CHAPTER XIII--THE FARMER
Several weeks passed, during which Don Hale became thoroughly familiarwith and accustomed to the work of the escadrille. The boy was surprisedto find how soon the unpleasant feelings which had assailed him on hisfirst day's sortie over the lines had worn off. True, he did passthrough some harrowing moments--terrible moments, in which it seemed asthough he was doomed to destruction. But, in general, familiarity withthe dangers brought that indifference which a seasoned veteran in any oflife's great games usually acquires.
By this time the young aviator had engaged in practically every kind ofwork done by the squadron. He, in company with other pilots, had actedas escorts to the big Caudron bombarding machines, the artilleryregulating planes, and those whose duty it was to travel over theenemy's country, observing and taking photographs.
During several of these trips he had been introduced to what the boyspleasantly termed "flaming onions." These are balls of fire sent in astream from a special gun, and they travel with tremendous speed.Fortunately, however, these sportive attempts of the Germans did nodamage to either him or his machine.
During a vigorous attack when the French had succeeded in capturing andholding several of the German trenches he learned a great deal aboutcontact patrol. This consisted of working in conjunction with theinfantry, keeping them informed of everything that was taking place onthe other side of "No Man's Land," guarding them in every way fromsurprises and doing all that was possible to facilitate their "Goingover the top" by flying low over the ground and vigorously attacking theenemy's troops.
Contact patrol was the most dangerous work of all; for the pilots rannot only the risk of being struck down by the shells from the east butalso by those sent by their own batteries in the rear.
Occasionally, too, he joined expeditions which set out to destroy thebig observation balloons which hung constantly in the sky, and on one ofthese trips he had seen an unwieldy monster, somewhat suggestive of anelephant with its trunk cut off, sent flaming to the ground.
But there was a sad, a tragic side connected with all the splendid andcourageous work accomplished by the combat pilots. There were some whonever returned, and who were listed in the official "_communique_"[8] asbeing among the missing. There were others, too, whose planes, riddledby the enemy's bullets, were sent crashing earthward, to be smashed andsplintered and torn apart by the terrific impact.
Those were days of gloom and sorrow; but the inevitable had to beaccepted.
Two events which interested Don Hale and T. Singleton Albert were thearrivals, at different times, of Bobby Dunlap and Jason Hamlin. Themeeting between the latter and Victor Gilbert was of a nature no morecordial than that at the training school.
Gilbert glared at the other, demanding gruffly:
"You seem to find it hard to keep away from my company. There are otherFranco-American Squadrons."
"Thank you for your charming and subtle intimation," rejoined Hamlin,dryly. "Let me say, however, that I pulled every wire I could so that Imight have the pleasure of joining this squadron."
"Frightfully agreeable, I'm sure!" muttered Gilbert, turning away.
"I say, Peur Jamais," exclaimed Don Hale, some time later, "how is theSherlock Holmes business getting on?"
Bobby wagged his head mysteriously.
"Maybe I'm on the trail of something, and maybe I'm not," he responded."What do I think it is? To quote a classical remark: 'I have nothing tosay at this time.' Bombs aren't the only things that make explosions.Now let us drop the mystery."
"That's better than dropping a bomb," laughed Don.
"That depends upon where you drop it," chirped Bobby. "But, believe me,Donny, that Hamlin person is some flyer. He'd make an eagle so ashamedof himself that he'd swear off flying and stay on the ground forever. Ibelieve he could almost fly by waving his arms in the air."
"Wish I could!" sighed Don. "It would come in mighty handy if a fellow'splane were shot away from him while he was five miles in the air."
Often pilots when off duty gathered in the bureau, or office, wherereports were turned in and other necessary routine work of the squadrontransacted. Hanging on the wall was a very large map of the sector,amazingly complete, showing the location of German aviation centres andeven the points where their observation balloons were anchored.Naturally, from time to time, there were changes in the map, and themembers of the squadron often found great interest in studying it andspeculating as to its appearance a few months hence.
As days succeeded days Don, George Glenn, T. Singleton Albert and BobbyDunlap frequently met in the bureau, and it was on one of theseoccasions that Bobby took Don Hale aside, and, in a very impressivemanner, remarked:
"Do you remember those nights at the Cafe Rochambeau when old PereGoubain told us a whole lot about German spies?"
"Yes," answered Don.
"Well, I don't think he was so very far wrong. I'm brighter than thenext person, and it looks to me as if the trail were getting warm."
"What do you mean?"
