Читать книгу Our Young Aeroplane Scouts in France and Belgium - Horace Porter - Страница 9

Table of Contents

When the boys made the startling discovery that the sea-plane had disappeared and that they were alone on the strange coast, they plumped down on the sand without a single idea in the world except that they were utterly tired out and weak from hunger.

They could not account in any way for the mysterious happening that had deprived them of their tried and true friends.

Not for a moment did they imagine that they had been deserted by intent. They knew full well that even in the face of great danger Captain Johnson and Josiah Freeman were not the kind of men who would fly away, without sign or signal, and leave a comrade in distress, let alone these boys for whom either of the men would have spilled his last drop of blood.

“The coast patrol nabbed them,” was the opinion of Billy.

“They were held up at the point of a bayonet, I’ll bet,” argued Henri, “for there is no sign of a struggle, and we would have heard it if there had been any shooting.”

“However it was,” figured Billy, “they never quit of their own accord; they would never have left us unless they had been hauled away by force. Now it is up to us to skirmish for ourselves, which, anyhow, I expected to do sooner or later. There’s no use staying here, for they will be coming after us next.”

Wearily the boys plodded through the slush, backtracking to the foot of the hill where they had left the aëroplane. The fading moon was lost behind a wall of slowly rising mist, and the dawn was breaking in the east when the boys finally stumbled upon the place that held their prize. Wholly exhausted, they threw themselves full length upon the ground and slept like logs.

The sun was broadly shining when Billy reached out a lazy arm to poke his chum, who was snuggled up in the grass and breathing like a porpoise.

“Get up and hear the birds sing,” yawned Billy.

“I’d a good sight rather hear a kettle or a coffee-pot sing,” yawned Henri.

“Right O,” agreed Billy.

The boys rolled over alongside of the aëroplane. A twin thought came to them that the late aviator surely must have carried something to eat with him.

It proved a glorious truth. There was a knapsack behind the driver’s seat and a canteen swinging under the upper plane.

“A meat pie!” Billy made the first find.

“Crackers and cheese!” Heard from Henri.

How good these rations tasted—even the lukewarm water in the canteen was like nectar. With new life the boys took up the problem presented by the next move.

Henri climbed into the aëroplane and very carefully inspected the delicate machinery, making free use of the oil can. Billy otherwise attended to the tuning of the craft, and everything was as right as a trivet in less than a half hour.

“Let me see”—Billy was thumbing a well-worn notebook—“as we fixed it on the steamer, Dunkirk was the starting place. But that storm entirely changed the route—a longer way round, I guess. No more Ostend for me, though I do wish I knew for sure whether or not they had Captain Johnson and Freeman locked up there. Let’s try for Bruges; that’s only a short distance from here, and we can follow the line of the canal so we won’t get lost.”

“And we can fly high,” suggested Henri, “high enough to keep from getting plugged.”

“I am not bothering so much about the ‘high’ part of it as I am about where we’ll land,” said Billy. “We may fall into a hornet’s nest.”

“Let’s make it Bruges, for luck,” suggested Henri.

“Here goes, then,” exclaimed Billy, getting into steering position, Henri playing passenger.

Off they skimmed on the second stage of their journey to the valley of the Meuse, in France.

They had entered the zone where five nations were at each other’s throats.

So swift was their travel that our Aviator Boys very soon looked down upon the famous old belfry of Bruges, the old gabled houses, with bright red tiled roofs, mirrored in the broad canal crossed by many stone bridges. That is what Bruges means, “bridges.” To the young airmen, what the town meant just now was a good dinner, if they did not have to trade their lives or their liberty for a chance to get it.

“Nothing doing here,” lamented Henri, who did the looking down while Billy looked ahead. “I see that there are too many gray-coats visiting in West Flanders. And I heard that the Belgians have not been giving ‘days at home’ since the army came. Now I see that it is true.”

“Having fun with yourself?” queried Billy, in the sharp tone necessary to make himself heard in a buzzing aircraft.

Henri ignored the question, snapping: “The book says it’s thirty-five miles from here to Ypres, straight; keep your eyes on the waterways, and you can’t miss it.”

“Another thing the book says,” snapped Billy, in response, “is that that old town is in a district as flat as a floor, and, if nothing else, we are sure of a landing.”

“I wish we were as sure of a dinner.” Henri never lost sight of the dinner question.

The flight was continued in silence. It was a strain to keep up conversation, and the boys quit talking to rest their throats. Besides, there was not a drop of water left in the canteen.

It was late afternoon when the boys saw Ypres beneath them. It was just about the time that the Allies were advancing in the region between Ypres and Roulers, the town where the best Flemish lace comes from. But the Allies had not yet reached Ypres.

Henri glimpsed the remains of some ancient fortifications, and urged Billy to make a landing right there.

“A good place to hide in case of emergency,” he advised.

Billy agreed, set the planes for a drop, and came down neatly in the open.

“We ought to be able to get a change of linen here, for that’s the big business in this town.” Henri was pretty well posted, for in his cradle he had slept on Ypres linen.

There was no work going on in the fertile fields around the town. The Belgian peasants thereabouts were either under arms or under cover.

“When King Louis set up these old ramparts he probably did not look forward to the day when they would provide a hangar for a flying-machine.” This from Billy, who was pushing the aëroplane to the shelter of a crumbling fortalice.

“If we had dropped in on the fourteenth century, as we did to-day,” observed Henri, “I’ll warrant that we would have scared everybody out of Flanders.”

“It doesn’t appear, as it is, that there is a person around here bold enough to approach us.”

Billy seemed surprised that they had not run into trouble at the very start.

“‘Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you,’” quoted Henri. “It goes something like that, I think.”

“Listen!” Billy raised a hand to warn Henri not to move nor speak aloud. The sound that had put Billy on the alert was a long, low whistle. It was repeated, now and again. Curious, and also impressed that the whistler was trying to attract their attention, they began a search among the ruins. Over the top of a huge slab of stone suddenly popped a red cap, covering a regular Tom Thumb among Belgians—about four feet from tow head to short boots.

Henri said “Howdy” to him in French, at the same time extending a friendly hand. The youngster, evidently about fifteen, shyly gave Henri two fingers in greeting. He bobbed his head to Billy. Then he removed his red cap and took out of it a soiled and crumpled slip of paper. On the slip, apparently torn from a notebook, was scribbled:

“This boy saw you fly in, told us how you looked, and, if it is you, this will let you know that the Germans brought us here for safe-keeping yesterday. Cap.”

“Glory be!” Billy could hardly contain himself, and the little Belgian took his first lesson in tangoing from an American instructor. “As soon as it is dark we will move on the outer works,” was his joyous declaration.

“Say, my young friend,” he added, “do you know where we can get a bite to eat while we’re waiting?” Henri translated, and the little Belgian was off like a shot. About dusk he returned with some bread and bologna, looped up in a fancy colored handkerchief. And there was plenty of water in the Yperlee river.

Along about 11 o’clock that night Leon, the little Belgian, whispered, “Venez” (Come).