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.
| [8] | Communique—Bulletin. |