“Another man to await news of,” said the flight lieutenant sadly, when the report reached him. “That's two in two days.”
“No news of Leroy yet?” asked Tom and Jack, as they went out of headquarters after reporting.
“None, I am sorry to say. It is barely possible that he landed in some lonely spot and is still hiding out—if he is not killed. But I understand you two young men had something to request of me. I can give you some attention now,” went on the commander of their squadron.
“We want to be transferred!” exclaimed Tom. “Now, that Pershing's men are here—”
“I understand,” was the answer. “You want to fight with your countrymen. Well, I would do the same. I will see if I can get you transferred, though I shall much regret losing you.”
He was as good as his word, and a week later, following some strenuous fights in the air, Tom and Jack received notice that they could report to the first United States air squadron, which was then being formed on that part of the front where the first of Pershing's men were brigaded with, the French and British armies.
Du Boise, who had brought word back of the fate that had befallen Harry Leroy, sent for Tom and Jack when it became known that they were to leave.
“Shall I ever see you again?” he asked wistfully.
“To be sure,” was Tom's hearty answer. “We aren't going far away, and we'll fly over to see you the first chance we get. Besides, we're going to depend on you to give us some information regarding Leroy. If the Huns drop any message at all they'll do it at this aerodrome.”
“Yes, I believe you're right,” assented Du Boise, trying not to show the pain that racked him. “But it's so long, now, I begin to believe he must be dead, and either the Huns don't know it or they aren't going to bother to send us word. But I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”