"Good-night! I could almost imagine I heard the crash away off here, even with all that thunder from Big Berthas and the crackle of hundreds of machine guns."
"It makes the goose-flesh tingle all over me, Tom, to think that some day—or it may be night—one or the other of us may finish up in just that kind of fireworks."
"The life of an air pilot is full of hazards, Jack, just remember. If he's going to make a success of his calling he's got to have nerves of steel."
"Yes, and let him lose his grip and confidence because of any unusual danger, his usefulness is gone."
"There's our signal at last, Jack!"
"Here goes! And pity the poor Boche I drive off with my new American plane, and its bully Liberty motor!"
Both young men, attired as air pilots, with goggles and gloves as well as heavy coats for extra warmth in the dizzy spaces a mile or two overhead, hastened to climb aboard their waiting machines, which were of the latest type of battleplane.
Each had an assistant, or observer, who would also handle one of the two machine-guns with which those American flying machines were armed.
The time was that period in the fall of 1918, when the fresh American host burst headlong into the battle line in Northern France.
At Château Thierry and St Mihiel they had struck the astounded foe with the force of an avalanche. The Germans, war-weary, were stunned by the vigor of the fresh army that once in action would not be denied.