The Project Gutenberg EBook of Air Service Boys in the Big Battle, by Charles Amory Beach This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Air Service Boys in the Big Battle Author: Charles Amory Beach Release Date: March 23, 2009 [EBook #6458] Last Updated: March 15, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AIR SERVICE BOYS IN THE BIG BATTLE *** Produced by Sean Pobuda, and David Widger AIR SERVICE BOYS IN THE BIG BATTLE Or SILENCING THE BIG GUNS By Charles Amory Beach CONTENTS CHAPTER I. BAD NEWS FROM THE AIR CHAPTER II. A GIRL'S APPEAL CHAPTER III. ANXIOUS WAITING CHAPTER IV. TRANSFERRED CHAPTER V. THE RESOLVE CHAPTER VI. IN PARIS CHAPTER VII. THE AMERICAN FRONT CHAPTER VIII. A BATTLE IN THE AIR CHAPTER IX. THE FALLING GLOVE CHAPTER X. STUNTS CHAPTER XI. OVER THE LINES CHAPTER XII. A PERFECT SHOT CHAPTER XIII. A DARING SCHEME CHAPTER XIV. WILL THEY SUCCEED? CHAPTER XV. BADLY HIT CHAPTER XVI. JUST IN TIME CHAPTER XVII. A CRASH CHAPTER XVIII. GETTING A ZEPPELIN CHAPTER XIX. ON PATROL CHAPTER XX. CAPTURED CHAPTER XXI. THE CLEW CHAPTER XXII. NELLIE'S RESOLVE CHAPTER XXIII. THE BIG BATTLE CHAPTER XXIV. SILENCING THE GERMAN GUNS CHAPTER XXV. THE RESCUE CHAPTER I. BAD NEWS FROM THE AIR “Well, Tom, how's your head now?” “How's my head? What do you mean? There's nothing the matter with my head,” and the speaker, who wore the uniform of a French aviator, glanced up in surprise from the cot on which he was reclining in his tent near the airdromes that stretched around a great level field, not far from Paris. “Oh, isn't there?” questioned Jack Parmly, with a smile. “Then I beg your pardon for asking, my cabbage! I beg your pardon, Sergeant Raymond!” Tom Raymond, whose, chum had addressed him by the military title, looked curiously at his companion, and smiled at the appellation of the term cabbage. It was one of the many little tricks picked up by association with their French flying comrades, of speaking to a friend by some odd, endearing term. It might be cucumber or rose, cabbage or cart wheel—the words mattered not, it was the meaning back of them. “Say, is anything the matter?” went on Tom, as his chum, attired like himself', but wearing an old blouse covered with oil and grease, continued to smile. “What gave you the notion that my head hurt?” “I didn't say it hurt. I only asked how it was. The swelling hasn't begun to subside in mine yet, and I was wondering if it had in yours.” “Swelling? Subside? What in the world—” Jack Parmly brought to a sudden termination the rapid torrent of words from the mouth of his churn by silently pointing to a small medal fastened to the uniform jacket of his friend. It was the coveted croix de guerre. “Oh, that!” exclaimed Tom. “Nothing else, my pickled beet!” answered Jack. “Doesn't it make your head swell up as if it would burst every time you look at it? Now don't say it doesn't, for that's the way it affects me, and I'm sure you're not very different. And every time I read the citation that goes with the medal—well, I'm just aching for a chance to show it to the folks back home, aren't you, Sergeant?” Tom Raymond started a bit at the second use of the title. “I see you aren't any more used to it than I am!” exclaimed Jack. “Well, it'll be a little time before we stop looking around to see if it isn't some one behind us they're talking to. So I thought I'd practice it a bit on you. And you can do the same for me. I should think, out of common politeness, you'd get up, salute and call me the same.” “Oh! Now I see what you're driving at,” voiced Tom, as he glanced up from a momentary look at his medal to the face of his comrade-in-arms, or perhaps in flying would be more appropriate. “The wind's in that quarter, is it?” “No wind at all to speak of,” broke in Jack. “If you'd like to go for a fly, and see if we can bag a Boche or two, I'm with you.” “Against orders, Jack. I'd like to, but we were ordered here for rest and observation work; and you know, as well as I do, that obeying orders is just as important as sending a member of the Hun Flying Circus down where he can't do any more of his grandstand stunts. But I'm hoping the time will come when we can climb up back of our machine guns again, and do our bit to show that the little old U. S. A. is still on the map.” “I guess that time'll soon come, Tom, old man. I heard rumors that a lot of us were to be sent up nearer the front shortly, and if they don't include you and me, there'll be something doing in this camp!” “That's what I say. So you thought I'd have a swelled head, did you, because they gave us the croix de guerre?” “I confess I had a faint suspicion that way,” admitted Jack. “Both of us being advanced to sergeants was a big step, too.” “It was,” agreed Tom. “I almost wish they hadn't done it, for there are lots of others in the escadrille that deserve it fully as much, and some more, than we do.” “That's right. But you can't make these delightful Frenchmen see anything the way you want 'em to. Once they get a notion in their heads that you've done something for la belle Frame, they're your friends for life, kissing you on both cheeks and pinning medals on you wherever they'll stick.” “Well, they mean all right, Jack,” said Tom. “And there aren't any braver or more lovable people on the face of the earth than these same French. They've done more and suffered more for their country than we dream of. And it's only natural that they should say 'much obliged,' in their own particular way, to any one they think is helping to free them from the Germans.” “I suppose you're right. But advancing us to sergeants would have been enough, without pinning the decorations on us and mentioning us in the order of the day, as well as giving us as fine a citation as ever was signed by a commanding general. However, it's all in the day's work, though when we flew over the German super cannons, and did our bit in helping demolish them so they couldn't shell Paris any more, we didn't think—or, at least, I didn't—that we'd be sitting here talking about it.” “Me either,” agreed Tom. “But, to get down to brass tacks, what have you been doing to get into such a