CHAPTER III—SPIES

To reach the peaceful village of Étainville, which, more fortunate than many another in France, had never known the horror and tragedy of war, it was necessary to pass through several little patches of woods. That walk with a number of his compatriots proved to be a very delightful one to Don Hale. Nature, in the soft, greenish moonlight, which filtered in between the foliage and ran in straggling lines and patches on the underbrush or fell in splotches on the trunks and branches, presented a very poetic—a very idyllic appearance. Here and there, amid the pines and firs, gnarled, rugged oaks, ages old, reared their spreading branches against a cloudless sky. A fragrant, delightful odor, like incense, nature’s own, filled the air; and the gentle sighing of leaves and grasses swayed to and fro by a capricious breeze joined with the ever constant chant of the insect world of the woods.

Étainville possessed only one main street, a cobbled, winding highway, lined on either hand with picturesque and sometimes dilapidated houses. Near the centre of the village rose the ancient church, the tall and graceful spire of which could be seen over the countryside for many miles. The twentieth century is a busy and a bustling age. Progress, ever on the alert, fairly leaps ahead, but it seemed to have carefully avoided Étainville in its rapid march.

Of all its inhabitants, none was better known or liked than old Père Goubain, proprietor, as was his father and grandfather before him, of the Café Rochambeau. Père Goubain was very fat—so fat, indeed, that he sat practically all day long in a big armchair. During the winter it was generally in the main room of the café, before the big round stove near the centre; but the summer days generally found him comfortably installed in the garden which enclosed the old stuccoed building.

Père Goubain appeared to be the very personification of contentment, except, however, when the Germans happened to be mentioned within his hearing. Then, his rubicund face became redder, his mild, blue eyes fairly blazed with a fierce, vindictive light, and, altogether, he looked quite ferocious indeed.

Such, then, was the Café Rochambeau and the man who greeted the crowd of Americans. To Don and George he was especially gracious. He asked many questions, and delightedly informed them that only the day before he had actually seen a detachment of American soldiers marching through the village street.

“Ah! and how grand they looked, mes amis!” he cried. “With their help—‘On les aura’—we shall get them! Ah, les Boches!”

The placid look on his face was gone, and, rising in his chair, he began to sing in a deep bass voice:

“‘Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory!

Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise!

Your children, wives and grandsires hoary,

Behold their tears and hear their cries!

Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,

With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,

Affright and desolate the land,

When peace and liberty lie bleeding?

To arms—to arms, ye brave!

Th’ avenging sword unsheathe,

March on, march on, all hearts resolved

On liberty or death.’”

Vigorous indeed was the chorus which accompanied Peré Goubain’s rendition of the first stanza of the “Marseillaise,” and vigorous indeed were the plaudits that resounded throughout the room when the old Frenchman sank back in his armchair.

“Yes, the Yanks are the boys to do it,” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “Now, mes garçons—for the council chamber!”

The “Council Chamber” was an apartment adjoining the main room of the café. An oblong table stood in the centre, smaller ones by the walls; and there were plenty of chairs and tabourets for the use of the Americans, for the room practically belonged to them. Very often old Pére Goubain honored the gathering by his presence, and on this occasion he raised his ponderous form, and, with lumbering tread, followed his guests inside.

For their benefit Pére Goubain, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian war, told several interesting reminiscences about that memorable conflict; then, abruptly, he branched off into a subject which brought the old fiery look back into his usually placid blue eyes.

“Ah, what a wonderful system of espionage the Boches have!” he exclaimed. “Its sinister ramifications extend to every corner of our great land and far beyond the seas.”

“Know anything about it?” queried Peur Jamais, with interest.

“Listen, mes amis”—old Père Goubain spoke gravely: “Many officers are among my acquaintances. One of them belongs to the French Flying Corps, and he, poor fellow, while in a scouting plane far over the enemy’s lines, had the great misfortune to be obliged to descend in hostile territory.”

“Captured?” asked Peur Jamais, quite breathlessly.

“He was. But”—a grim smile played about the Frenchman’s mouth—“somehow, he managed to make his escape, and, after the most nerve-racking ordeals, succeeded in reaching the Swiss frontier, and from thence returned to France. In this very room, Messieurs, he told me his experiences.”

Immediately, to Don Hale, and probably also to a number of the others, that modest interior became invested with a singular interest—with a strange and subtle charm. How wonderful to think that a man who had passed through such harrowing adventures should have actually been in that very place!

“And do you know,” continued Père Goubain, with vehemence, “that when the German officers learned the aviator’s name, astounding as it may seem, they told him many facts concerning his own history.”

“But how in the world did the Boches ever learn them?” demanded Peur Jamais.

“As I said before, spies are everywhere; one cannot know whom to trust. Listen, my friends: not a hundred years ago, one of the officers belonging to a training school was actually discovered to be a spy.”

“Whew! That’s going some!” declared Sid Marlow to Don, while Peur Jamais, eagerness expressed in his eyes, began to look curiously about him, as though vaguely suspicious that perhaps some among those gathered together were not all they pretended to be.

Before Père Goubain could resume, several newcomers, also Americans, bustled past the door.

General interest was immediately aroused by the discovery that one carried a bundle of Parisian dailies.

