Le Saboteur
Being a few months in the life of an American pilot
By O.R. Kirkpatrick and C.C. Gaylord
Chapter I.
Arrivée
It was only one small part of the geographic generality known to those who weren’t there as “the Front”. It was a small station platform next to a junction of several railroad tracks. There was no station house, for it had been blown up so many times that the army had given up rebuilding it. The station was used mainly by troop trains moving soldiers up to the front trenches. In fact, the trains came through several times a day, but for all this the little station looked singularly deserted. Only one poor chap occupied the wooden platform. He was settled on his rucksack, which was the only seat available, and scanned the horizon every now and then. There was scarcely anything to be seen on the desolate landscape, save a few shattered trees and houses. Off in the distance the flash of artillery pieces and the muffled roar brought back on the wind told of human company about five miles to the east, but this did not seem to bring the fellow any satisfaction.
He wasn’t a common soldier, actually. The wings on his uniform denoted him as a pilot and his manner as an American. He seemed impatient—which was excusable, since the train had left him there a full fifteen minutes before and evening was coming on. Presently, he heard the sound of an engine and a staff car emerged from the dusk with its headlamps lit. There were four chaps inside and they were just wrapping up the chorus of a song when they pulled up.
“Are you the new replacement?” came a voice from inside the vehicle.
“Is this 11 squadron?”
“That’s right; hop in!”
“Took you long enough,” said the new man, stepping in. “What did you do, stop to visit some French girls on the way?”
“Ha ha!” laughed the captain jovially. “Frank, this chap’s in a hurry; step on it, eh?”
The driver cheerfully did as he was told and the staff car sprang forward. As if on signal, the men started up their song again (they had three verses left to sing). They sang rather loudly and somewhat off-key, but this did not seem to trouble them.
“Here, stow it!” cried the captain suddenly. “Introductions, everybody!” And he proceeded to introduce the three men with him.
“This is Woodward, Hayes and Kearns. I’m Randolph. Quentin’s my first name, but it’s not important. It’s too dark to see us, but you’ll recognize us later by our voices.”
“I’m Roger Allison.”
“Second luey?”
“Yes.”
“How many hours have you had?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how many hours have you flown, all together?”
“Oh. 57.”
“Not bad. Some fellows that come in have had only 40 or so.”
Chapter I.
Arrivée
It was only one small part of the geographic generality known to those who weren’t there as “the Front”. It was a small station platform next to a junction of several railroad tracks. There was no station house, for it had been blown up so many times that the army had given up rebuilding it. The station was used mainly by troop trains moving soldiers up to the front trenches. In fact, the trains came through several times a day, but for all this the little station looked singularly deserted. Only one poor chap occupied the wooden platform. He was settled on his rucksack, which was the only seat available, and scanned the horizon every now and then. There was scarcely anything to be seen on the desolate landscape, save a few shattered trees and houses. Off in the distance the flash of artillery pieces and the muffled roar brought back on the wind told of human company about five miles to the east, but this did not seem to bring the fellow any satisfaction.
He wasn’t a common soldier, actually. The wings on his uniform denoted him as a pilot and his manner as an American. He seemed impatient—which was excusable, since the train had left him there a full fifteen minutes before and evening was coming on. Presently, he heard the sound of an engine and a staff car emerged from the dusk with its headlamps lit. There were four chaps inside and they were just wrapping up the chorus of a song when they pulled up.
“Are you the new replacement?” came a voice from inside the vehicle.“Is this 11 squadron?”
“That’s right; hop in!”
“Took you long enough,” said the new man, stepping in. “What did you do, stop to visit some French girls on the way?”
“Ha ha!” laughed the captain jovially. “Frank, this chap’s in a hurry; step on it, eh?”
The driver cheerfully did as he was told and the staff car sprang forward. As if on signal, the men started up their song again (they had three verses left to sing). They sang rather loudly and somewhat off-key, but this did not seem to trouble them.
“Here, stow it!” cried the captain suddenly. “Introductions, everybody!” And he proceeded to introduce the three men with him.