mess? You look like a chauffeur of the old days they tell of when they had to climb under the car to see if it needed oiling—” “That's just about what I have been doing,” admitted Jack. “When I heard the rumor that our escadrille might get orders to move at any hour, I decided that it was up to me to look MY machine over. It didn't make that nose dive just the way I wanted it to the last time I was up, and I'm not taking any chances. So I've been crawling in and around and under it—” “While I've been lying here I taking it easy!” broke in Tom. “I don't call that fair of you, Jack,” and he seemed genuinely hurt. “Go easy now, my pickled onion!” laughed his chum. “I wasn't going to leave you out in the cold. I just came to tell you that you'd better stop looking like a moving picture of an airman, and put on some old duds to look over your own craft. And here you go and —” “All right, old ham sandwich!” laughed Tom. “I'll forgive you. I'm going to do the same as you, and tinker with my machine. If, as you say, we're likely to be on the job again soon, I don't want too take any chances either. Where's that mechanician of mine? There was something wrong with my joy stick, he said, the last time I came down out of the clouds to take an enforced rest, and I might as well start with that, if there's any repairing to be done—” Tom flung off his uniform jacket, with the two silver wings, denoting that he was a full-fledged airman, and sent an orderly to summon his chief mechanician, for each aviator had several helpers to run messages for him, as well as to see that his machine is in perfect trim. Experts are needed to see to it that the machine and the aviator are in perfect trim, leaving for the airman himself the trying and difficult task, sometimes, of flying upside down, while he is making observations of the enemy with one eye, and fighting off a Boche with the other—ready to kill or be killed. Sergeants Tom Raymond and Jack Parmly, chums and fellow airmen flying for France, started toward the aerodromes where their machines were kept when not in use. They were both attired now for hard and not very clean work, though the more laborious part would be done by mechanics at their orders. Still the lads themselves would leave nothing to chance. Indeed no airman does, for in very, truth his He and the success of an army may, at times, depend on the strength or weakness of a seemingly insignificant bit of wire or the continuity of a small gasoline pipe. “Well, it'll seem good to get up in the air again,” remarked Jack. “A little rest is all right, but too much is more than enough.” “Right O, my sliced liberty bond!” laughed Tom. “And now—” Their talk was interrupted by a cheer that broke out in front of a recreation house, in reality a YMCA hut, or le Foyer du Soldat as it was called. It was where the airmen went when not on duty to read the papers, write letters and buy chocolate. “What's up now?” asked Jack, as he and his chum looked toward the cheering squad of aviators and their assistants. “Give it up. Let's go over and find out.” They broke into a run as the cheering continued, and then they saw hats being thrown into the air and men capering about with every evidence of joy. “We must have won a big battle!” cried Jack. “Seems so,” agreed Tom. “Hi there! what is it?” he asked in French of a fellow aviator. “What is it? You ask me what? Ah, joy of my life! It is you who ought to know first! It is you who should give thanks! Ah!” “Yes, that's all right, old man,” returned Jack in English. “We'll give thanks right as soon as we know what it is; but we aren't mind readers, you know, and there are so many things to guess at that there's no use in wasting the time. Tell us, like a good chap!” he begged in French, for he saw the puzzled look on the face of the aviator Tom had addressed. “It is the best news ever!” was the answer. “The first of your brave countrymen have arrived to help us drive the Boche from France! The first American Expeditionary Force, to serve under your brave General Pershing, has reached the shores of France safely, in spite of the U-boats, and are even now marching to show themselves in Paris! Ah, is it any wonder that we rejoice? How is it you say in your own delightful country? Two cheers and a lion! Ah!” “Tiger, my dear boy! Tiger!” laughed Jack. “And, while you're about it, you might as well make it three cheers and done with it. Not that it makes any great amount of difference in this case, but it's just the custom, my stuffed olive!” And then he and Tom were fairly carried off their feet by the rush of enthusiastic Frenchmen to congratulate them on the good news, and to share it with them. “Is it really true?” asked Tom. “Has any substantial part of Uncle Sam's boys really got here at last?” He was told that such was the case. The news had just been received at the headquarters of the flying squad to which Tom and Jack were attached. About ten thousand American soldiers were even then on French soil. Their coming had long been waited for, and the arrangements sailed in secret, and the news was known in American cities scarcely any sooner than it was in France, so careful had the military authorities been not to give the lurking German submarines a chance to torpedo the transports. “Is not that glorious news, my friend?” asked the Frenchman who had given it to Tom and Jack. “The best ever!” was the enthusiastic reply. And then Jack, turning to his chum, said in a low voice, as the Frenchman hurried back to the cheering throng: “You know what this means for us, of course?” “Rather guess I do!” was the response. “It means we've got to apply for a transfer and fight under Pershing!” “Exactly. Now how are we going to do it?” “Oh, I fancy it will be all right. Merely a question of detail and procedure. They can't object to our wanting to fight among our own countrymen, now that enough of them are over here to make a showing. I suppose this is the first of the big army that's coming.” “I imagine so,” agreed Jack. “Hurray! this is something like. There's going to be hard fighting. I realize that. But this is the beginning of the end, as I see