Books: Our Pilots in the Air
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Captain William B. Perry >> Our Pilots in the Air
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11 Prepared by Sean Pobuda
OUR PILOTS IN THE AIR
BY CAPTAIN WILLIAM B. PERRY
CHAPTER I
A BOMBING AIR RAID
The scene in the valley was striking in one respect. Low ranges of
gently sloping hills had widened out, enclosing broad levels with what
in America would be termed a creek but was here poetically named a
river. By here I mean eastern France, not so many miles from
No-Man's-Land. The "striking" feature was the "Flying Camp" spread out
over a dead level of much trampled greensward, enclosed by high board
walls, irregularly oval in shape, with a large clump of trees in the
center and a multiplicity of large, small, mostly queer-shaped
buildings scattered about.
There were a few wide roadways, with smaller avenues intersecting them,
and larger open spaces, bordered by hangars, at either end of the oval.
On a bulletin board in one of these open spaces a placard was tacked,
at which several young men in khaki and wearing the aviator cap were
gazing, commenting humorously or otherwise. All that this plainly open
placard published, apparently for all eyes to see, was as follows:
"Members of Bombing Squadron No. - will be on the qui vive at 7 p.m.
tonight. Specific orders will be issued to each at that time."
Not much in that, an outsider might think. But wait! Listen!
"Say, Orry," remarked an athletic youth, throwing an arm casually over
the shoulder of a smaller companion beside him and tweaking the other's
ear, "does this mean that you and me go up together in that crazy old
biplane they foisted on us before?"
"How should I know?" replied the smaller lad, a nervous, sprightly
youngster, dark-eyed, curly-headed, thin-faced. "Did she get your
nerve last time?"
"Not by a long shot! But when we made that last dive to get away from
Fritzy in his Fokker, I noticed your hands on the crank were shaking.
Say, if that Tommy in the monoplane hadn't helped us, where'd we been?"
"Right here, you goose! We'd have got out somehow, but it was squally
for about five minutes."
The two strolled off together as others, also in khaki but with
different fittings or insignia, gathered about to read, comment and
then turn their several ways.
"We are in that bombing squad all right, I guess remarked Lafe Blaine,
the athletic youngster. "But I am tired of this everlasting bombing
that goes on, mostly by night. We're chums, Orry; we work together all
right. There is no one in this camp can handle a fighting machine
better than I; nor do I want a better, truer backer at the Lewis than
you."
The Lewis gun was the one then most in use at this aerodrome station,
which was somewhere on that section near where the British and French
sectors meet.
"You always were a bully boy, Lafe, in spite of your two big handles.
Say, how'd they come to call you Lafayette when you already had such a
whopper of a surname?"
"Oh, dry up, Orry! Those names often make me tired. I'm only an
ordinary chap, but with those names every noodle thinks I ought to be
something real big. Catch on?"
Orris Erwin nodded and pinched the other's massive fore-arm, as he
replied:
"So you are big! Bet you weigh one-eighty if you weigh a pound."
But Lafe was thinking. Finally he announced decidedly:
"I'm going to get after our Sergeant this afternoon. If he knows
what's what, he'll let you and me take out that neat little Bleriot.
We'll do our share of bombing of course; but if the Boches come up
after us, we can do something else besides run for home -- eh?"
Erwin shook his head dubiously as he replied:
"I doubt if he gives us the Bleriot. It's French, you know. We're
practicing with the Tommies. He likes the way you handle things, but I
fear he don't build much on me."
Lafe, of course, disclaimed any superiority, but Orris felt that way.
Later, when mid-day chow was over, Lafe found his way to where the
squadron commander was checking off the different machines and
assigning to each the various occupants. All this on a pad, in one of
the hangars, with no one else near, as the Sergeant thought. In Hangar
Four were two Bleriots all in trim order. The Sergeant stared at one
of them, grumbling to himself.
"What will I do here?" he reflected, half aloud, though unconscious of
his words. "I forgot that Cheval's arm is giving him trouble.
Confound him! He's too risky. Won't do to leave one of these behind.
Hm-m-m! Who else --"
"Your pardon, Sergeant!" A tall, athletic young American was beside
him, standing respectfully attention. "Why not take me? Give me a
chance!"
So dominating, yet so deferential was Blaine's attitude and manner that
Sergeant Anson for the minute said nothing, but he stared at the lad.
"I was with Monsieur Cheval, Sir, the night he got hurt, and I brought
the machine home, under his direction of course. You ask him if I am
not competent to handle that Bleriot. I'd much rather be in it than in
the big biplane I used last time."
