CHAPTER II—NEW COMRADES
A pleasant refreshing breeze was springing up as Don Hale, with his chum, left headquarters and hastened toward the barracks which was to be his temporary home.
There were plenty of signs of life about the great plateau, and occasionally voices came over the air from the distance with peculiar distinctness. By this time all nature had become gray and sombre, and the slowly advancing shadows which heralded the approach of dusk were enveloping the distant hangars and tents and merging the vast, sweeping line of the horizon almost imperceptibly into the coldish tones of the sky.
Here and there lights were beginning to flash into view. From barrack windows, from tents and outbuildings, they shone—each little sparkling, star-like beam carrying with it a message of good cheer and welcome.
Just before Don and George reached the barracks designated by Tom Dorsey, over the door of which was painted in very large black letters “Hotel d’Amerique,” a loud and lusty chorus, composed of French and American voices, accompanied by a piano, started up, singing with ludicrous effect:
“The Yanks are Coming.”
Then, as the last words were carried off on the breeze, the momentary silence that ensued was broken by a loud-voiced student standing by the window, who bawled:
“True enough, boys!—the Yanks are not only coming, but they’re here.”
The aviators immediately crowded to the window, and even before Don and George entered the building, which was to the accompaniment of that well-known classic: “Hail, hail! The gang’s all here!” they had received a noisy and good-natured welcome.
A smiling and dapper little Frenchman was the first to shake them by the hand; and having performed this act with much gravity he immediately struck an attitude and began to recite, in the manner of a schoolboy who has memorized a piece:
“Gentlemens, excuse the bleatings of a little chump who should remain silent before he speaks. Permit me to say, however, that you may use me as a doormat when it is your will and I shall be overwhelmed with joy. And now having bored you to tears I will desist.”
He ended the oration, which some of the fun-loving, mischievous Americans had taught him, with a low bow, evidently much surprised at the chuckles and gurgles of mirth which ran through the room.
Don Hale laughingly made a speech in reply, quite astonishing the Frenchmen present by his ready command of their tongue.
And during it all he had been observing his new home with keen curiosity and lively interest. The interior of the long but rather low wooden structure was whitewashed, and ranged alongside each wall were rows of beds. They were makeshift affairs, however, consisting of a couple of sawhorses with a plank thrown across. Over the top had been placed a mattress, looking as though it had done long and valiant service.
“Clearly, the élèves are expected to rough it a bit,” thought Don.
It would be a strange boy indeed, however, who objected to roughing it—Don Hale, at least, was not one of that kind.
The lad was glad to discover that the room was evidently occupied by Frenchmen, as well as by his own compatriots. At one end large posters made by some of the best known artists of France adorned the wall, while at the other were pictures clearly of American origin.
Tom Dorsey made the introductions, adding a word or two, in a jocular fashion, about the characteristics of each. Very naturally, the new student took a decided interest in studying the Americans with whom he would be so closely associated during the weeks to come.
“Among those present” were men of striking dissimilarities in appearance—of widely different stations in life—of various degrees of wealth; but the call of adventure, having brought them all together, had also served to unite them in a common spirit of comradeship perhaps impossible under other circumstances. There was, for instance, Dave Cornwell, of New York, of the beau monde of Fifth Avenue, with aristocracy imprinted unmistakably on his clean-cut features. And in striking contrast to him was Sid Marlow, cowpuncher of Montana, deck hand on a Mississippi steamboat, longshoreman, and, lastly, fighter in the Foreign Legion. In fact, the majority of the American élèves had seen service in that famous branch of the French army, which had recruited its members from all parts of the world. No embarrassing questions were asked; an applicant’s antecedents mattered little; he was given a chance to retrieve whatever mistakes he may have made, and, perhaps, through the fiery ordeal of battle, come out a vastly superior man.
Several of the students particularly attracted Don Hale’s attention, one of them being T. Singleton Albert, referred to by his companions as “Drugstore”; for he had at one time been a drugstore clerk and soda-water dispenser in Syracuse. Albert was a rather effeminate looking little chap, who seemed wholly out of place in an aviation school. He appeared diffident to the point of shyness, and his voice, delicate and refined, was seldom heard. Don Hale wondered if he would ever make a flyer, a profession in which courage and daring are such prime requisites.