it.” “That's what! Now, instead of tinkering over our machines, let's see the commandant and—-” Jack motioned to his chum to cease talking. Then he pointed up to the sky. There was a little speck against the blue, a speck that became larger as the two Americans watched. “One of our fliers coming bark,” remarked Tom in a low voice. “I hope he brings more good news,” returned Jack. The approaching airman came rapidly nearer, and then the throngs that had gathered about the headquarters building to discuss the news of the arrival of the first American forces turned to watch the return of the flier. “It's Du Boise,” remarked Tom, naming an intrepid French fighter. He was one of the “aces,” and had more than a score of Boche machines to his credit. “He must have been out 'on his own,' looking for a stray German.” “Yes, he and Leroy went out together,” assented Jack. “But I don't see Harry's machine,” and anxiously he scanned the heavens. Harry Leroy was, like Tom and Jack, an American aviator who had lately joined the force in which the two friends had rendered such valiant service. Tom and Jack had known him on the other side—had, in fact, first met and become friendly with him at a flying school in Virginia. Leroy had suffered a slight accident which had put him out of the flying service for a year, but he had persisted, had finally been accepted, and was welcomed to France by his chums who had preceded him. “I hope nothing has happened to Harry,” murmured Tom; “but I don't see him, and it's queer Du Boise would come back without him.” “Maybe he had to—for gasoline or something,” suggested Jack. “I hope it isn't any worse than that,” went on Tom. But his voice did not carry conviction. The French aviator landed, and as he climbed out of his machine, helped by orderlies and others who rushed up, he was seen to stagger. “Are you hurt?” asked Tom, hurrying up. “A mere scratch-nothing, thank you,” was the answer. “Where's Harry Leroy?” Jack asked. “Did you have to leave him?” “Ah, monsieur, I bring you bad news from the air,” was the answer. “We were attacked by seven Boche machines. We each got one, and then—well, they got me—but what matters that? It is a mere nothing.” “What of Harry?” persisted Tom. “Ah, it is of him I would speak. He is—he fell inside the enemy lines; and I had to come back for help. My petrol gave out, and I —“' And then, pressing his hands over his breast, the brave airman staggered and fell, as a stream of blood issued from beneath his jacket. CHAPTER II. A GIRL'S APPEAL At once half a score of hands reached out to render aid to the stricken airman, whose blood was staining the ground where he had fallen. Tom, seeing that his fellow aviator was more desperately wounded than the brave man had admitted, at once summoned stretcher- bearers, and he was carried to the hospital. Then all anxiously awaited the report of the surgeons, who quickly prepared to render aid to the fighter of the air. “How is he?” asked Jack, as he and Tom, lingering near the hospital, saw one of the doctors emerge. “He is doing very nicely,” was the answer, given in French, for the two boys of the air spoke this language now with ease, if not always with absolute correctness. “Then he isn't badly hurt?” asked Jack. “No. The wound in his chest was only a flesh one, but it bled considerably. Two bullets from an aircraft machine gun struck ribs, and glanced off from them, but tore the flesh badly. The bleeding was held in check by the pressure DU Boise exerted on the wounds underneath his jacket, but at last he grew faint from loss of blood, and then the stream welled out. With rest and care he will be all right in a few days.” “How soon could we talk with him?” asked Tom. “Talk with him?” asked the surgeon. “Is that necessary? He is doing very well, and—” “Tom means ask him some questions,” explained Jack. “You see, he started to tell us about our chum, Harry Leroy, who was out scouting with him. Harry was shot down, so Du Boise said, but he didn't get a chance to give any particulars, and we thought—” “It will be a day or so before he will be able to talk to you,” the surgeon said. “He is very weak, and must not be disturbed.” “Well, may we talk with him just as soon as possible?” eagerly asked Jack. “We want to find out where it was that Harry went down in his machine—out of control very likely—and if we get a chance—” “We'd like to take it out on those that shot him down!” interrupted Torn. “Du Boise must have noticed the machines that fought him and Harry, and if we could get any idea of the Boches who were in them—” “I see,” and the surgeon bowed and smiled approval of their idea. “You want revenge. I hope you get it. As soon as we think he is able to talk,” and he nodded in the direction of the hospital, “we will let you see him. Good luck to you, and confusion to the Huns!” “Gee, but this is tough luck!” murmured Tom, as he and his chum turned away. “Just as we were getting ready to go back into the game, too! Had it all fixed up for Harry to fly with us in a sort of a triangle scheme to down the Boches, and they have to go and plump him off the map. Well, it is tough!” “Yes, sort of takes the fun out of the good news we heard a while ago,” agreed Jack. “I mean about Pershing's boys getting over here to France. I hope Harry's only wounded, instead of killed. But if the Huns have him a prisoner—good-night!” “There's only one consolation,” added Tom. “Their airmen are the best of the lot Of course that isn't saying much, but they behave a little more like human beings than the rest of the Boche gang; and if Harry has fallen a prisoner to them he'll get a bit of decent treatment, anyhow.” “That's so. We'll hope for that. And now let's go on with what we started when we saw Du Boise coming back—let's see what chance we have of being transferred to an All American escadrille.” The boys started across the field again toward the headquarters, and, nearing it, they saw, in a small motor car, a girl sitting beside the military driver. She was a pretty girl, and it needed only one glance to show that she was an American. “Hello!” exclaimed Tom, with a low whistle. “Look