"But - but -- you're too young, too inexperienced, too - too --"
"Now, Sir, please ask Cheval! You know what his judgment is. If I am
to have an observer, let Cheval go. He can sit, and - and observe --"
"Dash your bally impertinence!" Anson was putting up a tremendous
bluff. He knew it, and he knew that Blaine probably knew it, but "What
do you know about Bleriots, anyway?" he asked.
In five minutes by enticing talk and really export fingering of the
various parts of the admirable mechanism, Blaine half convinced his
superior. More, for by adroit manipulation of a certain lock, with
wrench and a pair of tweezers, he readjusted a certain valve hinge in
the petrol tank which he had heard Monsieur Cheval grumbling about
before. This he did with such dexterous rapidity and ease that Anson
expressed approval, adding:
"Where did you pick up so much mechanical knowledge, Blaine?"
"At Mineola, in the States. They kept every applicant in the shops --
some of them for weeks, others permanently."
"How happened it they didn't keep you there?" Anson was grinning now.
"Well, Sir, I wanted to learn to fly -- high. That's what I went into
aviation for. Before that I worked for the Wrights at Dayton. Well,
when I tried flying, it happened there was a prize offered for flying
to Manhattan and back, going round the Liberty Statue. I got hold of
an old Curtis machine and somehow I came back second in the race. But
--" here Blaine grinned at his own recollection, "but I pretty near
busted up that old Curtis! After that they kept me flying until I
finally came over here."
The Sergeant frowned then smiled and jotted something down on his pad.
"Go and see Monsieur Cheval. If he is not well enough to go with you
-- well, have you anyone else in view?"
"Yes, sir. My partner, who has gone with me on several raids. He's
all right --"
"If you were disabled or killed, could he bring this machine back?"
"Yes, sir. He is as good as I am. Cool as a cucumber, but he -- he's
rather modest. In fact, if I don't get Cheval, I must have him, with
your permission of course."
"Or without it, eh?" Anson again smiled, this time genially. "Well,
well! Do what I have said. If you have to do without Cheval, bring
that youngster who is so modest to me. I will judge." And the
Sergeant turned off, resuming his penciling and further wandering as if
Blaine were not there.
Half an hour later Lafe stood by the cot where a shallow-faced,
trim-mustached man lay groaning discontentedly. At sight of the young
American he raised up to a sitting position, disclosing his right arm
and wrist still in splints and bandages. Moreover the pains of moving
himself made him groan and ejaculate after the mercurial manner or the
Frenchman unused to lying still and eager always to be up and doing.
"Ah, it ees mon comrade Blaine! Ver welcome -- mooch so! Wish mooch
you speak ze language, ze French."
Monsieur Cheval, really a noted aviator, had chummed much with the
American contingent and had been in the States once, though only for a
short time. But he had learned "ze language" -- after a fashion. When
Blaine briefly explained what he wanted and what the squadron commander
had said, Cheval lay back with a deep sigh, saying:
"Merci, comrade!" Here he chuckled. "I like to go: I want to go! But
I no use to you now. Not at all! I no use to myself. Voila! I got
well queek; better so here; not over yon in No-Man's-Land. But you be
sure bring my enfant back safe, my Bleriot -- Ah! A great baby is my
Bleriot!"
Blaine promised to do his best. His pal and comrade, Orris Erwin, was
also good, safe -- in short, reliable.
"Never fear, Monsieur Cheval! Unless they get us up yonder," pointing
vaguely upward into the sky, "we will fetch her back all right. Good
luck! Try to be out as soon as you can. We miss you on these little
trips after Fritzy."
An hour later Blaine, accompanied by Erwin, stood before Sergeant Anson
in the latter's cubbyhole of an office, while a stream of khaki-clad
young men filed in one by one. Anson waved them aside until the others
had left, then turned to Blaine.
"I saw Cheval myself," said the Sergeant grimly. "He wanted to go but
it will be a week before he can use that arm, aside from other
injuries. I spoke to Captain Byers about you. He was reluctant, but
owing to the newness of so many of you Yankee airmen, he was unable to
make suggestions. Only this- you two must be careful, cautious --"
"Not too cautious, I hope, sir!" came promptly from Blaine, while Orris
smiled behind his sleeve. "A pilot has to risk things, you know."
"Don't interrupt!" Anson ordered sharply, though his eyes twinkled.
"You know what I mean. Can you bring the plane back, Erwin, if
anything happens to Blaine?"
"Yes, sir, I think so. I've often flown before, alone --"
"Under fire?" This sharp reply from the Sergeant.
