Major Kitteredge had known Bob when Bob was twelve years old and he, the Major, was a lieutenant in his father’s company. In their most formal intercourse there was an undercurrent of friendliness never quite hidden. He watched Bob keenly for a second now, as the young officer crossed the field to Captain Jourdin’s side.
“You are here, eh, Gordon?” said the Frenchman, throwing away his cigarette with a smile of welcome. “Then we will lead the rest and be the first off the field.” He drew on his gloves and shouted orders to his French mechanics, who shouted back “Oui, mon capitaine!” through the whirling of a propeller close by.
The big biplane in which Bob now took the front, or gunner’s seat, strapping himself in behind the two machine guns, was a far different craft from the little thirteen-metre monoplane in which he had landed behind Château-Plessis. Foreseeing, that night, that he might have to dodge and fly for his life, he had chosen one of these swift, strong little hornets, capable of performing the most breakneck evolutions at incredible speed. But this morning he and Jourdin were out to face and force back the enemy, and the heavy-armed Spad was built for combat.
Jourdin gave him the plan of operation in a few quick sentences. The biplanes were to act each one independently, attempting to drive off as many as possible of the enemy planes from their own scouts. At the same time they must keep a sharp lookout for whatever information they might be in a position to pick up.
“We will fly north to Château-Plessis, then on to Argenton,” he finished. “Try the speaking-tube, Gordon. All right? Eh, bien! Partons!” he shouted to his mechanic, who responded by giving a twirl to the propeller which sent it spinning.
Jourdin opened his throttle and pressed forward on the control stick. They were off down the field in a buoyant, bounding rush. Bob settled himself comfortably, fastening the flap of his helmet. Jourdin pulled back his stick, and the machine steadied to a glide, swaying ever so little. The rushing grass disappeared from alongside and in a moment the earth had grown a distant scene below.
In ten minutes they were flying swiftly northward at a height of four thousand feet. Two other flyers had risen from the field after them and were in close pursuit. No enemy planes as yet disturbed the solitude, and Bob fell to looking over his machine guns, the cold air of these high spaces blowing pleasantly against his face. Jourdin led the way confidently for the little squadron, and where he led any airman was well content to follow. In half an hour they were over Château-Plessis, while below them the German trenches spouted fire from long-range anti-aircraft guns. The bombardment at this point was not heavy, the enemy’s persistent attempt to push the French and American line further west having met with dismal failure. A few German airplanes darted up from their guard over the trenches, but Jourdin had no desire to engage in battle here. He pointed his machine upward, and Bob had no more than a glimpse of the little town that meant so much to him, before they had mounted to five thousand feet, just below the clouds which hung under the deep blue arch in soft fluffy piles. Below them the enemy planes had given up the chase. The town was only a little square made up of dots and lines. Before it, where the trenches ran, rose little smoky puffs that hung in the still air. Even the bursting of the shells was deadened to a dull roar. Captain Jourdin spoke through the tube.
“We’ll go a little higher, Gordon, and hide behind those clouds. We shall sight the enemy any moment now, and shall have the advantage if we take him unawares.”
While he spoke Château-Plessis was left behind. Argenton was only fifteen minutes distant. Again he pointed the big plane upward another thousand feet, into the midst of a great enveloping, smothering bank of cloudy vapor. The soft, cottony mass gave way, dissolving into clinging wisps of fog that trailed along with them like streamers. Then they burst through a hole in the cloud roof into the upper sunlight—a world of celestial loveliness. Often as Bob had risen above the clouds, he could never do it without marveling anew at the strange beauty around him when the airplane pushed its way through the last foggy barriers. No sky, however beautiful, seen from the earth could compare with the absolute clearness of the dazzling blue about them. Below, the clouds were banked again into close, white masses, tinged here and there with a gold edge where the sun struck them. A mile behind came following two growing dots—a part of the squadron which, it seemed to Bob, had laid aside for the moment all thought of battle and, like themselves, were idly exploring this upper dreamland.
A rift in the clouds below put an end to these thoughts, for through it he saw eight airplanes darting back and forth, maneuvering for position. Beyond and below them, near the narrow line of the Avre River, lay the town of Argenton, and, another mile to the west, the old medieval fort behind the fortified ridge. Bob turned his binoculars upon the moving planes, and as he focused the glass he spoke to Jourdin. “Do you see them? Go down a thousand feet.”