But the old innkeeper had started to say something, and he intended to finish.

“Yes, Messieurs, the Boches possess many ways of obtaining information. For instance, I learned from another officer that spies have even boldly descended into the French or British lines, flying in airplanes captured from the Allies. Naturally, some of these pilots spoke excellent French; others the English tongue equally well. Naturally, also, having all the appearance of belonging to the cause of freedom and justice, they escaped suspicion at the time, and were thus enabled to pick up much valuable information.”

“Very interesting!” drawled one of the late comers. “But what’s all that got to do with Captain Baron Von Richtofen?”

“Captain Baron Von Richtofen?” cried Peur Jamais, interrogatively.

“Never hear of him?”

“No, Monsieur Carrol Gordon.”

“I have,” said George, in an undertone to Don.

“Then I’ll read something for your special benefit, Mr. Peur Jamais.”

Thereupon, Carrol Gordon, the owner of the prized bundle, having opened one of the papers and allowed the yellowish glow of the lamplight to fall across the page, began:

“‘Advices recently received from the western theatre of battle state that the famous Red Squadron of Death, commanded by Captain Baron Von Richtofen, has again made its appearance in several places along the front.’”

“‘The Red Squadron of Death!’” echoed Peur Jamais, something akin to awe in his tone.

“‘The Red Squadron of Death!’” repeated Don.

“Quite an impressive title, I’ll admit,” remarked Carrol, smiling at the great interest which the article had evidently aroused. He resumed:

“‘The Albatross planes belonging to this feared and death-dealing squadron are painted a brilliant scarlet from nose to tail. All are manned by pilots of the greatest skill and daring; and only the most experienced air fighters of the Allies can expect to cope with these crafty and dangerous enemies. The bizarre idea of the red planes is no doubt an attempt on the part of Captain Baron Von Richtofen to instil fear into the hearts of the Allied Flying Corps. At any rate, the reappearance of this squadron, which claims to have destroyed more than sixty allied planes, heralds the near approach of many bitter battles in the air.’”

As Carrol Gordon ceased reading he looked around and remarked:

“Some news, eh? Now how many of you are going to pack your trunks and slide for home?”

“And to think of T. Singleton Albert, the great soda-water clerk of Syracuse, going up against such a game as that!” put in Tom Dorsey, irrelevantly. “Poor Drugstore!”

“One thing to remember always is this, mes garçons,” exclaimed old Père Goubain, nodding his head sagely: “Imagination is a very wonderful thing, and the Boche Baron must realize the hold it has on certain natures. Imagination, mes amis, can have the effect of glorifying the most ordinary and commonplace of objects and detracting from the most sublime. It can rob the heart of determination and destroy hope, and, equally well, it can raise a man’s courage to such heights as to place him on the pinnacle of fame. Bah, I say, for the Baron’s red birds!” The innkeeper snapped his fingers derisively. “I cannot believe that any air fighters of the Allies would be frightened by a few cans of paint.”

“Well spoken, Père Goubain!” laughed Hampton Coles. “Yours are the words of a wise man; which proves that an innkeeper can be a philosopher as well as a server to the material needs of humanity.”

“How would you like to be a combat pilot and meet the Baron, yourself?” asked Jack Norworth, quizzically.

“It would be quite impossible, mon garçon,” sighed Père Goubain. “My weight, alas I would sink the ship.”

“Shall I give him a message from you if we should happen to meet?” laughed George Glenn.

“Yes, and let it be accompanied by a fusillade of machine gun bullets.”

Don Hale thoroughly enjoyed his evening at the club. Instinctively he felt that it was a sort of dividing line between ease and comfort and a strenuous existence, with dangers and perils ever present from the moment he became in actuality an élève pilot of the École Militaire d’Aviation de Beaumont.

Finally good-byes were said to Père Goubain, and the crowd filed into the great outdoors. The village street was enveloped in the soft light of the moon, and but for the bark of a distant dog would have been silent. The stuccoed buildings rose pale and ghostlike, or in sombre, mysterious tones, against the sky, and deep shadows crossed the cobbled highway. A few beams of light to cheer those who might be astir came from the windows of the ancient, time-worn hostelry, the Hotel Lion d’Or, where George Glenn was staying.

At the entrance, Don and the others bid the combat pilot of the Lafayette Squadron good-night, and then the march back to the flying field was begun. It was rather late when they arrived at the barracks. The excitement, the great desire to begin his schooling and the new surroundings all tended to drive sleepy feelings away from Don Hale. But Mittengale very solemnly assured him that unless he “hit the pillow” at once he would be liable to have regretful feelings in the morning.

“I know, because I know,” he declared.

“Then I’ll ‘hit the pillow,’” laughed Don.

The sound of laughter and voices was gradually ceasing as Don Hale climbed into his bed.

Several of the lamps had been extinguished and the interior of the big barracks certainly appeared very sombre—very gloomy indeed. Here and there details made a valiant effort to reveal their presence, but, for the most part, shadows, grotesque in shape, deep and grim in tone, held the mastery.

Presently Don Hale’s impressions became a little confused, and, within a very few minutes, he was sleeping that sound and dreamless slumber which is another of the glorious possessions of youth.