Читать книгу Tom Slade with the Flying Corps - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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Tells how I chanced to learn something of Slade’s career and of the circumstance which was destined to send me out of France.

My own adventures as a correspondent on the west front would seem tame enough in comparison with the exploits which I purpose to relate, and I will not weary you with a rehearsal of my experiences and observations, especially since the account of these has appeared from day to day in two of our American newspapers.

I am afraid that amid the roar of battle and with the continual sight of death and bloodshed all about me I gave little thought to the young fellow from my home town in far-off America who had given his life for the great cause. What had seemed glorious and heroic in Bridgeboro was divested of much of its dramatic and noble quality by the sights which I beheld each day. I was present when Arliss, that daring young ace, fell to his death, and I knew, or at least I thought at the time, that no career could have been more adventurous than his and no death so splendid.

I did not, however, forget to make inquiries in responsible quarters about the death of Tom Slade and being for a time in the neighborhood of his final exploit, I was able to gather a few details which amplified and unquestionably confirmed the accounts of his career and death as published in America.

It was not until long afterward that I learned from a very responsible source how Slade had got into the Flying Corps, a matter which interested me greatly, since the last his friends in America had heard of him before the news of his death came, he had been in the Motorcycle Service. This and much other astonishing information I received during my journey in the Alps of which you shall hear the true account. I say true account because it has been published in connection with that frightful journey that I assisted a deserter, a report which has not one word of truth in it.

I purpose, as well as I may, to recount this whole extraordinary business exactly as it unfolded itself to me, rather than to attempt a consecutively ordered narrative; and whatever it may lose in the way of skilfull story-writing, it will at least have the solid advantage of being the plain truth, plainly told. I am quite certain that no one except myself is in a position to tell of this journey and I am equally certain that I would rather die tomorrow than go through again the unspeakable horrors which I experienced.

So much for myself, and I will pick out of all this jumble of amazing happenings with their tragic climax, the episode of my stay in the hospital near Epernay as being a convenient and appropriate starting-point for my tale.

This hospital, as it turned out, was the one where Tom had spent upwards of a month recovering (according to the American newspapers) from a “slight wound.” The “slight wound,” as I learned, had all but killed him. A cruel wound in the head it was, received in an exploit which was only less extraordinary than the one which shortly afterward put an end to his career.

I mean to tell you of this incident as I learned it from the surgeons and nurses, and also of one or two still earlier adventures of the young flyer which I heard of while I was under treatment.

But first I must tell you of an experience of my own which put me in the way of learning these things and laid the foundation, as I might say, for my learning other things.

I was gassed. I have read various accounts of how people act and feel when they are gassed and I have seen an actor in the movies demonstrate these agonies by many graceful contortions, but the only thing that I can remember about the actual occurrence was that my head felt just as one’s foot feels when it is “asleep.” I remember trying to shake my head, just as one shakes his foot.

I suppose I was not gassed very badly or I would not be here now. In the days of my suffering I was told that I had only myself to blame which, of course, was a great consolation to me. I do not know what became of my mask, but I still have my fountain pen and I should like to show it to you. The silver filigree work which covers it is changed to a rich green color, making the whole thing very beautiful and altogether unique. Fritzie did this with his abominable gas. I do not know what kind of gas it was, but I treasure my pen as being a sample of clever artcraft work, made by the Germans—though not made in Germany.