Another boy who interested the new student greatly was Bobby Dunlap, who had had the singular cognomen of “Peur Jamais” thrust upon him. Tom Dorsey airily explained that on one occasion a student had demanded in French of Bobby if he experienced fear during a certain offensive in which the Foreign Legion took part, whereupon Bobby had blurted out the words “Peur?—Jamais!—Fear?—Never!” in such a strenuous and convincing tone as to create a big laugh—also a new title for himself, and one that persistently stuck.
There was a certain reserve and hauteur in the manner of a third young chap named Victor Gilbert which somehow appealed to Don Hale, suggesting to his imaginative mind that Gilbert’s sphere in life was, or rather had been, a little different from that of most of his fellow students.
Conversation was going on briskly when a rumble of wheels outside made Don hurry to the window.
“It’s the camion bringing in some of the real birds from the grande piste, or principal flying field, which is a good long way from here,” volunteered Peur Jarnais. “Those chaps are the stuff—yes, sir. By Jove, they’d make an eagle jealous! Eagles can’t fly upside down, can they? Of course not; but some of our boys can.”
“It’s a great life if you don’t weaken,” put in Tom Dorsey.
“Ever feel any symptoms of it?” asked Don, smilingly.
“Sure!—a hundred times.”
“I never did,” put in Drugstore, in his mild, weak voice. “To-morrow,” he cleared his throat and paused impressively, his manner indicating that some information of vast importance was about to be communicated—“to-morrow ”—another instant of hesitation, and he began again—“to-morrow I’m going to make my first flight in the air.”
“That means flying at an altitude of twenty-five feet at most,” giggled Mittengale.
“I reckon it also means a machine smashed to bits in landing,” chirped Peur Jamais. “They say it costs the French government an average of five thousand dollars to train its aviators. I’ll bet in your case, Drugstore, they’ll get off cheap at ten thousand.”
Don Hale, his head thrust out of the window, now saw the returning aviators tumbling off the big camion which had halted before the door.
In another moment they bustled into the barracks, and the yellowish rays of the oil lamps fell with strange and picturesque effect across their forms. Each was encased in a great leather coat and trousers and wore a helmet made from the same heavy material. Several, too, still had on their grotesque-looking goggles.
“They make me think of Arctic explorers,” declared Don, with a delighted little laugh.
Don was experiencing a pleasurable sensation, not unmixed with a certain sense of awe. Here, right before him, were actually some of the men who but a short time before had been piloting their machines at dizzy heights in the sky. The fascination of it all seemed to grip him strangely—to make him impatient and anxious to begin his initiation into the art of flying.
“Another little eaglet, sir, ready to carry terror into the heart of the Kaiser.”
In these words Tom Dorsey was introducing him to one of the “real birds.”
The aviator was only a young chap, not many years older than Don, but, like many of the Americans and Frenchmen present, he had allowed his face to remain unshaven, and the resulting growth of beard gave him quite an appearance of maturity.
“There’s a big lot of difference between the way flying schools are conducted over here and in America and Canada,” volunteered the aviator, whose name, Don learned, was Hampton Coles. “On our side of the big pool discipline is probably as strict as in any other branch of the army. We go in for drills and all that sort of thing, while in France, at least at present, the schools are only semi-military in character. The object is to turn out flyers as quickly as possible, which means casting a whole lot of theories, red tape and non-essentials into the junk heap. Flyers are needed—badly needed. The ‘eyes of the army,’ they call them.”
“At what time does work begin?” asked Don.
“We’re in our planes shortly after dawn. At nine o’clock the first session is over; then it’s back to the barracks. Dinner is served at one o’clock, and after that the boys are free to do what they please until five. On our return to the piste, or flying field, we usually keep steadily at it until nearly dark.”
“How does it happen that so many are here at this hour?”
“Oh, this crowd only represents a small portion of the students who, for one reason or another, stopped work a bit early,” replied Hampton. “In all, we have about one hundred and twenty-five men, and among them are several Russians—daring chaps they are, too, but rather poor flyers.”
“But the Americans seem pretty good at it, eh?”
Hampton Coles laughed.
“The moniteurs are always bawling out some of the best élèves for doing unnecessary and risky stunts,” he declared. “I imagine they think we’re a reckless, hair-brained lot. However”—his tone suddenly sobered; his eyes were turned thoughtfully off into the distance—“it doesn’t do to take many chances in the air. It’s mighty tricky; and so are the machines. Some of our boys have already paid the penalty. Yes, it’s a dangerous game, son.”