"I was in the last raid after Vimy Ridge, Sir. Brenzer, the pilot, was
killed. I managed to get back to our lines."
"You been over some time?"
"Yes, Sir. Only part of the time I was stationed at Aldershot, as
assistant trainer for a bunch of raw rookies from our side."
One long look at both Anson gave, then turned away with:
"You'll do. Both of you be on hand for chow at regular time. Then
await instructions." He waved them off.
CHAPTER II
THE WHIR OF WINGS
Shortly after a bugle call the following order was posted in the
general mess hall for all concerned to read.
"Members of Bombing Squadron No. - will carry out the following order.
10 a.m., 12 midnight, 2 a.m. are the respective times to start. At
each time three machines, each carrying eight 25 pound bombs, will bomb
respectively R-----, C------, L------. Secrecy is imperative. Each
member of the three squads thus assigned will be ready at Hangars No.
-, No. -, No. - at times mentioned above."
Meantime each aviator, with his observer, had been privately notified
by the Sergeant in person. This was an every-day operation order and
was taken as a matter of course. These night raids are mostly for the
purpose of keeping the Boche busy and nervous after hard days and
nights in the front trenches, thus supposedly lowering his morale.
Usually the points thus selected are the shell-torn villages back of
the front, where Fritz has been sent for a brief period of rest before
being sent to the front again. About the time he lies down in the
half-ruined house that is his billet, and dreams of home and conquering
peace, a bomb falls inside. The walls are further shattered, some of
his comrades killed or maimed, he perhaps among them. Other bombs
fall, heavy explosions result, and Fritz finds that his night's rest is
lost in general turmoil. This continues night after night and the
damage to German morale is enormous.
From the point of view of the air-service, things are different. These
night raids are a matter of course with the pilots. It is part of the
regular work.
When Blaine and Erwin climbed into the Bleriot, bombs already stowed,
and it was wheeled out in front of the hangar, everything was very
quiet. A minute later they were climbing up into the inky darkness at
the appointed signal, the only noises being the whirrings of their own
and two other two machines appointed for the two A. M. hour.
Watching for the signal of the leader of the squad, at the right time
they headed for the further front.
Over the trenches star-shells from the infantry could be seen. Under
direction they headed over No-Man's-Land, keeping at sufficient
altitude, hugging the darkness, avoiding glints of light, dodging
occasional searchlights, and all practically without a word spoken.
"You've been out here before, Lafe"' said Orris at last. "How much
further are we going?"
"Be there in two minutes. Keep easy! I'm going lower. Get your bombs
ready."
Silently Erwin obeyed. Below lay blackness, relieved at one point by a
few dots of light that marked the ruins of the hamlet on which they
were to let loose the bombs. So far no sign of life in the air or
below appeared.
The three machines in this detachment had scattered in order to
distribute their supply of bombs at a given signal from the leader. In
this night raid an escorting fleet that usually accompanied the daytime
raids was omitted. There was little need.
"Now!" cautioned Blaine to Orris and the latter began to drop his first
sheaf, a rather heavy one as the bombs weighed twenty-five pounds each.
Others were at work also and the village below, already in half ruins,
began to detonate with sharp explosions, lurid flashings and an uproar
of human cries. It was evident that the raiders had struck the right
spot.
For some minutes the work went on, Blaine swooping still lower, until
glimpses of hurried scurryings of the soldiers thus rudely disturbed
were mingled with the larger glares from the continuous explosions.
Orris Erwin, through though smaller and slighter physically, worked
away until the last sheaf was exhausted.
Then, and only then, the scene below was illuminated by the flash and
roar of hostile artillery. A shell exploded with a deafening report so
near their Bleriot that it was evident that the firer had sighted them
during Lafe's last lower swoop.
On the instant Blaine pressed a trigger, elevating the sharp nose of
the machine. As the deflected planes responded to sundry manipulations
at certain levers and they began to climb spirally into the upper air,
the powerful engines, exerting greater strength, shot them rapidly
upward where height and obscurity lessened the danger of further shots.
"Well, Archie came near getting us then, eh?" This from Lafe.
Receiving no answer, he glanced aside. What was his dismay to see
Erwin's slender figure drooping nervelessly, his head sinking, and the
emptied sheaf of bombs sprawling neglected in his lap!
"You're hit, Orry? For God's sake buck up! I've still got to climb or
they'll get us yet."