who's here!” “Do you know her?” asked Jack. “No. Wish I did, though.” Jack glanced quickly and curiously at his chum. “Oh, you needn't think you're the only chap that has a drag with the girls,” went on Tom. “Just because Bessie Gleason—” “Cut it out!” exclaimed Jack. “Look, she acts as though she wanted to speak to us.” The military chauffeur had alighted from the machine and was talking to one of the French aviation officers. Meanwhile the girl, left to herself, was looking about the big aviation field, with a look of wonder, mixed with alarm and nervousness. She caught sight of Tom and Jack, and a smile came to her face, making her, as Tom said afterward, the prettiest picture he had seen in a long while. “You're Americans, aren't you?” began the girl, turning frankly to them. “I know you are! And, oh, I'm in such trouble!” Tom stepped ahead of Jack, who was taking off his cap and bowing. “Let me have a show for my white alley,” Tom murmured to his chum. “You've got one girl.” “You win,” murmured Jack. “Yes, we're from the United States,” said Tom. “But it's queer to see a girl here—from America or anywhere else. How'd you get through the lines, and what can we do for you?” “I am looking for my brother,” was the answer. “I understood he was stationed here, and I managed to get passes to come to see him, but it wasn't easy work. I met this officer in his motor car, and he brought me along the last stage of the journey. Can you tell me where my brother is? His name is Harry Leroy.” Torn said afterward that he felt as though he had gone into a spinning nose dive with a Boche aviator on his tail, while Jack admitted that he felt somewhat as he did the time his gasoline pipe was severed by a Hun bullet when he was high in the air and several miles behind the enemy's lines. “Your—your brother!” Tom managed to mutter. “Yes, Harry Leroy. He's from the United States, too. Perhaps you know him, as I notice you are both aviators. He told me if I ever got to France to come to see him, and he mentioned the names of two young men—I have them here somewhere—” She began to search in the depths of a little leather valise she carried, and, at that moment, the military chauffeur who had brought her to the aviation field turned to her, and spoke rapidly in French. She understood the language, as did Tom and Jack, and at the first words her face went white. For the chauffeur informed her that her brother, Harry Leroy, whom she had come so far to see, was, even then, lying dead or wounded within the German lines. “Oh!” the girl murmured, her fare becoming whiter and more white. “Oh—Harry!” Then she would have fallen from the seat, only Tom leaped forward and caught her in his arms. And while efforts were being made to restore the girl to consciousness, may I not take this opportunity of telling my new readers something of the previous books of this series, so that they may read this one more intelligently? Torn Raymond and Jack Parmly, as related in the initial volume, “Air Service Boys Flying for France; or The Young Heroes of the Lafayette Escadrille,” were Virginians. Soon after the great world conflict started, they burned with a desire to fight on the side of freedom, and it was as aviators that they desired to help. Accordingly they went to an aviation school in Virginia, under the auspices of the Government, and there learned the rudiments of flying. Tom's father had invented an aeroplane stabilizer, but, as told in the story, the plans and other papers had been stolen by a German spy. Tom and his chum resolved to get possession of the documents, and they kept up the search after they reached France and were made members of the Lafayette Escadrille. It was in France that they met Adolph Tuessing, the German spy. The second volume, entitled “Air Service Boys Over the Enemy's Lines; or The German Spy's Secret,” takes the two young men through further adventures. They had become acquainted on the steamer with a girl named Bessie Gleason and her mother. Carl Potzfeldt, a German sailing under false colors, claimed to be a friend of Bessie and her mother, but Jack, who was more than casually interested in the girl, was suspicious of this man. And his suspicions proved correct, for Potzfeldt had planned a daring trick. After some strenuous happenings, in which the Air Service Boys assisted, Bessie and her mother were rescued from the clutches of Potzfeldt, and went to Paris, Mrs. Gleason engaging in Red Cross work, and Bessie helping her as best she could. Immediately preceding this present volume is the third, called “Air Service Boys Over the Rhine; or Fighting Above the Clouds.” By this time the United States had entered the great war on the side of humanity and democracy. Then the world was startled by the news that a great German cannon was firing on Paris seventy miles away, and consternation reigned for a time. Tom and Jack had a hand in silencing the great gun, for it was they who discovered where it was hidden. Also in the third volume is related how Tom's father, who had disappeared, was found again. The boys passed through many startling experiences with their usual bravery, so that, when the present story opens, they were taking a much needed and well-earned rest. Mr. Raymond, having accomplished his mission, had returned to the United States. Then, as we have seen, came the news of the arrival of the first of Pershing's forces, and with it came the sad message that Harry Leroy, the chum of Torn and Jack, had fallen behind the German lines. And whether he was alive now, though wounded, or was another victim of the Hun machine guns, could not be told. “Harry's sister couldn't have come at a worse time,” remarked Tom, as he rejoined Jack, having carried the unconscious girl to the same hospital where Du Boise lay wounded. “I should say not!” agreed Jack. “Do you really suppose she's Harry's sister?” “I don't see Any reason to doubt it. She said so, didn't she?” “Oh, yes, of course. I was just wondering. Say, it's going to be tough when she wakes up and realizes what's happened.” “You bet it is! This has been a tough day all around, and if it wasn't for the