Ruth of the U. S. A.

by Edwin Balmer

During his training and his service with the French, he had piloted many sorts of machines. He had flown the reconnaissance and photographic biplanes with duty merely to bring back information of the enemy’s movements; he had flown the bombing machines entrusted with destruction, by aerial torpedo, of batteries, and ammunition dumps behind the enemy’s front; he had flown the “artillery machines”—the biplanes with wireless by which he, or his observer, signaled to the French batteries the fall of their shots and guided the guns to the true targets; he had flown, as all the world knew, the swift-darting avions de chasse—the airplanes of pursuit—the Nieuports and the Spads in which, as combat pilot, he had dueled ten thousand feet up in the sky with the German combat pilots and shot some twenty of them down. And it was while he was still in the French service that the flying men began to form new squadrons for strange service distinct from mere bomb-dropping, from guiding guns or sending back information or from fighting other airplanes. Pilots of these squadrons started to attack, by bomb and machine guns, the enemy infantry and artillery and horse. They had special, new “ships” made for them—one-seater or two-seater biplanes mounting two or three machine guns and built to stand the strain of diving down from a height and “flattening out” suddenly only a few yards from the ground while the pilot with his machine guns raked the ranks of troops over which he flew.

It was in one of these new raiding airplanes, accordingly, and as leader of a flight that Gerry Hull was going to battle this day. The field, from which he had arisen, had been far back of the English lines—so far back, indeed, that it still was secure as Gerry guided his flight of six machines up into the clear spring sunshine. His was one of the single-seaters; he was alone, therefore, as he led on to the north and east; and he was glad this morning to be alone. The exaltation which almost always pervaded him as he rose into the sky with his motor running powerfully and true, possessed him at its most this morning; it brought to him, together with the never-dulling wonder of his endowment of wings and his multiplied strength therefrom, a despite of fate which made him reckless yet calm.

His altimeter told that he had climbed to some four thousand feet and content with that height and flying level, he glanced about and saw that the machines which followed him were flattening out too and in position. He gazed at his mapboard where was displayed chart of the land below with notation of the battle line—such battle line as still existed—corrected up to the last hour by photographs and visual observations made by other pilots that morning. It was the strip of ravaged and restored land over which he was flying; clearly he could see the cross-streaked spots of the cities; on his right, Ham; on his left, Péronne and Roisel. Roads spider-webbed about them; tiny villages clustered. Immediately below he could see even, decent patches of planted fields, gardens, meadows; he could make out, too, more minute objects—the peasants’ cottages and their trees, the tiny roofs of the new portable houses supplied by the Americans.

He could see the specks which were people upon the roads, gathered in groups moving together; where the specks formed into a long, ordered line, he knew that they were troops and moving toward the battle, probably. He himself was flying so fast that the direction of the slow movement upon the roads could not appear; but he could guess that the irregular series of specks were refugees in flight. Shells were smashing beside them—shrapnel, high explosive, and gas. He could recognize easily the puff of the shrapnel distinct from the burst of the high explosive shells. He could not distinguish the gas shells; but he knew that the Germans were using them, deluging with gas the zone behind the battle to a depth unknown before.

He gazed forward to the ground where the German infantry now was advancing—ground sloping so slightly hereabouts that, but for the shadows, it would have seemed flat. But the morning sun of March was still circling low, making all bright a strip where shells, in enormous number, erupted; just short of this strip, the sunlight ceased sharply in a shadow which did not move; the bright strip therefore was the eastern slope of a hill and the shadow was its western descent—a slope where, at this moment, the English must be attempting a stand.

Gerry gazed to the right to try to find and, with his eyes, follow the line which ran from this hill; but he could discover none; he glanced to the left and failed there also to discern support for the English soldiers on the hill. Surely there must have been support of some sort thereabouts; but the Germans had overwhelmed or swept it back. Germans—German infantry in mass, Germans deployed, German guns engaged and German guns moving forward followed by their trains—Germans possessed the ground before that sunlit slope and on its right and left.

He looked farther away to the south and to the north; and he could witness the truth which already he had been told. The “line,” in the sense in which one had known the line for three years, was swept away—first, second, third, and all supporting systems of defense; attempts to form new lines behind the old had failed. Open field battle, swift and Napoleonic, was established; for this battle the Germans had gathered men by the hundred thousands, guns by the thousand while the English here had—well, the remnants of brigades and divisions which here and there held to the slope of a hill.

Gerry wondered, as he gazed down, whether these men on the nearest slope knew that—already half surrounded—there was no support behind them. He was steering lower as he neared them, drawing to himself a shell or two from some German anti-aircraft gun which he did not trouble to try to place. Airplanes appeared all about him now, above, before, behind, and on both sides; but they were, most of them, English or French; here and there he glimpsed a German machine; but none of these approached him to attack. For if the ground that morning was the Germans’, the air was the allies’; it was only from the air, from him and his flight of five machines trailing behind him and from other similar flights of fighting airplanes likewise arriving, that any help could reach those English about to be attacked.

For the storm of German shells, which a few seconds before had been sweeping the slope, lifted suddenly; before the hill and from the flank, specks which were German storm troops moved forward; and Gerry, turning his head, saw that the other machines followed him in position. In signal to them, he rocked his ship a little. Steadying again, he leaned forward and saw that his machine guns were ready; softly he touched the release levers of his bombs. His hands went back to his controls and, gazing below at the German ranks again, he put the nose of his machine down and dived.

Ordinarily, during the tremendous seconds of the drop, he could see nothing but the spot of earth at which his eyes were focused, leaping up and up at him; ordinarily, sensation stopped with the feeling of fall and the rush of that seeming suck of destruction. But now his senses took in many things. His eyes never lost the swelling specks of gray which were becoming German storm troops leaping to the attack; but his eyes took in, too, the file of forms in English brown lying waiting over the crest of the hill.