The balloons were already up, hanging above the dense cloud of vapor, elongated planets drifting in space. The observers were directing the fire of their batteries to those positions which stood revealed. Shells were also exploding on lower ground, for we saw the mist billow upward time after time with the force of mighty concussions, and slowly settle again. It was an awe-inspiring sight. We might have been watching the last battle of the last war that could ever be, with the world still fighting on, bitterly, blindly, gradually sinking from sight in a sea of blood. I have never seen anything to equal that spectacle of an artillery battle in the mists.
Conditions were ideal for the attack. We could have gone to the objective, fired our rockets, and made our return, without once having been seen from the ground. It was an opportunity made in heaven, an Allied heaven. “But the infantry would not have seen it,” said J. B.; which was true. Not that we cared to do the thing in a spectacular fashion. We were thinking of that decisive effect upon morale.
Two hours later we were pitching pennies in one of the hangars, when Talbott came across the field, followed solemnly by Whiskey and Soda, the lion mascots of the Escadrille Lafayette.
“What's the date, anybody know?” he asked, very casually.
J. B. is an agile-minded youth.
“It isn't the umteenth by any chance?”
“Right the first time.” He looked at his watch. “It is now ten past ten. You have half an hour. Better get your rockets attached. How are your motors—all right?”
This was one way of breaking the news, and the best one, I think. If we had been told the night before, we should have slept badly.
The two patrols of protection left the field exactly on schedule time. At 10.35, Irving, Drew, and I were strapped in our machines, waiting, with our motors turning ralenti, for Talbott's signal to start.
He was romping with Whiskey. “Atta boy, Whiskey! Eat 'em up! Atta ole lion!”