Clamping his knee round the wheel, he managed with one hand to pull
Orris forward and sideways, so that the boy's curly head, now capless,
lay against his thigh. With one arm half around and upon that
senseless head, holding the slight frame from slipping, he still
manipulated the alert Bleriot, that responded instantly to each human
spur with a mobility that was almost life-like.
The two other machines had vanished in the darkness, doubtless cleaving
the higher air strata in a backward flight to the home aerodrome, which
was now the goal of all. Meantime searchlights were flashing here,
there, yonder through the inky sky. The swift reports of anti-aircraft
guns split the night's silence in a most disconcerting manner. Erwin
groaned and twisted his body.
"Stay still, Orry! We must 'a' been the last to quit, and they're
making things hot back westward."
Here a blinding gleam of light flashed athwart his eyes and , letting
go of Erwin, he darted aside suddenly on a differing course. Erwin's
body crumpled into a heap. A heavier man might have toppled over the
edge, perhaps hanging helplessly at peril of falling out, unless held
by the straps which many old aviators neglect. As it was, the
nerveless lad was held by the high rim of the opening that fenced them
both in. For the moment the boy was safe.
Giving his whole attention to the machine, Blaine zigzagged and dodged,
mounting ever and ever higher. Yet his trend was unavoidably towards
the east, further within the enemy lines.
"For the present I've got to go this way," he thought. "I hope Lex and
Milt got away west before those 'cussed Archies broke loose. We'll
have to stay quiet until this ruction below settles down." Lex and
Milt were the pilots of the two remaining machines of this, the third
and last section of the bombing squadron of that night.
"Orry! Oh, Orry! Wakeup! Aren't you all right yet?"
These and other adjurations Blaine would make from time to time. A
chill came over him more than once as he wondered if Erwin would not
recover. Once only as Lafe moved his own leg, pressing it unduly hard
against the other, Erwin gave another groan.
A whir as of wings sounded in his rear, and Blaine became aware of
shadowy movements through the faintly growing light in the east.
Undoubtedly it must be a hostile machine. He had been spotted as he
flew eastward. In addition to the now waning fire from the Archies,
planes were now out after him. Divining this, Blaine wheeled, put on
more power and flow towards the northwest, the German keeping after him
at increasing speed. As the light increased the clinging shadow in the
east grew more plain. Whoever it was, the pursuer was determined not
to be shaken off. Soon he would begin firing.
At this junction Erwin gave Blaine's leg an undeniable kick. He was
at last reviving. The pilot leaned towards his bunkie.
"Say, Orry, are you coming to at last?"
Another kick, evidently part of a struggle by Orris to right himself.
Blaine saw the German making the first spiral upward, in an effort to
attain a position suitable for using the machine gun. Blaine therefore
zigzagged more to westward, thereby throwing the reviving Erwin into an
easier position. At this an easier position. At this Blaine was
pleased to see his friend look wonderingly at him and the bowed head
slightly raise itself.
"Lay still right where you are, Orry," murmured Lafe. "There's a Boche
after us. We've got out of Archie's range, but I've one of their
planes on our heels. Whist! Git down lower! He's going to fire. If
he does, I - I'll crumple up. We'll land and - and -"
Further talk ceased as the simultaneous rattle and spatter of opposing
machine guns made talk impracticable. Blaine was below, the Boche
above, each whirling, diving, spiraling as dexterous pilots do in such
conflict.
True to his promise amid the first exchange of shots, watching both
Erwin's recovery and the German, now closer than ever, Blaine concealed
himself.
And now, seeing that Orris was quite revived, and following Blaine's
counsel, they presented to the German only a collapsed form, half
leaning as if hit again. Blaine, almost out of sight, steered
groundward.
"Are you strong enough now to take my place?"
"I -- I think so," returned the still reviving Erwin. "What you going
to do -- land?"
At this juncture the machine hit the ground in a decreasing glide,
while Blaine, half rising, pitched forward as if dead.
"Take the machine, Orry," Blaine had said. "I'm dead; you're wounded."
Knowing that Blaine had his plans laid, Erwin followed. Then the Boche,
feeling pretty good over the idea that he had captured an enemy machine
with two men in it, also alighted from his own a few rods distant. To
his view there appeared one man dead and another wounded.
Covering Erwin with his revolver as he sat leaning back ghastly and
still bleeding from the shrapnel that had at first struck him down, the
German eyed his apparently helpless victims.
"Get oudt!" he snapped in rather poor English to Erwin.
The latter started to obey, still covered by the pistol at his head.
Suddenly Blaine, who had tumbled to the ground at the first landing,
now sat up, his own revolver pointed straight at the German.