good news that our boys are in France I'd feel pretty rocky. But now we've got all the more incentive to get busy!” exclaimed Tom. “What do you mean?” “I mean get our machines in fighting trim. I'm going out and get a few Germans to make up for what they did to Harry.” “You're right! I'm with you! But what about what's her name—I mean Harry's sister?” “I didn't hear her name. Some of the Red Cross nurses are looking after her. They promised to let me know when she came to. We can offer to help her, I suppose, being, as you might say, neighbors.” “Sure!” agreed Jack. “I'm with you. But let's go and—” However they did not go at once, wherever it was that Jack was going to propose, for, at that moment, one of the Red Cross nurses attached to the aviation hospital came to the door and beckoned to the boys. “Miss Leroy is conscious now,” was the message. “She wants to see you two,” and the nurse smiled at them. Tom and Jack found Miss Leroy, looking pale, but prettier than ever, sitting up in a chair. She leaned forward eagerly as they entered, and, holding out her hands, exclaimed: “They tell me you are my brother's chums! Oh, can you not get me some news of him? Can you not let him know that I have come so far to see him? I am anxious! Oh, where is he?” and she looked from Tom to Jack, and then to Tom again. CHAPTER III. ANXIOUS WAITING Nellie Leroy—for such the boys learned was her name—broke the silence, that was growing tense, by asking: “Is there any hope? Tell me, do you think there is a chance that my brother may be alive?” “Yes, there is, certainly!” exclaimed Tom quickly, before Jack had an opportunity to give, possibly, a less hopeful answer. “And if he is alive, is there a chance that he may be rescued—that I may go to him?” she went on. “Hardly that,” said Tom, slowly. “It's a wonder you ever got as near to the front as this. But as for getting past the German lines—” “Then what can I do?” asked Nellie Leroy, eagerly. “Oh, tell me something that I can do. I'm used to hard work,” she went on. “I've been a Red Cross nurse for some time, and I helped in one big explosion of a munitions plant in New Jersey before I came over. That's one reason they let me come—because I proved that I could do things!” and she did look very efficient, in spite of her paleness, in spite of her, seeming frailness. There was an indefinable air about her which showed that she would carry through whatever she undertook. “I never fainted before—never.” “It's like this,” said Tom, and Jack seemed content, now, to let his chum play the chief role. “When one of us goes down in his machine back of the enemy's lines, those left over here never really know what has happened for a few days.” “And how do they know then?' she asked. “The German airmen are more decent than some of the other Hun forces we're fighting,” explained Torn. “Generally after they capture one of our escadrille members, dead or alive, they fly over our lines a few days later and drop a cap, or a glove, or something that belongs to the prisoner. Sometimes they attach a note, written by one of their airmen or from the prisoner, giving news of his condition.” “And you think they may do this in my brother's case?” asked Nellie. “They are very likely to,” assented Tom, and Jack, to whom the girl looked for confirmation, nodded, his agreement. “How long shall we have to wait?” Harry's sister asked. “There is no telling,” said Tom “Sometimes it's a week before their airmen get a chance to fly over our lines. It all depends.” “On what?” “On how the battle goes,” answered Tom. “If there is much fighting, and many engagements in the air, the Boches don't get a chance to fly over and drop tokens of our men they may have shot down. We do the same for them, so it's six of one and a half dozen of the other. Often for a week we don't get a chance to let them know about prisoners we have, because the fighting is so severe.” “Will it be that way now?” the girl went on. “Hard to say—we don't have the ordering of battles,” replied Jack. “But it's been rather quiet for a few days, and it's likely to continue so. If it does one of their men may fly over to-morrow, or the next day, and drop something your brother wore—or even a note from him.” “Oh, I hope they do the last!” she murmured. “If I could have a note from him I'd be the happiest girl alive I I'd know, then, that he was all right.” “He may be,” said Tom, trying to be hopeful. “You see Du Boise, who was with Harry when the fight took place, is himself wounded, so he can't tell us much about it.” “Yes, they told me that my brother's companion reached here badly hurt. He is so brave! I wish they would let me help take care of him. I understand a great deal about wounds, and I'm not at all afraid of the sight of blood. It was silly of me to faint just now, but—I —I couldn't help it. I'd been counting so much on seeing Harry, and when they told me he was gone—” She covered her face with her hands, and endeavored to repress her emotion. “You're not Harry's little sister, are you?” asked Jack, hoping to change the current of talk into other and happier channels. “No; that's Mabel—Mab he calls her. She's younger than I. Did he often speak of her?” “Oh, yes; and you too!” exclaimed Tom, so warmly that Nellie blushed, and the damask tint in her hitherto pale cheeks was most becoming. “We've seen your picture, and Mab's too,” went on Tom. “Harry keeps them just over his cot in the barracks. But I didn't recognize you when I saw you a little while ago in the machine. Though I might have, if so many things hadn't happened all at once, and made me sort of hazy,” Tom explained. “Then are you and my brother good friends?” asked Nellie. “The best ever!” exclaimed Tom, and Jack warmly assented. “Not so many Americans are in this branch of the escadrille as are in others,” Torn went on; “so Harry and Jack and I are a sort of little trio all by ourselves. He hardly ever goes up without us, but we are on a rest billet; and to-day he went up with Du Boise.” “If he had only come back!” sighed Nellie. “But there! I mustn't complain. Harry wouldn't let me if he were here. We both have to do our