Now and then some anti-aircraft gun perched on an elevation would take a shot at them, but the white puff of shrapnel smoke invariably appeared far below, and told that there was no danger from this source at present.
“It may be a different thing,” said Frank, when they started discussing this failure of the shots to reach their altitude, “when we strike a rough country, for from the summit of a high hill one of those guns could give us trouble.”
“Well, we must climb out of the danger zone then, that’s all,” concluded Billy, as though not worrying himself in the least about such a possibility.
They were now approaching the fighting line that stretched across the country in a zigzag fashion. Everywhere the Germans had dug themselves in as though it was their full intention to grimly hold on to what they had seized, and only allow the Allies to take it after the most desperate resistance.
Eagerly the French aviator was using his binoculars. No doubt he was making a mental map of many things they saw, and would not hesitate to use his knowledge afterward, if he thought it might benefit his side.
Frank winced a little as he thought of that, for he did not wish to be unfair any more than conditions imposed on him. He salved his conscience by telling himself that there was nothing they were observing but what any daring aviator of the Allies might not ascertain for himself by a flight across that section of the disputed territory of France.
“If I saw a German Taube man in trouble right now,” Frank was saying to himself, “I’d be just as quick to go to his rescue as though it were a Frenchman or a British pilot; and that’s what we mean by calling ourselves neutral. I warrant you that ninety-nine out of every hundred adults in the United States, who know about this war, have a leaning toward one side or the other, according from where their ancestors came. But we all wish it was over, and Peace had come again to these countries of Europe.”
There had really been little to proclaim the fact from radical changes in the villages below them, but Frank believed they must have left the Belgian border behind, and were now sailing over Northern France.
On mentioning this to M. Le Grande, he was immediately assured by the French aviator that such was indeed the case, and that though German fortifications still dotted the landscape below, it was the sacred soil of La Belle France.
“Soon will they have to pack up their baggage and set out for the Rhine country, when, in the Spring, the great offensive begins,” the patriotic Frenchman declared, as though the sight of those enemies encamped on the soil of his beloved land filled his heart with anguish.