CHAPTER XV—A BATTLE IN THE CLOUDS
During the following afternoon Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were detailed, with eight other pilots, to act as an escort to a big Caudron photographic machine, which was to make a trip to a point many miles inside the German lines in order to take photographs of a railroad centre.
Don Hale’s machine on this occasion was armed with eight rockets, with dart-like heads, four on either side of the fuselage. These are designed for the purpose of destroying observation balloons, bullets from the machine guns not being sufficiently large for the purpose. The rockets are projected into space at terrific speed by means of powerful spiral springs, and ignite at the instant of departure.
The art of photography has been a great factor in the world war, driving secrecy from its cover and enabling the opposing forces to make an almost complete record of what was taking place on the other side of the line.
The two-seater Caudron machine which the combat pilots were designated to protect was armed with only one swivel gun. The cameras, pointing downward, were attached to the sides of the fuselage, and in order to take a photograph it was necessary only to pull a string.
It was rather late when the commanding officer gave the signal for the departure. In a spiraling flight, the Nieuports rose in the air, and, at an altitude of about six thousand feet, waited for the photographic machine to meet them at their airy rendezvous.
Immediately arranging themselves in a V-shaped formation, with the big Caudron at the apex, the fleet of planes headed for “Germany.” Very soon some of the fighting Nieuports dropped below the machine they were escorting, while others soared a thousand feet above.
The weather was hot and sultry, and frequently the swiftly-speeding planes cut through patches of lazily-floating clouds, which left shining drops of moisture clinging to spars and struts. They sailed high above a long line of French observation balloons, and could see others belonging to the enemy—faint yellowish dots in the distance. But Don Hale was paying very little attention to them, for the famous town of Verdun, responsible for some of the most desperate battles ever fought in the history of the world, appeared before his eyes. Here and there were great gaps among the red-roofed houses, showing where the high-explosive shells of the Germans had shattered and torn and blown everything to pieces. Faintly, he could see those mighty forts—Vaux and Douaumont and, in another direction, the famous Mort-Homme, so valiantly defended by the French.
And the same scenes which he had witnessed on all his trips over the front were again before him—the haze of smoke floating high above the battle-field, the batteries in action, the flashes of the exploding shells, and the airplanes either hovering like flocks of birds or patrolling the lines.
As they passed over the trenches the Caudron and its escorting Nieuports rose to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet; for the air beneath them was filled with the little balls of black smoke which told that the “Archies” would have liked nothing better than to bring them crashing to the earth. The pigmy and futile efforts of the gunners, however, only served to amuse Don Hale. How harmless the exploding shells appeared! Yet how terrible they were when viewed at closer range!
At various points, silhouetted against the blue of the sky or the scintillating white of the clouds, he could make out hostile airplanes which, as was often the case, were keeping well to the rear of their own lines.
Would they be attacked?
Don Hale scarcely thought so, or, at least, not so long as the formation kept together.
Thus, with his mind at comparative ease, he thoroughly enjoyed the swift flight through the cool air high above the earth. Gazing over the side of the little cockpit, he studied the territory occupied by the Germans with an interest which familiarity never seemed to lessen. Occasionally Don’s view of the network of roads, the tiny villages and the farms, surrounded by their vari-colored fields, was blotted from view by the constantly increasing layers of fleecy white clouds. Their shadows were chasing each other over the warmly-tinted earth.
The wind was blowing straight into “Germany,” and, to Don Hale, the weather conditions seemed to be fast becoming ominous and threatening. This thought at length became a little disquieting. If anything should happen to their planes while over the enemy’s country it might mean a descent; and a descent would undoubtedly mean capture—an inglorious end to a flying career—a fate particularly dreaded by the airmen.
“I won’t be sorry when this trip is over,” muttered Don to himself. “This kind of life certainly gives a chap fifty-seven different kinds of feelings.”