duty. Now I'm going to see what I can do to help, and not be silly and do any more fainting. I hope you'll pardon me,” and she smiled at the two boys. “Of course!” exclaimed Tom, with great emphasis, and again Miss Leroy blushed. “Then, is to wait the only thing we can do?” she asked. “That's all,” assented Tom. “We may get a message from the clouds any day.” “And, oh! I shall pray that it may be favorable!” murmured the girl. “Perhaps I may question this Mr. Du Boise, and learn from him just what happened?” she interrogated. “Yes, we want to talk to him ourselves, as soon as he's able to sit up,” said Jack. “We want to get a shot at the Boche who downed Harry.” “So you are as fond of Harry as all that! I am glad!” exclaimed his sister. “Have you known him long?” “We knew him slightly before we went to the flying school in Virginia with him,” said Tom. “But down there, when we started in at 'grass-cutting,' and worked our way up, we grew to know him better. Then Jack and I got our chance to come over. But Harry had a smash, and he had to wait a year.” “Yes, I know. It almost broke his heart,” said Miss Leroy. “I was away at school at the time, which accounts for my not knowing more of you boys, since Harry always wrote me, or told me, about his chums. Then, when I came back after my graduation, I found that he had sailed for France.” “And maybe we weren't glad to see him!” exclaimed Tom. “It was like getting letters from home.” “Yes, I recall, now, his mentioning that he had met over here some students from the Virginia school,” said Miss Leroy. “Well, after Harry sailed I was wild to go, but father and mother would not hear of it at first. Then, when the war grew worse, and I showed them that I could do hard work for the Red Cross, they consented. So I sailed, but I never expected to get like this.” “Oh, well, everything may come out all right,” said Tom, as cheerfully as he could. But, in very truth, he was not very hopeful in his heart. For once an aviator succumbs to the hail of bullets from the German machine guns in an aircraft, and his own creature of steel and wings goes hurtling down, there is only a scant chance that the disabled airman will land alive. Of course some have done it, and, even with their machines out of control and on fire, they have lived through the awful experience. But the chances were and are against them. Harry Leroy had been seen to go down, apparently with his machine out of control, after a fusillade of Boche bullets. This much Du Boise had said before his collapse. As to what the fallen aviator's real fate was, time alone could disclose. “I can only wait!” sighed Nellie, as the boys took their leave. “The days will be anxious ones—days of waiting. I shall help here all I can. You'll let me know the moment there is any news—good or bad—won't you?” she begged; and her eyes filled with tears. “We'll bring you the news at once—night or day!” exclaimed Tom, vigorously. As he and Jack walked out of the hospital, the latter remarked: “You seem to be a favorite there, all right, Tom, my boy. If we weren't such good chums I might be a bit jealous.” “If you feel that way I'll drop Bessie Gleason a note!” suggested Tom, quickly. “Don't!” begged Jack. “I'll be good!” CHAPTER IV. TRANSFERRED One glance at the bulletin board, erected just outside their quarters at the aerodrome, told Tom and Jack what they were detailed for that day. It was the day following the arrival of Nellie Leroy at that particular place in France, only to find that her brother was missing—either dead, or alive and a prisoner behind the German lines. “Sergeant Thomas Raymond will report to headquarters at eight o'clock, to do patrol work.” “Sergeant Jack Parmly will report to headquarters at eight o'clock for reconnaissance with a photographer, who will be detailed.” Thus read the bulletin board, and Tom and Jack, looking at it, nodded to one another, while Tom remarked: “Got our work cut out for us all right.” “Yes,” agreed Jack. “Only I wish I could change places with you. I don't like those big, heavy machines.” But orders are orders, nowhere more so than in the aviation squad, and soon the two lads, after a hearty if hasty breakfast, were ready for the day's work. They each realized that when the sun set they might either be dead, wounded or prisoners. It was a life full of eventualities. A little later the two young airmen, in common with their comrades, were ready. Some were to do patrol work, like Tom—that is fly over and along the German lines in small swift, fighting planes, to attack a Hun machine, if any showed, and to give notice of any attack, either from the air or on the ground. The latter attacks the airmen would observe in progress and report to the commanders of infantry or batteries who could take steps to meet the attack, or even frustrate it. Tom was assigned to a speedy Spad machine, one of great power and lightness into which he climbed. He was to fly alone, and on his machine was a machine gun of the Vickers type, which had to be aimed by directing, or pointing, the aeroplane itself at the enemy. After Tom had given a hasty but careful look at his craft, and had assured himself of the accuracy of the report of his mechanician that it had oil and petrol, his starter took his place in front of the propeller. “Well, Jack,” called Tom to his chum, across the field, where Jack was making his preparations for taking up a photographer in a big two-seated machine, “I wish you luck.” “Same to you, old man. If you see anything of Harry, and he's alive, tell him we'll bring him back home as soon as we get a chance.” “Do you think there is any chance?” asked Tom eagerly. “I wouldn't want anything better than to get Harry away from those Boches —and make his sister happy.” “Well, there's a chance, but it's a slim one, I'm afraid,” remarked Jack. “We'll talk about it after we get back. Maybe there'll be a message from the Huns about him before the day is over.” “I hope so,” murmured Tom. “If those Huns only act as decently toward us as we do toward them, we'll have some news soon.” For it is true, in a number of instances that the German aviators do