Don Hale with the Flying Squadron, Page 4

  CHAPTER III--SPIES

  To reach the peaceful village of Etainville, which, more fortunate thanmany another in France, had never known the horror and tragedy of war,it was necessary to pass through several little patches of woods. Thatwalk with a number of his compatriots proved to be a very delightful oneto Don Hale. Nature, in the soft, greenish moonlight, which filtered inbetween the foliage and ran in straggling lines and patches on theunderbrush or fell in splotches on the trunks and branches, presented avery poetic--a very idyllic appearance. Here and there, amid the pinesand firs, gnarled, rugged oaks, ages old, reared their spreadingbranches against a cloudless sky. A fragrant, delightful odor, likeincense, nature's own, filled the air; and the gentle sighing of leavesand grasses swayed to and fro by a capricious breeze joined with theever constant chant of the insect world of the woods.

  Etainville possessed only one main street, a cobbled, winding highway,lined on either hand with picturesque and sometimes dilapidated houses.Near the centre of the village rose the ancient church, the tall andgraceful spire of which could be seen over the countryside for manymiles. The twentieth century is a busy and a bustling age. Progress,ever on the alert, fairly leaps ahead, but it seemed to have carefullyavoided Etainville in its rapid march.

  Of all its inhabitants, none was better known or liked than old PereGoubain, proprietor, as was his father and grandfather before him, ofthe Cafe Rochambeau. Pere Goubain was very fat--so fat, indeed, that hesat practically all day long in a big armchair. During the winter it wasgenerally in the main room of the cafe, before the big round stove nearthe centre; but the summer days generally found him comfortablyinstalled in the garden which enclosed the old stuccoed building.

  Pere Goubain appeared to be the very personification of contentment,except, however, when the Germans happened to be mentioned within hishearing. Then, his rubicund face became redder, his mild, blue eyesfairly blazed with a fierce, vindictive light, and, altogether, helooked quite ferocious indeed.

  Such, then, was the Cafe Rochambeau and the man who greeted the crowd ofAmericans. To Don and George he was especially gracious. He asked manyquestions, and delightedly informed them that only the day before he hadactually seen a detachment of American soldiers marching through thevillage street.

  "Ah! and how grand they looked, mes amis!" he cried. "With theirhelp--'On les aura'--we shall get them! Ah, les Boches!"

  The placid look on his face was gone, and, rising in his chair, he beganto sing in a deep bass voice:

  "'Ye sons of freedom, wake to glory! Hark, hark, what myriads bid you rise! Your children, wives and grandsires hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries! Behold their tears and hear their cries! Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land, When peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms--to arms, ye brave! Th' avenging sword unsheathe, March on, march on, all hearts resolved On liberty or death.'"

  Vigorous indeed was the chorus which accompanied Pere Goubain'srendition of the first stanza of the "Marseillaise," and vigorous indeedwere the plaudits that resounded throughout the room when the oldFrenchman sank back in his armchair.

  "Yes, the Yanks are the boys to do it," exclaimed Peur Jamais. "Now, mesgarcons--for the council chamber!"

  The "Council Chamber" was an apartment adjoining the main room of thecafe. An oblong table stood in the centre, smaller ones by the walls;and there were plenty of chairs and tabourets for the use of theAmericans, for the room practically belonged to them. Very often oldPere Goubain honored the gathering by his presence, and on this occasionhe raised his ponderous form, and, with lumbering tread, followed hisguests inside.

  For their benefit Pere Goubain, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian war,told several interesting reminiscences about that memorable conflict;then, abruptly, he branched off into a subject which brought the oldfiery look back into his usually placid blue eyes.

  "Ah, what a wonderful system of espionage the Boches have!" heexclaimed. "Its sinister ramifications extend to every corner of ourgreat land and far beyond the seas."

  "Know anything about it?" queried Peur Jamais, with interest.

  "Listen, mes amis"--old Pere Goubain spoke gravely: "Many officers areamong my acquaintances. One of them belongs to the French Flying Corps,and he, poor fellow, while in a scouting plane far over the enemy'slines, had the great misfortune to be obliged to descend in hostileterritory."

  "Captured?" asked Peur Jamais, quite breathlessly.

  "He was. But"--a grim smile played about the Frenchman'smouth--"somehow, he managed to make his escape, and, after the mostnerve-racking ordeals, succeeded in reaching the Swiss frontier, andfrom thence returned to France. In this very room, Messieurs, he told mehis experiences."

  Immediately, to Don Hale, and probably also to a number of the others,that modest interior became invested with a singular interest--with astrange and subtle charm. How wonderful to think that a man who hadpassed through such harrowing adventures should have actually been inthat very place!

  "And do you know," continued Pere Goubain, with vehemence, "that whenthe German officers learned the aviator's name, astounding as it mayseem, they told him many facts concerning his own history."

  "But how in the world did the Boches ever learn them?" demanded PeurJamais.

  "As I said before, spies are everywhere; one cannot know whom to trust.Listen, my friends: not a hundred years ago, one of the officersbelonging to a training school was actually discovered to be a spy."

  "Whew! That's going some!" declared Sid Marlow to Don, while PeurJamais, eagerness expressed in his eyes, began to look curiously abouthim, as though vaguely suspicious that perhaps some among those gatheredtogether were not all they pretended to be.

  Before Pere Goubain could resume, several newcomers, also Americans,bustled past the door.