Owing to the great velocity of the flying flotilla, their destination, a town of considerable size, soon afterward came into view, and the whole formation volplaned to a lower level. Now they plunged through the clouds. And on emerging Don could see many evidences of life and activity going on below. Here and there were aviation fields bordered by gray hangars. Almost directly beneath a column of troops on the march suggested so many tiny ants creeping slowly over the ground. A long line of moving dots on a white road indicated a convoy going up nearer the line, while on a railroad leading into the town the eager and interested young combat pilot espied a train traveling, apparently, with a strange and sloth-like motion.
And now the peaceful character of the voyage came to an end. The “Archies” were at work again, and on every side, and dangerously near. Don Hale saw the wicked, lashing little balls of black smoke, though the explosions of the shells could scarcely be heard. Nor were the flying men threatened by the anti-aircraft batteries alone: Albatross and Fokker machines were approaching. And, in order that the enemy planes might not gain too great an altitude and be in a position to dive down upon them, the leader of the flotilla gave a prearranged signal; whereupon several of the convoys began following him to a higher level.
Don Hale, however, had been instructed to remain below, while the photographs were being taken, and the prospect was not altogether a pleasant one. He well knew that the Caudron would take all sorts of risks in order to obtain the desired pictures; and the protecting Nieuports, to fulfil the duties imposed upon them, must all expect to run a fiery gauntlet of shrapnel.
Down—still further down, as though unmindful of their spiteful presence, the big Caudron flew in a circling flight directly over the town.
Now in light, now in shadow, the collection of buildings made a pleasant picture. The golden cross surmounting the spire of the lone church occasionally reflected the mellow rays of the sun, and, like a jet of fire, sent its light into the sky.
But these were things to which Don Hale paid not the slightest attention: his mind was wholly wrapped up in the work ahead of him. He was playing a game in which life and liberty were at stake, and, as the Nieuport rocked and shook in the currents of the air disturbed by the almost continual explosions of the shrapnel shells, he warily watched the movements of the enemy planes.
Somehow or other, now that the perilous moment had come, he felt neither excited, apprehensive nor alarmed. An almost unnatural calmness seemed to have a hold upon him; and even when he saw a hole suddenly appear on the left-hand side of the upper plane, which meant that a piece of flying lead had pierced it, he did not lose his steadiness of hand or presence of mind.
He seemed to be fairly surrounded by the bursting shells. In every direction he turned they were there to meet him. The “flaming onions,” too, were beginning to cut their fiery passage through the air; and as they traveled with terrible swiftness the danger from them was even greater than that from the anti-aircraft guns.
Around and around soared the photographic machine; and around and around soared the Nieuports, both above and below. It was a veritable ride of death, with a chance that some of the combat pilots would pay the penalty for their daring, and be recorded in the brief official communique as among the missing or the dead.
Suddenly the photographic machine darted downward. Don Hale, with his eyes fixed upon it, almost held his breath with suspense and apprehension. It seemed scarcely possible that the pilot could rise again.
However, just as this gloomy thought was becoming fixed in his mind, the airplane began to ascend.
Intuitively, the boy realized that the dangerous mission of the photographer and his pilot was over; for, like a captive bird escaping from its imprisoning cage, the Caudron shot steadily upward, and was soon far beyond the reach of the guns below.
The lower escorting planes, which many times had come close to destruction, immediately followed.
And then Don Hale, strange to say, began to feel the effects of a reaction. The hand, so steady in the midst of terrible peril, now trembled slightly. He found it hard to shake off a curious foreboding—a foreboding that sometimes sent chills along his spine—that much might happen in that perilous return journey over a hostile land.
To show that his fears were entirely justified, when once again the boy gazed aloft he discovered that some of the bolder enemy scouts, now assembled in a formation as formidable as their own, were hot on the trail of the fast retreating Americans.
“Looks like a scrap,” murmured Don.
The pilot cast a look at his machine gun and belt of cartridges, all ready on the instant.
Should he have to use them? He hoped not; yet it looked that way.
And all the time the wind was steadily increasing in force, making necessary the closest attention and most extreme care in handling the biplane. Thus, with the elements against him and surrounded by the gravest danger, Don Hale decided that by the time he reached the aviation field, if he ever did, he should be able to recount a tale as interesting as any of those he had often heard.
