“I am very sorry, Bob,” he said. “We cannot think of this now. I came to tell you that we must go up at once. The Boches are out in force over Montdidier, and half our little squadron has engaged them. They need help quickly.”
Before he finished speaking Bob had sprung to his feet. The German airplanes were always thick around Montdidier. He knew what straits the Americans must be in if they had encountered a full squadron of their heavy-armed Fokkers.
“I’ll be with you in two minutes,” he said. “I’ve been feeling ever since I got up that something was going to happen to-day, but I couldn’t tell what. Blessings on my shoulder for getting well just in time.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE PRICE OF VICTORY
Eight members of the squadron had remained in Cantigny, and these now took to the air—two biplanes and four light monoplanes. Both Bob and Jourdin were in single-seaters this time; little craft in which the pilot must trust to speed and dexterity of handling for his defense. Bob’s heart beat high with hope and confidence as he rose from the field into the bright morning air. They were pointed south for Montdidier, and in ten minutes’ flight the monoplanes had outstripped their heavier comrades. Bob carefully examined his guns and everything within reach in the cockpit. His little plane was flying beautifully; the rhythmic pulse of the engine told him all was in perfect order, and a world of glorious opportunity opened again before him. The last days in the hospital had filled him with restless longing. His efforts in Lucy’s behalf were for the time being thwarted, and for that very reason he must put in good work to-day against the Boches.
Jourdin flew right ahead of him and Larry Eaton was in a third monoplane at his side. In twenty minutes they had neared Montdidier and, above the hot fire from the German trenches, there came swiftly into view the battle in the air. Bob had taken part in several fierce engagements and had grown familiar with the wild thrill that comes with plunging into conflict at thousands of feet above the earth. But, as the little reinforcing squadron drew nearer to the city, he realized that this fight was the greatest he had ever seen.
The air was so filled with planes whirling hither and thither, in furious attack or swift retreat, and the noise of the nearest propellers made such a volume of sound that he could make but a vague guess at the numbers engaged. Gathered together into squadrons, or pursuing each one his enemy independently, the airplanes were fighting in and out among the clouds above the whole of Montdidier and far beyond the city. Bob’s thoughts got no further than this in his momentary confusion, when, from a group a few hundred yards in front, a German Albatross scout darted toward him.
He needed no more than this to restore his coolness and determination. He saw the black crosses on the little plane’s silvery wings, and the wide muzzle of the machine gun, into which the German was fitting a belt of ammunition. His own gun was already loaded. The two weapons crashed out together, the bullets spattering over both moving targets; then each swooped lightly out of range to maneuver again for the advantage. Bob’s tactics were different now when no heavy metal body protected him. His Nieuport could not withstand the hail of bullets that Jourdin’s battle-plane had received in the fight above Argenton, and to use his guns he must swing his whole machine into range. He glanced quickly over the cockpit and saw that the fire from the trenches was too distant to be dangerous. He was flying at just nine thousand feet. The next instant his enemy came up from below him, trying for a shot at the tail of his machine. Bob dropped in a spin, then paused to discharge a stream of bullets on the German’s flank. His enemy dodged, but failed to return the fire. Bob guessed why. His gun was jammed. The German ran away northward, Bob following. The two machines were fairly matched in speed. Another German, scenting danger for his comrade in the escaping plane, made northward too. A third plane followed, and as Bob turned his head to see if this last were friend or foe, the pilot’s hand was raised in greeting, and Larry Eaton signaled with a quick gesture that the second German was his quarry.
Bob nodded agreement and, putting on speed, flew after his retreating foe. He was soon making a hundred miles an hour and the summer air, thin and cold at this height, cut sharply against his face and made welcome the protection of his leather coat and helmet. The German was speeding too, in spite of having to clean and reload his guns. In another moment he dived so suddenly that Bob flashed right over the spot where he had been, as his enemy mounted in a climbing turn directly underneath. Bob passed too swiftly to receive a close hit, but the German managed to deliver a broadside which cut holes in Bob’s left plane and sent bullets whizzing against the cockpit and about his head. Now Bob was in front, his enemy following. Not liking this new arrangement, Bob himself dived, circled up at terrific speed, and fired a burst at his pursuer as the latter was grasping his stick for a plunge. For a second Bob thought he had downed his foe, for the German plane wavered and one wing tilted as though the shots had fatally injured it. But the next moment the plane righted itself. The sudden turn the pilot made in seeking to escape the broadside had caused his machine to veer to one side. The wing was cut by bullets, but not more than Bob’s own. Before Bob could bring his gun to bear again upon his shaken enemy, the German darted upward at lightning speed and vanished in a soft white cloud.