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.