The weather was hot and sultry, and frequently the swiftly-speeding planes cut through patches of lazily-floating clouds, which left shining drops of moisture clinging to spars and struts. They sailed high above a long line of French observation balloons, and could see others belonging to the enemy—faint yellowish dots in the distance. But Don Hale was paying very little attention to them, for the famous town of Verdun, responsible for some of the most desperate battles ever fought in the history of the world, appeared before his eyes. Here and there were great gaps among the red-roofed houses, showing where the high-explosive shells of the Germans had shattered and torn and blown everything to pieces. Faintly, he could see those mighty forts—Vaux and Douaumont and, in another direction, the famous Mort-Homme, so valiantly defended by the French.
And the same scenes which he had witnessed on all his trips over the front were again before him—the haze of smoke floating high above the battle-field, the batteries in action, the flashes of the exploding shells, and the airplanes either hovering like flocks of birds or patrolling the lines.
As they passed over the trenches the Caudron and its escorting Nieuports rose to an altitude of fifteen thousand feet; for the air beneath them was filled with the little balls of black smoke which told that the “Archies” would have liked nothing better than to bring them crashing to the earth. The pigmy and futile efforts of the gunners, however, only served to amuse Don Hale. How harmless the exploding shells appeared! Yet how terrible they were when viewed at closer range!
At various points, silhouetted against the blue of the sky or the scintillating white of the clouds, he could make out hostile airplanes which, as was often the case, were keeping well to the rear of their own lines.
Would they be attacked?
Don Hale scarcely thought so, or, at least, not so long as the formation kept together.
Thus, with his mind at comparative ease, he thoroughly enjoyed the swift flight through the cool air high above the earth. Gazing over the side of the little cockpit, he studied the territory occupied by the Germans with an interest which familiarity never seemed to lessen. Occasionally Don’s view of the network of roads, the tiny villages and the farms, surrounded by their vari-colored fields, was blotted from view by the constantly increasing layers of fleecy white clouds. Their shadows were chasing each other over the warmly-tinted earth.
The wind was blowing straight into “Germany,” and, to Don Hale, the weather conditions seemed to be fast becoming ominous and threatening. This thought at length became a little disquieting. If anything should happen to their planes while over the enemy’s country it might mean a descent; and a descent would undoubtedly mean capture—an inglorious end to a flying career—a fate particularly dreaded by the airmen.
“I won’t be sorry when this trip is over,” muttered Don to himself. “This kind of life certainly gives a chap fifty-seven different kinds of feelings.”
Owing to the great velocity of the flying flotilla, their destination, a town of considerable size, soon afterward came into view, and the whole formation volplaned to a lower level. Now they plunged through the clouds. And on emerging Don could see many evidences of life and activity going on below. Here and there were aviation fields bordered by gray hangars. Almost directly beneath a column of troops on the march suggested so many tiny ants creeping slowly over the ground. A long line of moving dots on a white road indicated a convoy going up nearer the line, while on a railroad leading into the town the eager and interested young combat pilot espied a train traveling, apparently, with a strange and sloth-like motion.