concluded to say good-bye to ‘Germany’ and streak for the home plate.

“Very soon it began to rain—rain like the dickens, too, and before I got within miles of the airdrome my bus was doing everything but turning somersaults. Anyway, Don, you’ve got a witness to prove that you turned the trick.”

“That’s simply great!” chuckled Don. “Some afternoon, eh?”

“You bet!” agreed Drugstore. “But it certainly was a jolly rude jolt to me when I got back and found that after all you had not returned.”

“Anyway, he’ll have something to talk about for the rest of his life,” said George Glenn.

“There’s no doubt about that,” laughed Don.

The young pilot had by no means recovered from the effects of his turbulent experiences. Some of the dizziness still remained. His nerves occasionally twitched and he experienced a feeling of physical exhaustion, all the more unpleasant because of his boyish fear that the others might observe it.

It had required a considerable effort for him to tell his story, and a still greater to enter into the general conversation.

Finally the thunder began to roll less frequently; the storm was breaking away.

Soon afterward one of the mechanics stepped into the room to inform Don that his machine had been found full of holes.

“Just a little bit more, and it would have made a capital piece of mosquito netting, Monsieur l’Aviateur,” he declared.

“If I should happen to see any mosquitoes around here so big that they couldn’t get through such holes I’d sure take that next train for home,” guffawed Bobby Dunlap.

“And if I’d had a piece of mosquito netting manufactured for me by German bullets, I wouldn’t even wait for the train; I’d start running,” laughed the mechanic. He turned to Don.

“It’s a great wonder to me, Monsieur, that your nose and ears weren’t clipped off.”

“I expected more than that to happen,” returned Don, with a faint smile.

At length Bobby Dunlap began to tell the hero of the afternoon about the mysterious peasant.

“He’s a German spy, sure as shooting,” he whispered. “But don’t say anything to the boys about it, Donny. George Glenn promised me he wouldn’t.”

“Why not explain the matter to the lieutenant?” asked Don, quite breathlessly.

Peur Jamais reflected an instant, then shook his head.

“I intended to at first,” he declared, “but, thinking it over, concluded to wait until I could arrest the old bird myself and march him over here at the point of a pistol. And, oh boy, that is going to make a bigger sensation than your cooking the big sausage.”

“But he may slip away,” suggested Don.

“That idea struck me, too,” commented Peur Jamais, in a troubled tone. “But”—he brightened up—“it will only mean that somebody else is going to do the point-of-the-pistol act. Wouldn’t it make a dandy movie drama, eh? And, just to think, Donny, if it hadn’t been for old Père Goubain I might never have known what was going on.” Bobby laughed joyously. “Crickets! I can hardly wait for the fireworks to begin.”

In the interest aroused by the story of the mysterious peasant, Don almost forgot his fatigue. He could not remember ever having enjoyed a supper more than he did that evening; and the sense of security and freedom from all danger as they sat around after the meal proved most pleasant and welcome.

On the following day Don Hale was in his Nieuport again, and performed the usual two patrols of two hours each over the lines without meeting with adventures.

Several weeks passed, and it was a time filled with enough narrow escapes and thrilling incidents to last even an aviator a lifetime.

At length Don Hale’s day off arrived. Late in the afternoon he seated himself comfortably by the window and spent the time in reading a book and occasionally joining in the conversation about him. The irrepressible Bobby Dunlap was in the room, as was also Jason Hamlin.

Finally the latter rose to his feet and began walking toward the door, whereupon Bobby blurted out:

“I say, Jasy, have you seen the old peasant lately?”

Hamlin, who was one of those individuals who apparently dislike the slightest familiarity, frowned, remarking briefly:

“Yes; just the other day.”

“I must say, this particular specimen is rather a dull looking old chap until one gets to talking to him. Ever been over to his place, Hammy?”

“Yes,” answered Jason.

“So have I,” laughed Peur Jamais. “And there’s everything there but what a farm ought to have. He must be using some method of growing vegetables by wireless. By the way, Jason, ever go through that old ramshackle house?”

“Only the first floor,” responded the other, adding abruptly: “Bobby, several times I’ve overheard you making mysterious observations in regard to that particular ‘specimen,’ who is a rather dull looking old chap until one gets to talking to him. How would you like to offer an explanation?”

Bobby’s expression swiftly changed. The laughing light left his eyes, and, for an instant, he looked not only surprised but displeased.

“So you were in the house?” he cried. “Well, what did you find?”

“That the peasant was not altogether what he seemed. I heard you also mention Sherlock Holmes, which would naturally suggest that you thought of doing a little investigating. How about it?”

Bobby scowled quite fiercely.

“Really, Jasy, I’m quite surprised at you,” he declared. “Did you learn how to eavesdrop in a correspondence school or did it just come naturally?”

“One doesn’t have to eavesdrop when you’re around, Bobby,” returned Hamlin. “You don’t know how to whisper.”

“Thanks, frightfully,” growled Bobby.

“Some people have ears so keen that they can even hear what isn’t intended for them. Run outside and play. When I want to tell you anything about the old peasant you’ll get it first hand. And as I notice you seem to appreciate his company so much I won’t be impolite enough to make any disparaging remarks about him.”

“Some people’s eyes are so sharp they can even see what isn’t intended for them,” laughed Hamlin. “However, I won’t avail myself of your kind permission to run out and play, but will take a walk instead.”

“Where?” asked Bobby.

“It’s a secret, but I’ll tell you. I’m going in the direction of my destination. So-long, Messieurs. I’ll see you later.”

And, with a half mocking laugh and a wave of his hand, Hamlin disappeared outside.

“I declare, that chap’s about the limit!” exclaimed Peur Jamais to Don Hale. He lowered his voice. “You noticed, Donny, that he didn’t want to tell us where he is going. I wonder if——” Bobby paused, looked thoughtfully out of the window, scratched the back of his head, then resumed: “Yes, I’ll bet that’s just it!”

“What is?” asked Don.

“That Jasy’s going over to see the old boy now. Say, Don, put up that book, and see how near my deduction comes to the truth.”

“Which means, I suppose, that you’re going over there yourself?” asked Don.

“You guessed it the first time. Coming?”

“Having aroused my curiosity so much about the mysterious peasant, I think I will,” responded Don. “It adds a touch of activity to a day otherwise full of perfect repose.”