From a hillside the boys looked upon and over the great battlefield where the German army was then trying to break through the line of barrier forts between Verdun and Toul and the opposing French forces.
In front lay the level valley of the Meuse, with the towns of St. Mihiel and Bannoncour nestling upon the green landscape.
Beyond and behind the valley rose a tier of hills on which the French were then striving with all their might to hold an intrenched position.
Bursting shells were throwing up columns of white or black fog, and cloudlets of white smoke here and there showed where a position was under shrapnel fire.
The sergeant had presented the boys with a high-powered field glass, and to their delight they picked out an occasional aëroplane hovering over the lines.
“Look at that little snapper,” cried Billy; “that’s a French wasp; it’s smaller and lighter than our kind; they call it the ‘peasant’s terror.’ Gee! Seventy-five miles an hour is nothing to that plane.”
“The aviator is giving signals!”
Henri had his eyes glued to the glass.
“Looks like a hawk circling around a chick.”
Billy was again taking his turn.