  General interest was immediately aroused by the discovery that onecarried a bundle of Parisian dailies.

  But the old innkeeper had started to say something, and he intended tofinish.

  "Yes, Messieurs, the Boches possess many ways of obtaining information.For instance, I learned from another officer that spies have even boldlydescended into the French or British lines, flying in airplanes capturedfrom the Allies. Naturally, some of these pilots spoke excellent French;others the English tongue equally well. Naturally, also, having all theappearance of belonging to the cause of freedom and justice, theyescaped suspicion at the time, and were thus enabled to pick up muchvaluable information."

  "Very interesting!" drawled one of the late comers. "But what's all thatgot to do with Captain Baron Von Richtofen?"

  "Captain Baron Von Richtofen?" cried Peur Jamais, interrogatively.

  "Never hear of him?"

  "No, Monsieur Carrol Gordon."

  "I have," said George, in an undertone to Don.

  "Then I'll read something for your special benefit, Mr. Peur Jamais."

  Thereupon, Carrol Gordon, the owner of the prized bundle, having openedone of the papers and allowed the yellowish glow of the lamplight tofall across the page, began:

  "'Advices recently received from the western theatre of battle statethat the famous Red Squadron of Death, commanded by Captain Baron VonRichtofen, has again made its appearance in several places along thefront.'"

  "'The Red Squadron of Death!'" echoed Peur Jamais, something akin to awein his tone.

  "'The Red Squadron of Death!'" repeated Don.

  "Quite an impressive title, I'll admit," remarked Carrol, smiling at thegreat interest which the article had evidently aroused. He resumed:

  "'The Albatross planes belonging to this feared and death-dealingsquadron are painted a brilliant scarlet from nose to tail. All aremanned by pilots of the greatest skill and daring; and only the mostexperienced air fighters of the Allies can expect to cope with thesecrafty and dangerous enemies. The bizarre idea of the red planes is nodoubt an attempt on the part of Captai
n Baron Von Richtofen to instilfear into the hearts of the Allied Flying Corps. At any rate, thereappearance of this squadron, which claims to have destroyed more thansixty allied planes, heralds the near approach of many bitter battles inthe air.'"

  As Carrol Gordon ceased reading he looked around and remarked:

  "Some news, eh? Now how many of you are going to pack your trunks andslide for home?"

  "And to think of T. Singleton Albert, the great soda-water clerk ofSyracuse, going up against such a game as that!" put in Tom Dorsey,irrelevantly. "Poor Drugstore!"

  "One thing to remember always is this, mes garcons," exclaimed old PereGoubain, nodding his head sagely: "Imagination is a very wonderfulthing, and the Boche Baron must realize the hold it has on certainnatures. Imagination, mes amis, can have the effect of glorifying themost ordinary and commonplace of objects and detracting from the mostsublime. It can rob the heart of determination and destroy hope, and,equally well, it can raise a man's courage to such heights as to placehim on the pinnacle of fame. Bah, I say, for the Baron's red birds!" Theinnkeeper snapped his fingers derisively. "I cannot believe that any airfighters of the Allies would be frightened by a few cans of paint."

  "Well spoken, Pere Goubain!" laughed Hampton Coles. "Yours are the wordsof a wise man; which proves that an innkeeper can be a philosopher aswell as a server to the material needs of humanity."

  "How would you like to be a combat pilot and meet the Baron, yourself?"asked Jack Norworth, quizzically.

  "It would be quite impossible, mon garcon," sighed Pere Goubain. "Myweight, alas I would sink the ship."

  "Shall I give him a message from you if we should happen to meet?"laughed George Glenn.

  "Yes, and let it be accompanied by a fusillade of machine gun bullets."

  Don Hale thoroughly enjoyed his evening at the club. Instinctively hefelt that it was a sort of dividing line between ease and comfort and astrenuous existence, with dangers and perils ever present from themoment he became in actuality an _eleve_ pilot of the Ecole Militaired'Aviation de Beaumont.

  Finally good-byes were said to Pere Goubain, and the crowd filed intothe great outdoors. The village street was enveloped in the soft lightof the moon, and but for the bark of a distant dog would have beensilent. The stuccoed buildings rose pale and ghostlike, or in sombre,mysterious tones, against the sky, and deep shadows crossed the cobbledhighway. A few beams of light to cheer those who might be astir camefrom the windows of the ancient, time-worn hostelry, the Hotel Liond'Or, where George Glenn was staying.

  At the entrance, Don and the others bid the combat pilot of theLafayette Squadron good-night, and then the march back to the flyingfield was begun. It was rather late when they arrived at the barracks.The excitement, the great desire to begin his schooling and the newsurroundings all tended to drive sleepy feelings away from Don Hale. ButMittengale very solemnly assured him that unless he "hit the pillow" atonce he would be liable to have regretful feelings in the morning.

  "I know, because I know," he declared.

  "Then I'll 'hit the pillow,'" laughed Don.

  The sound of laughter and voices was gradually ceasing as Don Haleclimbed into his bed.

  Several of the lamps had been extinguished and the interior of the bigbarracks certainly appeared very sombre--very gloomy indeed. Here andthere details made a valiant effort to reveal their presence, but, forthe most part, shadows, grotesque in shape, deep and grim in tone, heldthe mastery.

  Presently Don Hale's impressions became a little confused, and, within avery few minutes, he was sleeping that sound and dreamless slumber whichis another of the glorious possessions of youth.