"Throw down that gun!" he announced in clear, steady tones. "Quick!
No nonsense, Fritz!"
One brief stare. Then, realizing that he had been outgeneraled, he
sullenly obeyed. To his further amazement, Erwin, now quite recovered,
rose up, got out, and though weak tied the Boche hard and fast under
Blaine's direction.
"Now, Orry," said Lafe, looking his comrade over carefully, "are you
right enough to take our machine back?"
"Bet your sweet life I am!" Orry's face was still pale, while blood
was coagulated in his curly short hair. "I'm all right, Lafe. What
are we going to do?"
"We'll put this chap in his own machine, and I'll take it and him back."
"You mean provided Fritzy lets us get through safe."
"Und zat ve wond do! Forshtay?" This from the now sullen German
standing by bound hand and foot, yet mentally antagonistic still.
"Don't you worry, bo," said Blaine, coolly picking up the man, a follow
of no small weight, and lifting, him into his own machine, a big Taube
of many horse-power. "That is, if you've got petrol enough."
This was assured beyond doubt by subsequent examination. The German
safely stowed, Erwin and Blaine made a hurried yet accurate inspection
of both planes, and Orris at once started westward. Blaine was about
to follow when horse hoofs were heard beyond a hedge not far away. The
German's eyes flashed. He divined a forcible rescue. He began to
yell, but with a swift move Blaine gagged him with his own bandanna
'kerchief.
The German struggled but Blaine had tied him also to the posts
supporting the hollow chamber wherein pilot and observer sat, and now
springing in himself, he started off.
Right then the heads of a column of cavalry debouched in the field.
The roar of roar of the Taube filled the air and in an instant they saw
what was happening. By this time Orris was well up in the air and
still spiraling higher. The Taube, with which Blaine was already
partly familiar through prior captured machines among the Allies, was
making its first upward curve, when a thought came to Blaine. A ruse!
The German lay still helpless, bound and gagged. Though struggling
with his bonds, his eyes were spitting anger.
In its case, with pulley attached, was a small flag of one of the
larger German aerial squadrons. Blaine plucked it forth, jerked the
pulley cord, and there unrolled before all eyes the Imperial eagle,
with certain other designs, all on a black background, and with a
death's head in white at each corner. It was two or three feet square,
and as it floated from one of the poles sustaining the biplanes, no one
in the clear morning light could mistake its meaning.
Blaine himself was not sure as to the flag. But it really was the one
used only by a certain squadron especially endorsed and. supported by
the Kaiser and the Royal House of Hohenzollern and of which the Crown
Prince was the special patron. By the time Blaine was above the
treetops, some twenty or thirty horsemen had debouched into the sheep
pasture where these happenings took place. They were lancers and,
mistaking the real nature of this maneuver, every lance was depressed
in salute and a horse shout rose up that sounded much like a series of
Hochs with Kaiser at the end.
"Holy smoke!" said Blaine, getting the machine gun in shooting trim
with one hand while manipulating the controls with the other. "Say,
Fritzy," to the snarling German at his feet, who fairly writhed
at his bounds and gag, "your folks think I'm off after those English or
Yankee schwein! Savy?"
But here a sudden change came over the scene.
CHAPTER III
FIGHTING BOTH ENEMY AND ELEMENTS
The Bleriot which Erwin was now piloting, though far in the upper air,
was seen to be whirling round and returning, apparently to Blaine's
rescue.
Evidently Orris had also seen the irruption of lancers and had no
intention of deserting his comrade and friend while in possible peril.
To intensify the strain he began to spray the Germans below with the
remaining sheaf of bullets in the magazine of the machine gun.
Seeing no further need of camouflage on the part of the Americans,
Blaine, with one foot crushing down the German, who was now attempting
to rise despite his bonds, whirled the German machine gun round upon
the now suspicious lancers below.
These were unslinging their carbines. Blaine anticipated them with a
spatter of bullets from their own weapon. At this bedlam broke loose
below.
While Erwin had done little or no damage, probably owing to distance,
Blaine's discharge was pointblank and deadly.
Meantime in some way the German managed to loosen one arm. Recklessly
he seized hold of one the controls, wrenching it violently.
"You will, will you?" exclaimed the American, "We must get away from
here at any rate!"
Releasing both hands, he seized the German by the throat, pinning him
against the rim of the hole that held both, and with his feet on the
accelerator rose rapidly upward. By this time bullets were spitting
round them, one of which seared the German's bare scalp deeply.
Uttering a curious groan, the fellow sank back and Blaine released his
throat.
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