They had, of course, reported officially when they came on duty, and now they went again to their commanding officer, to ask if they might go a short distance to the rear, where an improvised post-office had been set up for the flying men.
"Certainly, messieurs," replied the French captain, when Tom proffered the request for himself and his chum. "Go, by all means." He spoke in French, a good mastery of which had been acquired by our heroes since their advent into the great war. "Your orders have not yet arrived, but hold yourselves in readiness. Fritz is doubtless smarting under the dose we gave him last night, and he may retaliate. There is a rumor that we may go after some of his sausages, and I may need you for that."
"Does he mean our rations have gone short, and that we'll have to go collecting bolognas?" innocently asked a young American, who had lately joined.
"No," laughed Tom. "We call the German observation balloons 'sausages.' And sometimes, when they send up too many of them, to get observations and spoil our plans for an offensive, we raid them. It's difficult work, for we have to take them unawares or they'll haul them down. We generally go in a double squadron for this work. The heavy Caudrons screen the movements of the little Nieuports, and these latter, each with a single man in it, fire phosphorus bullets at the gas bags of the German sausages.
"These phosphorus bullets get red hot from the friction of the air, and set the gas envelope aglow. That starts the hydrogen gas to going and—good-night to Mr. Fritz unless he can drop in his parachute. A raid on the sausages is full of excitement, but it means a lot of preparation, for if there has any rain or dew fallen in the night the gas bags will be so damp that they can't be set on fire, and the raid is off."
"Say, you know a lot about this business, don't you?" asked the young fellow who had put the question.
"Nobody knows a lot about it," replied Jack. "Just as soon as he does he gets killed, or something happens to him. We're just learning—that's all."
"Well, I wish I knew as much," observed the other enviously.
Tom and Jack walked on toward the post-office, being in rather a hurry to see if there was any mail for them, and to get back to their stations in case their services were needed.
As they went along they were greeted by friends, of whom they had many, for they had made names for themselves, young as they were. And, as a matter of fact, nearly all the aviators are young. It takes young nerves for the work.