CHAPTER VIII
OVER THE ENEMY'S LINES
"I say, Tom, it looks like a poor day for flying I'm afraid," Jackcalled out in the chill of the early dawn the next morning, he havingbeen the first to get out of bed and step over to the window of theirsleeping room.
It was of course in the villa placed at the disposal of the escadrille,many miles back of the first line of trenches.
Tom, however, did not bother his head about the weather to anyappreciable extent.
"It's likely to turn out a fair day for work," he told his chum, in hischeery way, as he followed Jack to the window. "You know that's happenedlots of times. So far we've been lucky enough not to get caught in astorm while aloft. Yes, I can already see that there isn't going to be astiff breeze; and what would a sprinkle of rain amount to?"
"I suppose the thing has to be pulled off, no matter what the weatheris," mused Jack, as he proceeded to dress, since breakfast had beenordered at an unusually early hour that morning.
"Well, the High Command has made all arrangements for a big time. Youknow what that means, when tens of thousands of poilus have to betransferred during the darkness of night, so that the enemy pilots can'tglimpse the movement and give warning? So, unless the skies fall, we arebound to get busy this morning."
The air service boys were soon at the hangars, where an animated scenewas taking place. Any one could see that something unusual was about totake place, because of the numbers of men rushing this way and that,while motors were popping and machine-guns being tried out so as to becertain they were in prime condition for service. Scores ofmechanicians, chauffeurs, observers, as well as other helpers, wentabout their work of getting "ready for business."
The air fighters were dressed in their fur-lined union suits, with furovercoats, gloves, and caps; for they would soon be soaring to greatheights, where the atmosphere was almost Arctic in its intensity.
They were examining their automatic pistols, seeing that their airplanecompasses, speed indicators, special airplane clocks, mounted on wiresprings, and altitude barometers were in their proper places and inworking order. Their very lives might depend on a little thing, and noone could afford to neglect even trifles.
Every few minutes one of the planes would roll over the surface of thelevel ground in front of the long line of hangars. Then, when sufficientmomentum had been attained, it would commence to climb swiftly upward.Soon the machine would get into spirals like a winding staircase, andmount toward an altitude of perhaps four thousand feet, there to awaitthe coming of companion craft before heading toward the battleground,far distant.
Jack squeezed the hand of his chum, and gave him one last look. Therewas no need of words to tell the deep feelings that gripped his loyalheart; indeed, Jack was utterly unable to utter a single sentence.
Then Tom was off.
He made the ascent with his customary brilliancy, which had won him theadmiration of the entire escadrille. The air seemed to be filled withvarious types of planes. Some were already moving off toward the front,from which came the roar of battle, showing that already the action hadbegun by an intense bombardment of a portion of the German trencheswhich the French longed to retake.
Tom spent some little time "knocking around" while awaiting the comingof those members of the Lafayette Escadrille who were the last to leavethe ground.
What is twenty or even thirty miles to a pilot in a speedy Neiuportcapable of going two miles a minute when pressed? They could be over thelines in a very brief time after leaving the aviation camp.
Tom looked at the scene below him, which was spread out like a giganticmap. He never wearied of observing it when simply "loafing" up in theair, as at present. The sun was fairly above the eastern horizon, thoughclouds drifted along in scattered masses, and it was as yet impossibleto tell what the day might bring forth.
Then the last of the squadron arrived, and the signal was given to startfor the front. Away they went with a whirr and a roar, seven strong.They overtook a number of clumsy two-seaters on the way, observationplanes, bombing machines, or it might be those included in the"fire-control" units going to relieve some of their kind already doingtheir appointed bit in the battle.
Tom looked far beyond. He could see great oceans of smoke arising thattold of innumerable high explosives bursting, and enormous guns beingdischarged. Both sides seemed hard at work, though the French werecertainly sending ten shells to one that came from the forces of theCrown Prince. This told plainly enough which army expected to do theattacking that day.
And yet while all this wonderful panorama of war was spread beneaththem, the seven pilots moving onward in wild-geese formation, with thecaptain at the head of the V, they heard nothing of the tumult raging.In their muffled ears sounded only the loud whirr of the propellers, andthe deafening explosions of the engines. It was almost as noisy as aboiler shop in full blast.