“This is Woodward, Hayes and Kearns. I’m Randolph. Quentin’s my first name, but it’s not important. It’s too dark to see us, but you’ll recognize us later by our voices.”
“I’m Roger Allison.”
“Second luey?”
“Yes.”
“How many hours have you had?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean how many hours have you flown, all together?”
“Oh. 57.”
“Not bad. Some fellows that come in have had only 40 or so.”
“57’s decent,” said Hayes.
“Have you ever flown a SPAD before?” asked Kearns.
“No.”
“What did you fly in training, Nieuports?”
“Avro 504s,” he replied tersely.
“Well, SPADs are a bit different, but you’ll get used to them soon enough. Nothing so difficult about a SPAD, really! I learned to fly one in a couple of hours. We were flying Nieuport 28s before we switched over, you know. Nieuports are all right, but they haven’t the speed.”
“Really.”
“Oh, yes. Why, I—”
“When do I start shooting Huns?” asked Allison abruptly.
“You haven’t been in combat before, have you?” asked Randolph.
“No.”
“Well, we’ll take you up for practice a few times just until you get the hang of it.”
“That won’t take long, I hope?”
“Not more than a day or two.”
They were interrupted by Hayes and Kearns breaking forth into “Smiles” and Randolph and Woodward joined them.
“What’s that for?” asked Allison, as soon as there was an intermission.
“What?”
“That singing.”
“Oh, we like to exercise our lungs a bit,” said Hayes.
“Actually, the real reason is because our gramophone broke and we miss it, we’re so terribly fond of music,” explained Kearns. “The major promised to get us a new one but I think he’s forgotten about it, so we sing extra loudly when he's about to sort of give him a hint.”
“We’re coming up on the airdrome,” said Hayes.
“Right, boys,” said Randolph, “let’s let them know we’re coming. All together now!”
“♪ So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the ♫ sea—ee,
“While we were ♪ marching through Geor—gia!” ♪
“Hullo!” came a voice from the direction of the barracks.
“Hullo yourself! Has the major given orders yet?”
“He’s just going to. You’d better hurry in. Do you have the replacement?”
“Yes, he’s here. Roger Allison. This chap is George Farnsworth.”
“Hullo.” (Farnsworth.)
“Very nice.” (Allison.)
“Come on fellows,” said Randolph.
They entered a large room that was the main eating and lounging area of the barracks. It was lit by dim kerosene lamps which hung from the ceiling and jumped every time a shell exploded in the distance. The major, along with his adjutant, entered from his office on the opposite side of the room and the men assembled around him expectantly. After glancing at Kearns, who was the only one still talking, the major took out a sheet of paper and proceeded to give the orders for the next day. In 11 squadron there were three flights named A, B, and C. The new man, Allison, was relegated to "C" flight.
“Each of you will be obliged to make several patrols tomorrow,” the major concluded, “so I suggest you get all the sleep you can this evening. That’s all, men. Good night.”
The men dispersed quietly.
“One word with you, Randolph,” said the major.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like you to take the two new men up tomorrow morning. See that they know how to manage their ‘planes and their guns and teach them a few combat maneuvers.”
“Right.”
“That’s all.”
They saluted and parted.
“Our sleeping quarters are upstairs,” said Randolph to Allison. “I’ll show you your bed.”
“Not on your life. I can never get to sleep before ten o’clock.”
“You’ll have to get up at five.”
“Don’t bother about me. Where’s the bar?”
“Over there next to the kitchen. Goodnight.” And he disappeared up the stairs.
“Where’s Allison?” asked Kearns as Randolph entered the room.
“Downstairs. Not coming to bed yet.”
“Seems an ill-mannered fellow, doesn’t he?” asked Farnsworth.
"Yes," said Hayes. "Why did you laugh when he said that about the French girls?"
"I thought he was making a joke," Randolph confessed. "You don't think he really meant it, do you?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if he did."
"I don’t think he likes me very much, anyhow,” said Kearns. “He kept giving me dirty looks. Renhard’s a pleasant fellow, though. I wonder where he is, anyway?”
Randolph got into bed.
“Remember what the major said,” he hinted.