Don spoke in a mystified tone.
"Spies--spies!" chuckled Bobby.
"But where are they? Maybe you think I'm a spy?"
"If you are you'd better be careful of little Sherlock," chirped PeurJamais.
Some time later, the pilots were rather surprised and amused to see anold French peasant standing out front and gazing in evident wonder atthe aviation fields. He was a typical son of the soil, wearing woodensabots, or shoes; and his faded blue garments showed many traces of hislabor in the fields. Almost primitive in appearance, and suggesting theuncouth, illiterate peasants which the French painter Millet loved todepict, he seemed so out of place amidst that most modern of allscenes--an aviation centre--that many of the boys found it rather hardto stifle an inclination to laugh.
"Hello, what's the news from your section of the universe?" asked BobbyDunlap, waggishly.
The peasant glanced at him rather stupidly for a moment and thendrawled:
"There aren't enough people left in the place where I come from to beany news. There's an awful big war going on, isn't there?"
"Goodness! So you've discovered it, too!" laughed Bobby. "Where do youlive?"
"Not so very far away."
"Are you thinking of changing your vocation and becoming an aviator?"
The stolid-looking peasant, evidently seeing no humor in the remark,shook his head and mumbled:
"No." Then, in a half-embarrassed manner, he inquired: "May I take aglance inside the house?"
"To be sure!" exclaimed Jason Hamlin.
"The world owes everything to the farmer. He is the foundation uponwhich the world leans. Without him----"
"We'd have to become farmers ourselves," giggled Bobby.
The peasant, evidently feeling awed by his surroundings, entered thebureau.
Once inside he gazed about him with a sort of abstracted air, uttered afew observations which caused titters of laughter to run around theroom, and, presently, remarked to Jason Hamlin:
"This war hasn't done any good to farming. Pretty big map on the wall.What's it there for?"
Repressing a smile, T. Singleton Albert attempted to explain, in his ownpeculiar style of French, whereupon the visiting farmer exclaimed:
"Too bad! But I don't speak any language except that of my own country."
A loud laugh went up at the expense of the furiously-blushing Drugstore.
And then Don took it upon himself to impart the information.
"I see!" exclaimed the peasant, musingly.
He walked over to the map and began to examine it, his expression,however, indicating an utter lack of comprehension.
Victor Gilbert, who happened to be among the crowd, remarked in English:
"It's too bad that the laboring classes should be so uneducated. And thelack of training dwarfs what intelligence they have, so that their mindsfail to grasp even simple things."
The others agreed with him.
B
ut, at any rate, they found the visit of the farmer a pleasantdiversion, and all were really sorry when he said good-bye and startedfor the door.
"That old chap is about the limit," growled T. Singleton Albert. "Talkabout ignorance! It's a positive wonder he has enough sense to find hisway home."
"And just think!--the poor fellow understands only French," chirpedBobby Dunlap.
Drugstore was about to retort, when the entrance of several pilotsstopped him.
The newcomers had something to tell, too, which aroused a great deal ofinterest--several of them had had thrilling encounters with CaptainBaron Von Richtofen's Red Squadron of Death.
"I feel sure the Baron was there himself," declared one. "The way thoseplanes were handled was simply marvelous. I thought I had certainlywinged a Boche when he went into the vrille; and I swooped down afterhim for about two thousand feet, intending to make sure of it. But, insome extraordinary manner, he got his plane under control, and before Icould realize it I was shooting below him and his bullets were humming atune past my ears."
"Oh, boy, that is music I don't like to hear!" said Bobby, with aperceptible shiver.
"I reckon all of us prefer symphonies of a less dangerous kind,"remarked Gilbert, adding, rather reflectively: "I haven't had thepleasure yet of meeting that Baron and his pirate crew. Perhaps some dayI shall."
"Then let us hope it will be a red letter day for you," cried Don.
That night the escadrille was once more saddened by the disappearance ofone of its members, and all telephone queries to the observation postsfailed to reveal what had come of him. It was feared, however, that hehad fallen behind the German lines and been either killed or captured bythe enemy.
Many of the pilots remained late in the bureau discussing their fellowaviator's possible fate, and while they were busily talking the sound ofan anti-aircraft gun brought all who were sitting to their feet.
"I wonder if that means a Boche bombing raid!" cried Don Hale,excitedly.
The next instant a frightful din of crashing guns rent the air.
With a common impulse, a rush was made for the door.
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Footnote 8:
Communique--Bulletin.