“Which only makes it a lot more interesting,” put in Drugstore, quietly.
“To be sure!” laughed Coles. “But, as this rig o’ mine is getting to feel prominent, I’ll skip.”
Jack Norworth presently sauntered over to tell Don that in order to get a bed he would have to go to the commissary depot, about a half mile distant.
“I’ll hoof it with you,” he volunteered.
“Good!” said Don.
George and Drugstore elected to accompany them; so the four immediately left the Hotel d’Amerique, and, through the slowly-gathering shades of night, started off.
“By the way, where are you staying?” asked Jack, turning to George Glenn.
“At a hotel in the little village of Étainville,” replied the young member of the Lafayette Squadron.
“Why, it’s at Étainville that we have our club!” cried Jack.
“A club?” queried Don, interestedly.
“Sure thing!”
“I don’t like clubs,” commented Drugstore.
“Why not?” demanded Jack.
“Oh, the fellows are always calling upon a chap to tell a story, make a speech or do something else to amuse ’em,” returned Drugstore, rather hesitatingly.
“Well, what of it?”
“Some can do that sort of thing, but not I.” The former dispenser of soda-water spoke in plaintive tones. “Half the time I can’t think of the words I want and when I do think of ’em they’re not the right ones.”
“Oh, what you need is a correspondence school course in the art of self-expression—‘think on your feet; latent power aroused; trial lesson free; send no money,’” chuckled Jack.
“Let’s hear about the club,” said Don.
“It meets in a typical little inn called the Café Rochambeau. The floor is of sanded brick; there are cobwebs everywhere; cats and dogs wander in and out. It’s all rustic, dusty and charming. Say, George, have supper at our mess to-night, then, afterward, you and Don can travel over with the bunch.”
“Thanks! I’ll be delighted,” said George.
The four soon reached the commissary depot. Attendants dragged from its generous supply of stores the necessary portions of the bed and delivered them to the boys. Quite naturally, the march back, hampered as they were by the cumbersome articles, did not prove to be agreeable. Finally, however, rather hot and tired, they reached the Hotel d’Amerique.
It took but a few minutes to put the rude contrivance called a bed together in its place alongside the wall, and by this time the crowd was being considerably augmented by the students returning from the piste.
“Come along, you chaps! I’ll pilot you to the grub department,” exclaimed Peur Jamais. “It won’t make you think of the Waldorf Astoria.”
“Never mind! They’ve got things on the menu the Waldorf hasn’t,” chuckled Gene Shannon.
“For instance?” asked Don.
“Horse-meat.”
“I’m game,” laughed the new student.
Less than five minutes later Don and George, at the head of the advance-guard, reached the dining-hall. They found it a crude, unpretentious structure exteriorally, and equally crude and unpretentious in regard to its interior arrangements. The tables were of rough boards, and tabourets, or stools, took the place of chairs.
The mess-hall was soon filled with a noisy, jolly crowd. Clearly, the hazardous nature of the work had no distressing effects on the minds of the élèves. To judge by the manner of those present, theirs might have been the least dangerous of professions; yet, nevertheless, the talk often reverted to the accidents or near-accidents which had occurred on the flying field. But it was the keen enthusiasm of all that especially appealed to Don Hale. Probably none among the gathering enjoyed the meal more than he. The dim, fantastic light cast by the oil lamps, the sombre ever-changing shadows on faces and forms, the grotesque and larger shadows that sported themselves on the four walls, the shrouded, obscured corners, all added their share to the charm and novelty.
A particularly fastidious person could very easily have found fault with the meal, which consisted of soup, meat, mashed potatoes, lentils, war bread and coffee. The horse-meat was tough, the lentils rather gritty, as though some of the soil in which they were planted had determinedly resolved to stand by them to the end. But to hungry men, whose lives in the open meant healthy, vigorous appetites, such little unconventionalities in the art of cooking were of but trifling importance.
As the students were filing out, not in the most orderly fashion, into the clear, moonlit night, Jack Norworth joined Don and George.
“All ready, boys, for the Café Rochambeau?” he asked.
“You bet we are!” cried Don.