Jack was not yet permitted to fly, so Tom had to go alone. But he served as an instructor, leaving the more dangerous work of patrol, fighting, and reconnaissance to others until he was fit to stand the strain of flying and of fighting once more.
“Sergeant Raymond, you will take up Martin to-day,” said the flight lieutenant to Tom one morning. “Let him manage the plane himself unless you see that he is going to get into trouble. And give him a good flight.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, as he turned away, after saluting.
He found his pupil, a young American from the Middle West, who was not as old as he and Jack, awaiting him impatiently.
“I'm to get my second wing soon, and I want to show that I can manage a plane all by myself, even if you're in it,” said the lad, whose name was Dick Martin. “They say I can make a solo flight to-morrow if I do well to-day.”
“Well, go to it!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh. “I'm willing.”
Soon they were in a double-seater of fairly safe construction—that is, it was not freakish nor speedy, and was what was usually used in this instructive work.
“I'm going to fly over the town,” declared Martin, naming the French city nearest the camp. “Well, mind you keep the required distance up,” cautioned Tom, for there was, a regulation making it necessary for the aviators to fly at a certain minimum height above a town in flying across it, so that if they developed engine trouble, they could coast safely down and land outside the town itself.
“I'll do that,” promised Martin.
But either he forgot this, or he was unable to keep at the required height, for he began scaling down when about over the center of the place. Tom saw what was happening, and reached over to take the controls. But something happened. There was a jam of one of the levers, and to his consternation Tom saw the machine going down and heading straight for a large greenhouse on the outskirts of the town.