“We’ll both go and get a pull, too; then bring some back. Come on!” Don said.
The quaint little half-stone domicile, in the very midst of this shell-torn area, faced directly east; the rear was, therefore, away and thus somewhat sheltered from the enemy’s lines. There had been a French or American dressing station in the front room, but a German 77-m. shell had come along and demolished the wall and a portion of the interior. The boys quickly passed under the newly leafing fruit trees, where bird arrivals were singing, and reached the rear of the house. Here, in the mellowing spring-time warmth, an old woman and an old man were sitting; the one on the door step, the other, upon an ancient stone seat, leaning his head on his cane. By the side of the old woman’s knee a little child of about four years gazed up at the visitors with wide-open, blue eyes.
Don, knowing no French and forgetting that Billy knew a little, resorted to pantomime. He made a cup of his hand and lifted it to his lips; the old man pronounced the word water very distinctly and pointed to a well-sweep among the shrubbery. While Don drew forth a moss-covered bucket of water that looked sparkling, Billy was recalling his school-day language and getting information. Yes, the old couple were trusting in the mercy of a Higher Power; if it were His will to take them, well and good, but they hoped it would be quick and without suffering. Rather than leave their lifetime abode, where they had always known comfort and happiness, they would risk the present dangers, which they hardly seemed to realize. They would dare almost anything rather than wander to strange regions.
And here was little Marie, happy with her grandparents, though her father had died in the war and her mother from grief and illness soon after. Well, the good General Foch, now that he had been made commander of all the armies, would soon chase the wicked boches away. The French would fight on forever, and so would the good English. And then the Americans were coming, they said. Were the young men English?
American! “Vive l’ Amerique!” Ah, it was good to see them. And how soon, oh, how soon would the great army arrive and rid France, dear, suffering, half-destroyed France, from the wicked, hateful boches? “A bas les boches!”
Don had taken water to the wounded men, two of whom received it eagerly; the other lay in a stupor. The passengers, the boy now saw, were two Frenchman, besides the German airman.
“Come on, Billy!” Don called, and shaking hands with the old people and lifting the child for a kiss, hastened away. As he leaped into the machine and Billy ran to the front end, grasping the crank, they heard again, now not high overhead, the roar of a flying motor and there came an airplane, marked with the black Maltese cross, sailing across their road and very nearly over them.
“I guess he can see our Red Cross sign,” Billy said, but Don, having heard many stories, was taking no chances; he started and flew swiftly down the road. Blam! Something exploded far behind them and to one side of the road. Again, within a few seconds, another detonation, much nearer, came to their ears. Billy was craning his neck out of the side of the car.
“He’s after us! Would you think it? I suspect he’ll get us, too, unless we beat him out to the soldiers. They’ve got anti-aircraft guns, haven’t they, Don?”
“Sure, and he’s got to go some. Just watch us!”