Occasionally he glanced over the side of the fuselage, to see the big Caudron, now considerably below him, sometimes skimming close above the clouds and sometimes enveloped in masses of vapor. He very well knew that if an attack were made the photographic machine would be the principal object sought for, owing to the value of the records it was carrying.
And while Don was busily reflecting upon this he suddenly realized that action both above and below him had begun. He could see several planes whirling and darting about, and though the rapid reports of the machine guns were unheard amid the roar of his motor he caught sight of narrow lines of smoke left by the passing tracer bullets.
“Great Julius Cæsar!” he muttered. “I am in for it. I wonder when my part in the show begins!”
It came much sooner than he had expected. While several of the Lafayette machines below and to the rear of the Caudron were engaged in deadly combat by the enemy a fighting plane with the ominous Maltese crosses on its wing flashed past Don Hale, diving vertically toward the tail of the Caudron.
The crucial moment had arrived. Don Hale’s heart was throbbing fast again; his lips were compressed; his eyes flashing. Then, without a second’s indecision—without a thought of the consequences—he, in turn, began a headlong swoop through space.
In a moment or two he shut off the motor; for he was about to execute that evolution taught in the acrobatic school at Pau known as the “Russian Mountain.” Although he had performed it many times under different circumstances, the terrific downward rush never failed to make him gasp for breath. It was the same on this occasion, and his ears seemed to be almost bursting. The rushing wind beat fiercely against him, its whistling notes, ominous and threatening, ringing out loudly. Like a plummet dropped from the clouds, he still plunged in a vertical descent. Now he dashed past, dangerously close to some of the fighting machines, and through an air filled with tracer and flaming bullets.
By this time the Caudron was desperately trying to avoid the enemy in the rear. But it seemed impossible that it could escape from the marvelously swift and brilliantly maneuvered German plane. This machine had just succeeded in gaining an advantageous position when Don Hale swept by.
Now he pushed the control stick away from him, which, raising the ailerons, caused the machine, with startling abruptness, to end its fall and come out on an even keel.
Though jarred and dizzy, the combat pilot lost not a second in starting the engine. Another movement with the control lever, and the Nieuport was shooting upward directly toward the tail of the German plane. Its pilot was already busily engaged in pouring a hail of bullets in the direction of the Caudron.
Don had gone through some thrilling experiences in the war zone, but there had been nothing like this. He realized that the fates had decreed that through his efforts alone the safety of the photographic machine depended. Never before had he fired a Vickers gun in actual combat, and for the briefest interval of time an overwhelming sense of agitation—of excitement gained a hold upon him; and before it had passed, and while the perspiration stood out on his face, he took aim, operating the gun with his left hand, and fired.
He could hear the spitefully-crackling reports; he saw the bursts of smoke spreading outward and upward. Then his machine swept past, in an ascending flight, at a distance of not more than fifty yards.
It was a strange sensation to be gazing upon an enemy’s machine so close at hand, and, in his instantaneous glance, the details seemed to be indelibly impressed upon his mind. He saw the helmeted pilot turn; and for the fraction of a second the two gazed into each other’s faces.
Before Don Hale could maneuver his plane, in order to renew the attack, he passed through some instants of terrible suspense.
Had his shots taken effect? Or was the photographic machine doomed, after all?
But what the boy saw when he looked again made him feel like uttering a shout of joy. The machine with the black crosses on its wings was descending abruptly, with erratic movements.
“I got him!” breathed the boy.
Triumphant, with his fighting blood aroused to the highest pitch, the young combat pilot, yielding to the now irresistible call of battle, shot toward another avion de chasse which bore the enemy’s markings. He had not gone very far, however, when he was startled by a fusillade of flaming bullets, passing close to his wings on the right.
A German pilot had stolen upon him from the rear, and Don was in the worst possible position to defend himself.
Instantly he sent the nose of the Nieuport upward, gave the control lever a swift jerk forth and back, and, like a flash, the machine described a complete backward somersault, while its pursuer shot past beneath.