drop within the allied lines news of any British, French or American birdman who is captured or killed inside the German lines. “All ready?” asked Tom of his helper. “Switch off, gas on,” was the answer. Tom made sure that the electrical switch was disconnected. If it was left on, in “contact” as it is called, and the mechanician turned the propeller blades, there might have been a sudden starting of the engine that would have instantly kill the man. But with the switch off there could be no ignition in the cylinders. Slowly the man turned the big blades until each cylinder was sucked full of the explosive mixture of gasoline and air. “Contact!” he cried, and Tom threw over the switch. Then, stepping once more up to the propeller, the man gave it a pull, and quickly released it, jumping back out of harm's way. With a throbbing roar the engine awoke to life and the propeller spun around, a blur of indistinctness. The motor was working sweetly. Toni throttled down, assured himself that everything was working well, and then, with a wave of his hand toward Jack, began to taxi across the field, to head up into the wind. All aeroplanes are started this way—directly into the wind, to rise against it and not with it. On and on he went and then he began to climb into the air. With him climbed other birdmen who were to do patrol and contact work with him, the latter being the term used when the airship keeps in contact through signaling with infantry or artillery forces on the ground, directing their efforts against the enemy. Having seen Tom on his way, Jack turned to his own machine. As his chum had been, Jack was dressed warmly in fur garments, even to his helmet, which was fur lined. He had on two pairs of gloves and his eyes were protected with heavy goggles. For it is very cold in the upper regions, and the swift speed of the machine sends the wind cutting into one's face so that it is impossible to see from the eyes unless they are protected. Jack's machine was a two-seater, of a heavy and comparatively safe type—that is it was safe as long as it was not shot down by a Hun. Jack was to occupy the front seat and act as pilot, while Harris, the photographer he was to take up, sat behind him, with camera, map, pencil and paper ready at hand for the making of observations. On either side of the photographer's seat were six loaded drums of ammunition for the Lewis gun, for use against the ruthless Hun machines. Jack had a fixed Vicker machine weapon for his use. “Hope I get a chance to use 'em,” said Harris with a grin, as he climbed into his seat, patted the loaded drums, and nodded to Jack that he was ready. The same procedure was gone through as in the case of Tom. The man spun the propeller, and they were ready to set off. Accompanying them were two other reconnaissance planes, and four experienced fighting pilots, two of them “aces,” that is men who, alone, had each brought down five or more Hun planes. The big planes, used for obtaining news, pictures, and maps of the enemy's territory, are always accompanied by fighting planes, which look out for the attacking Germans, while the other, and less speedy, craft carry the men who are to bring back vital information. “Let her go!” exclaimed Harris to Jack, and the latter nodded to the mechanician, who, after the order of “contact,” spun the blades again and they were really off, together with the others. Up and up went Jack, sending his machine aloft in big circles as the others were doing. Before him on a support was clamped a map, similar to the one supported in front of Harris, and by consulting this Jack knew, from the instructions he had received before going up, just what part of the enemy's territory he was to cover. He was under the direction of the photographer and map-maker, for the two duties were combined in this instance. Up and up they went. There was no talking, for though this is possible in an aeroplane when the engine is shut off, such was not now the case. But Jack knew his business. His indicator soon showed them to be up about fourteen thousand feet, and below them an artillery duel was in progress. It was a wonderful, but terrible sight. Immediately under them, and rather too near for comfort, shrapnel was bursting all around. The “Archies,” or anti-aircraft guns of the Germans, were trying to reach the French planes, and, in addition to the bullets, “woolly bears” and “flaming onions” were sent up toward them. These are two types of bursting shells, the first so named because when it explodes it does so with a cloud of black smoke and a flaming center. I have never been able to learn how the “onions” got their name, unless it is from the stench let loose by the exploding gases. Though they were fired at viciously, neither Jack nor his companion was hit, and they continued on their way, keeping at a good height, as did their associates, until they were well over the front German lines. Jack noticed that some of the other planes were dropping lower, to give their observers a chance to do their work, and, in response to a shove in his back from the powerful field glasses carried by Harris, Jack sent his machine down to about the nine-thousand-foot level. By a glance at the map he could see that they were now over the territory concerning which a report was wanted. They were now under a heavy fire from the German anti-aircraft guns, but Jack was too old a hand to let this needlessly worry him. He sent his machine slipping from side to side, holding it on a level keel now and then, to enable Harris to get the photographs he wanted. In addition, the observer was also making a hasty, rough, but serviceable map of what he saw. Jack glanced down, and noted a German supply train puffing its way along toward some depot, and he headed toward this to give Harris a chance to note whether there were any supplies of ammunition, or anything else, that might profitably be bombed later. He also saw several columns of German infantry on the march, but as they were not out to make an attack now, they had to watch the Huns moving up to the front line trenches, there later, doubtless, to give battle. Back