Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium - Horace Porter - Страница 12

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Our Aviator Boys had not for a long time been accustomed to use their legs as vigorously and so continuously as required to make an endurance record on a bicycle. They had no great use for legs when flying. But they were light-hearted, and had been well fed, had enough in their knapsacks to stave off hunger for several days, and, barring the fact that Henri was still nursing a sore shoulder, ready to meet the best or the worst. Billy carried a compass, also a mind full of directions from Marie, and firmly believed that he could not miss the good old town in the fertile meadow on the little river Mander. At least Henri and himself could live or die trying.

They had already observed indications that, even with the strenuous call to the colors of the Belgian men, the little kingdom was thickly populated, and about every square inch of farm land was under close cultivation.

“Suppose people lived this close together in Texas,” remarked Billy, as they pedaled along; “why, a man as tall across the front as Colonel McCready wouldn’t have room enough to turn around.”

“Yes, and from what we have heard of the war crowd working this way we’ll have to have more room than this to keep from running into them.” Henri was not in the same mood that he was when he found the aëroplane tanks empty.

“Nothing like a scare-mark so far,” was Billy’s comment. “I have seen only women in the fields.”

“Even the dogs have work to do here.”

Henri went on to explain that the small farmers, as a rule, cannot afford to keep horses, and just now could not keep them if they had them.

The boys had been fortunate in their first day’s travel as cyclists, in that they had not even fallen in with the stragglers of the contending armies reported in terrible conflict inside the Dixmude-Nieuport line.

In the afternoon of the second day, however, they took the wrong road, one leading to Bixchoote.

In the distance they heard heavy and continuous artillery fire, and decided to turn back. “Out of the frying-pan into what next?” as Billy put it, when they found the woods north of Ypres were aflame with bursting shells. Fighting in front and fighting in the rear.

“The sides are still open,” declared Henri, “even if both ends are plugged.”

“But which side shall it be?” asked Billy.

The situation was one of great peril to the boys.

To get a better idea of the lay of the land, they rolled their bicycles into the woods alongside the road and climbed into the low hanging branches of a huge tree, then ascended to the very top of this monarch of the forest.

From their lofty perch they could see quite a distance in all directions, but they had no eyes for any part of the panorama after the first glance to the south. The firing line stretched out before their vision, presenting an awe-inspiring scene.

The shell fire from the German batteries was so terrific that Belgian soldiers and French marines were continually being blown out of their dugouts and sent scattering to cover. The distant town was invisible except for flames and smoke clouds rising above it.

The tide of battle streamed nearer to the wood where the boys had taken shelter. From their high point of vantage they were soon forced to witness one of the most horrible sights imaginable.

A heavy howitzer shell fell and burst in the midst of a Belgian battery, which was making its way to the front, causing awful destruction—mangled men and horses going down in heaps.

Henri was in a chill of horror, and Billy so shaken that it was with difficulty that they resisted a wild desire to jump into space—anything to shut out the appalling picture.

The next instant they were staring down upon a hand-to-hand conflict in the woods, within two hundred yards of the tree in which they were perched. British and Germans were engaged in a bayonet duel, in which the former force triumphed, leaving the ground literally covered with German wounded and dead, hardly a man in gray escaping the massacre.

“I can see nothing but red!” Henri was shaking like a leaf.

Billy gave his chum a sharp tap on the cheek with the palm of his hand, hoping thus to divert Henri’s mind and restore his courage.

Billy himself had about all he could do to keep his teeth together, but, by the unselfish devotion he gave to his comrade, he overcame his fear.

“Come, Buddy,” he pleaded; “take a brace! Easy, now; there’s a way to get out of this, I know there is. Put your foot here; your hand there; steady; we’ll be off in a minute.”

By the time the boys had descended to the lower branches of the tree, Henri was once more on “even keel,” in the language of the aviator.

A long limb of the tree extended out over the road. On this the boys wormed their way to the very tip, intending to drop into the highway, recover their bicycles, and make a dash for safety across the country to the west, following the well defined trail worn smooth by the passage of ammunition wagons.

As they clung to the limb, intently listening and alert for any movement that would indicate a returning tide of battle in the immediate neighborhood, a riderless horse, a magnificent coal-black animal, carrying full cavalry equipment, came galloping down the road, urged to ever increasing speed by the whipping against its flanks of swinging holsters.

“Here’s the one chance in the world!”

Billy swung himself around and leaned forward like a trapeze performer in a circus, preparing for a high dive into a net.

The horse’s high-flung head just grazed the leaves of the big branch, bent down under the weight of the boys.

Billy dropped astride of the racing charger, saved from a heavy fall in the road by getting a quick neck hold, seized the loose bridle reins with convulsive grip and brought the foam-flecked animal to a standstill within fifty yards. This boy had tamed more than one frisky broncho down in Texas, U. S. A., and for a horse wearing the kind of a curb bit in his mouth that this one did, Billy had a sure brake-setting pull.

Henri made a cat-fall into the dusty road and right speedily got the hand-up from his mounted comrade.

Off they went on the trail to the open west, with clatter of hoofs, and the wind blowing free in the set, white faces of the gallant riders.