“And we can fly high,” suggested Henri, “high enough to keep from getting plugged.”
“I am not bothering so much about the ‘high’ part of it as I am about where we’ll land,” said Billy. “We may fall into a hornet’s nest.”
“Let’s make it Bruges, for luck,” suggested Henri.
“Here goes, then,” exclaimed Billy, getting into steering position, Henri playing passenger.
Off they skimmed on the second stage of their journey to the valley of the Meuse, in France.
They had entered the zone where five nations were at each other’s throats.
So swift was their travel that our Aviator Boys very soon looked down upon the famous old belfry of Bruges, the old gabled houses, with bright red tiled roofs, mirrored in the broad canal crossed by many stone bridges. That is what Bruges means, “bridges.” To the young airmen, what the town meant just now was a good dinner, if they did not have to trade their lives or their liberty for a chance to get it.
“Nothing doing here,” lamented Henri, who did the looking down while Billy looked ahead. “I see that there are too many gray-coats visiting in West Flanders. And I heard that the Belgians have not been giving ‘days at home’ since the army came. Now I see that it is true.”
“Having fun with yourself?” queried Billy, in the sharp tone necessary to make himself heard in a buzzing aircraft.
Henri ignored the question, snapping: “The book says it’s thirty-five miles from here to Ypres, straight; keep your eyes on the waterways, and you can’t miss it.”