and forth over the German lines flew Jack, Harris meanwhile doing important observation work. As Jack went lower he came under a fiercer fire of the batteries, until, it became so hot, from the shrapnel bursts, that he fain would have turned and made for home. But orders were orders, and Harris had not yet indicated that he had enough. Twisting and turning, to make as poor a mark as possible for the enemy guns, Jack sent his machine here and there. The other pilots were doing the same. Machine guns were now opening up on them, and once the burst of fire came so close that Jack began to “zoom.” That is he sent his craft up and down sharply, like the curves and bumps in a roller-coaster railway track. By this time the leading plane gave the signal for the return, and, thankful enough that they had not been hit, Jack swung about. But the danger was not over. They had yet to pass across the enemy's front line trenches, and when Harris signaled Jack to go down low in crossing the lad wondered what the order was for. It was merely that the observer wanted to see what was going on there so he could report. They went down to within a mile of the earth, and several times the plane was struck by pieces of shrapnel or bullets from machine guns. Twice flying bits of metal came uncomfortably close to Jack, but he was kept too busy with the management of his machine to more than notice them. Harris was working hard at the camera and the maps. Then, suddenly, came the danger signal from the leading plane, and only just in time. Out from the German hangars came several battle machines. Harris dropped his pencil and got ready the automatic gun, but it was not needed, for, after approaching as though about to attack, the Huns suddenly veered off. Later the reason for this became known. A squadron of French planes had arisen as swiftly to give battle, and however brave the Hun may be when he outnumbers the enemy, he had yet to be known to take on a combat against odds. So Jack and his observer safely reached the aerodrome again, bringing back much valuable information. “Is Tom here yet?” was Jack's first inquiry after he had divested himself of his togs and men had rushed to the developing room the camera with its precious plates. “Not yet,” some of his chums told him. “They're having a fight upstairs I guess.” Jack nodded and looked anxiously in the direction in which Tom was last seen. It was an hour before the scouting airplanes came back, and one was so badly shot up and its pilot so wounded that it only just managed to get over the French lines before almost crashing to earth. “Are you all right, Tom?” cried Jack, as he rushed up to his chum, when he saw the latter getting out of his craft, rather stiff from the cold. “Yes. They went at me hard—two of 'em but I think I accounted for one, unless he went into a spinning nose dive just to fool me.” “Oh, they'll do that if they get the chance.” “I know,” assented Tom. “Hello!” he exclaimed as he noticed a splintered strut near his head. “That came rather close.” And indeed it had. For a bullet, or a piece of shrapnel, has plowed a furrow in the bit of supporting wood, not two inches away from Tom's head, though in the excitement of the fight he had not noticed it. There had been a fight in the upper air and one of the French machines had not come home. “Another man to await news of,” said the flight lieutenant sadly, when the report reached him. “That's two in two days.” “No news of Leroy yet?” asked Tom and Jack, as they went out of headquarters after reporting. “None, I am sorry to say. It is barely possible that he landed in some lonely spot and is still hiding out—if he is not killed. But I understand you two young men had something to request of me. I can give you some attention now,” went on the commander of their squadron. “We want to be transferred!” exclaimed Tom. “Now, that Pershing's men are here—” “I understand,” was the answer. “You want to fight with your countrymen. Well, I would do the same. I will see if I can get you transferred, though I shall much regret losing you.” He was as good as his word, and a week later, following some strenuous fights in the air, Tom and Jack received notice that they could report to the first United States air squadron, which was then being formed on that part of the front where the first of Pershing's men were brigaded with, the French and British armies. Du Boise, who had brought word back of the fate that had befallen Harry Leroy, sent for Tom and Jack when it became known that they were to leave. “Shall I ever see you again?” he asked wistfully. “To be sure,” was Tom's hearty answer. “We aren't going far away, and we'll fly over to see you the first chance we get. Besides, we're going to depend on you to give us some information regarding Leroy. If the Huns drop any message at all they'll do it at this aerodrome.” “Yes, I believe you're right,” assented Du Boise, trying not to show the pain that racked him. “But it's so long, now, I begin to believe he must be dead, and either the Huns don't know it or they aren't going to bother to send us word. But I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything.” “Is his sister here yet?” asked Jack, for Tom and he had been too busy the last two days, getting ready to shift their quarters, to call on Nellie Leroy. “She has gone back to Paris,” answered Du Boise. “There was no place for her here. I can give you her address. I promised to let her know in case I got word about her brother.” “I wish you would give me the address!” exclaimed Tom eagerly, and his chum smiled at his show of interest. CHAPTER V. THE RESOLVE “Well, to-morrow, if all goes well, we'll be with Pershing's boys,” remarked Jack, as he and Tom were sitting in their quarters after breakfast, the last day but one they were to spend in the Lafayette Escadrille with which they had so long been associated. “That's so. We'll soon be on the firing line with Uncle Sam,” agreed Tom. “Of course we've been with him, in a way, ever since we've been fighting, for it's all in the same cause. But there'll be a little more satisfaction in being 'on our own,' as the E...