The almost breathless Don Hale realized that his escape had been of the narrowest sort—that he was still in the gravest peril. Other machines were speeding toward him. The odds were entirely too great for an inexperienced combat pilot. Moreover, he had caught a glimpse of three new French planes coming to the rescue. Don’s own safety lay in the clouds just above, and he flew toward them with all the speed of which his Nieuport was capable.
And in that upward journey, brief though it was, he sensed rather than saw that the air close about him was filled with fiercely contesting planes, darting, swirling, almost tumbling over one another. The atmosphere, too, was literally criss-crossed by the multitude of faint bluish lines left by tracer bullets.
When the clouds closed about Don Hale and he found the view completely obscured, he experienced a wonderful sensation of relief. Yet his nerves were pretty badly shaken. Like the game hunter who has momentarily escaped the lion’s claws yet knows that the mighty animal is lurking near to renew the attack, his thoughts of what the immediate future might have in store for him sent renewed tremors through his frame.
War is a cruel and pitiless thing, in which compassion and the kindlier impulses of the human heart have no place. He himself could give no quarter, nor could he expect any.
And now there was something else besides the relentless foe which began to cause him anxiety—even alarm. The weather conditions had been becoming steadily worse, and the force of the wind, still blowing steadily into “Germany,” made the movements of the Nieuport like that of a boat wallowing in the trough of a heavy sea. Sometimes, without an instant’s warning, he found himself dropping like a shot, and the next moment, as though raised on the crest of a mighty billow, sent shooting upward.
The clouds were growing thicker; the curious, half luminous light was being replaced by a deep and forbidding gloom, not like that of night or of anything else he had ever seen. And through this weird and seemingly unnatural darkness there occasionally came gleams of spectral bluish light which told him that the greatest artillery in the world was rapidly getting ready for action, and that before long it might be expected to break loose in all its majestic power.
Where was he?—far over the German territory? He could not tell; yet it seemed very likely that such was the case. At any rate, he must make for home. How?—below the clouds? No. There are limits to which one’s nerves can be subjected. He must climb through them and fly above. Single-handed it would not do to face those lying in wait below. He felt terribly alone—terribly friendless.
The darkness was suddenly torn asunder by a brighter flash and, for the first time, he heard a sullen rumble, which, beginning like the roll of muffled drums, rapidly increased until it was sounding in a crashing crescendo.
“Great Scott! This is about the worst ever!” muttered Don. “Yes, I certainly shall have something to talk about—only, it will be too much! I never expected that I’d be witnessing a storm from a balcony seat.”
He tried to impart a little jocularity to his tone, but the attempt was unsuccessful.
It was a pretty awesome thing to be amid the storm-clouds, with the coppery colored and bluish gleams now playing almost constantly about him; and this singular situation conjured up all sorts of strange fancies.
Now the wind was buffeting the Nieuport wildly about, tearing against the fuselage and planes in heavy gusts.
But at last Don Hale’s heart was gladdened by the sight of a circular patch of misty light; and presently shooting through a ragged opening in the clouds he saw the illumination spreading out on every side and caught a glimpse of blue in the great expanse above. Probably the most inspiring thing he had ever seen, it lifted a load from his mind. As the shadows produced a depressing effect, so the light seemed to radiate optimism and cheer.
Presently the flying Nieuport carried him to another world equally as strange as the one through which he had just passed. Just below him, to the limits of vision, there extended, like a soft and moving blanket, the billowing forms of the wind-swept clouds.
And skimming across their surface was the grotesquely-shaped shadow of the speeding aeroplane.
Then it suddenly occurred to Don that his situation wasn’t so very much improved after all. During the mêlée and his subsequent experiences he had totally lost track of his bearings. In which direction was the aviation camp? That was a question he could not begin to answer. One thing alone cheered him—he was, at least, headed for the French lines.
And while debating in his mind how soon he might dare to make a plunge through the vapor he happened to glance behind him. And that single glance was the means of causing him to make a discovery—a discovery that was so startling, so terrifying that the blood seemed to almost freeze in his veins.
Bearing down upon him, and almost within firing range, were two great Albatross planes—both of a scarlet hue.
There could be no doubt about it—they belonged to Captain Baron Von Richtofen’s Red Squadron of Death.