The fire-control planes were already sending back their signals, theobserver aboard intently following the course of each monster shell tonote exactly where it landed, and then communicating with the gunners,so they might correct their faults and make each missile count.
German pilots were in the air also, sometimes in swarms. Theirs was thetask to attack these heavier machines and try to cripple or destroythem.
Of course each one of these machines of the French "relage," orfire-control, was armed with a quick-firing gun; and there was anobserver aboard, as well as a deft pilot. They carried such a largeassortment of material, consisting among other things of a completewireless outfit, that they had to be built with unusually large wings.
This makes them slow to answer to the call of the pilot; and whenattacked by the more nimble Fokkers they have a hard time to keep frombeing shot down. That is why a number of the Nieuports with well known"aces" in charge, must always be hovering over the fire controls, readyto fly to their assistance in case they are attacked.
"Things are surely beginning to happen," murmured Tom. "The Boches seemto be in an unusually fierce and aggressive humor on this particularmorning."
The youth was right in this. The Germans had been thrown out of numeroushard-won positions lately, and this gave them cause for feeling bitterlytoward the French.
By the time the American unit reached the field of battle, severalfurious combats had already taken place with disastrous results. Two ofthe enemy machines had been sent down, one of them in flames, after thepilot had fallen at his post, fairly riddled by the gunfire of theFrenchman. A birdman had also paid the great debt on the side ofPetain's men. As the score was two against one there seemed no cause fordepression.
The Americans would not be kept out of the fight for long. No soonerwere three adventurous Teuton pilots seen climbing up to attack the bigfire control machine when Tom's companions dropped down from the"ceiling" to engage them.
Tom watched everything as though photographing the thrilling happeningson his brain forever. He had a greater interest in these things than atany previous period of his life, for was he not also hovering over thatobservation Caudron, upon which the movements of the advancing Frenchtroops depended? At any minute might he not receive the signal from thecaptain to attack some fresh Boche, who had climbed high above thebattle lines to join the general scrimmage, or else "get" the big Frenchmachine while its defenders had their hands full with his comrades?
Had Tom been able to use his binoculars just then, which was out of thequestion of course, and look back to where the monster French guns werefiring, he might have noticed various white sheets spread out infantastic patterns on the ground, the picture varying every littlewhile.
These were used to "talk" with the observer who was sending thosemessages from the fire-control plane, telling the gunners just how manymetres their fire was short, long, to the right, or to the left of theirintended objective.
Then again information was being sent by another observer to theadvancing infantry, warning them of perils that lay in their way, whichmight have cost them great and gr
ievous losses if they remained unknownuntil the German trap was sprung.
The morning was advancing. Tom had seen his comrades chase off severalflocks of enemy aircraft that endeavored to interrupt the deadly work ofthe observers. As yet his anticipated chance had not come. He wasbeginning to feel impatient. Could it be that he must stay there almostup among the clouds, and only be a "looker-on?"
How eagerly did his heart throb with renewed hope each time hediscovered signs of another attempt on the part of the enemy pilots toengineer a raid that might check this observation work. They knew whatit was doing to advance the cause of the battling French; and that, asoften proved to be the case, the airplanes were again the "vigilant eyesof the army."
It was well along in the morning when Tom Raymond's time came. Thefighting below had been going on for some time, and from fugitiveglimpses Tom snatched every now and then as he looked down, he hadreason to believe things were moving successfully for the assailants. Atleast the French troops occupied a long line of trenches where theBoches had been in possession at the close of the previous day.
Yes, there was another burst of ambitious fliers rising to take achance. The fact that already seven of their men had been dropped,several with their planes ablaze, did not deter them; for those Germanairmen had often proved their courage and were known as stubbornfighters.
Soon another battle below the clouds was in progress. Besides Tom, therewere now only three of the Americans in the air, the remainder havingbeen driven down, some in trouble of some kind, others to replenishtheir supplies. And there were _four_ enemy planes, Tom noticed,even as he watched the machine of the captain and received the signal toattack the latest arrival in the enemy squadron.