“Renhard sings, anyway,” said Hayes. “He doesn’t just sit and glower like, well, you-know-who.”
“Maybe he was irritable because he was hungry,” suggested Kearns. “We got back too late for him to get supper. Probably waited several hours before we picked him up, too. Oh well, we couldn’t help it that the major’s car broke down. Too bad we’re not better at fixing things.”
“Goodnight!” said Randolph, pulling the covers over his head.
“It was a good supper, too,” said Kearns, who hadn’t heard.
“But it’s just as well because there wasn’t very much of it,” said a chap by the name of Morgan.
“I’d say they were both cut from the same mold,” said Woodward, thoughtfully.
“Who?” asked several voices.
“Allison and Renhard.”
Everyone was surprised because Woodward rarely gave his opinion without being asked for it.
“Oh, no, Renhard’s a good fellow,” said Farnsworth, and everyone else agreed.
It is to be deduced by this statement that Allison was not a “good fellow”.
Allison found a lamp in the deserted bar and lighted it. He lit his cigarette with the same match and inspected the cupboard.
“What, no whisky? Siphon bottle full of soda water, but what good does that do me? Empty cognac bottle—don’t they ever stock this bar? Ah, a bottle of gin. That’s something, anyway. Now for a glass.”
“I could use some of that when you’ve finished.”
Allison turned to see another pilot standing on the other side of the counter. He slid the bottle towards him.
“I should think this place were full of teetotalers,” he said.
“Is it?” asked the man. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been here two days. Are you new as well?”
“Yes. Allison’s my name.”
“Bertram Renhard.”
Allison shook his hand mechanically. He didn’t much enjoy the man’s company. He had the ugliest mug Allison had ever seen, and on top of that the fellow looked like a German (perhaps you know what I mean).
“Where are you from?” asked the fellow matily.
“Arkansas. Where do you come from?” Germany, he thought.
“New York. Are you fond of flying?”
“Well,” he started to pour himself another glass of gin, but found that Renhard had finished off the bottle.
“Oh, did I drink it all? I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Allison. “What were you saying about flying?”
“I asked you if you liked it.”
“Yes. What about you?”
“Oh, not really. I joined an air squadron mostly to get out of the trenches.”
“Oh, were you in the trenches?”
“Since last November.”
“Well, can’t say I blame you for wanting to get out of ‘em.”
The lamps shook under the influence of another artillery explosion.
“Infernal racket!” said Allison, starting slightly.
“Ah, you’ll get used to it,” said Renhard.
“Are there ever any air raids on this place?”
“Not as I know. The Germans generally stay on their own side of the lines.”
“What, don’t they ever take the offensive?”
“Not very often.”
“Cowards!”
“It’s very sensible of them. If any of our men get shot down over there they’ll be taken captive—if they survive the crash, that is—while the Germans that get shot down go scot free.”
“But that’s no way to fight a war.”
“Why not? What difference does it make as long as you win?”
A light broke over Allison’s face.
“Why, you’re right, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Yes, but I mean, I never thought about it. What, after all, is the use of all that stuff about honor and glory? It doesn’t really pay in the end.”
Renhard turned his glass seemingly idly.
“It’s rather funny, really. If you ask me, it’s all a plot. They tell you all this about duty and everything just so they can get you to do what they want.”
“Well, I’m not fighting for duty’s sake,” said Allison. “I came out here to kill Germans. All that about this war being a ‘moral war’ is ridiculous. I’ll just bet those fellows upstairs are full of silly notions about saving Belgians, or something like that. We know better, don’t we?”
Renhard smiled.
“Have you ever flown a SPAD before?” asked Kearns.
“No.”
“What did you fly in training, Nieuports?”
“Avro 504s,” he replied tersely.
“Well, SPADs are a bit different, but you’ll get used to them soon enough. Nothing so difficult about a SPAD, really! I learned to fly one in a couple of hours. We were flying Nieuport 28s before we switched over, you know. Nieuports are all right, but they haven’t the speed.”
“Really.”
“Oh, yes. Why, I—”
“When do I start shooting Huns?” asked Allison abruptly.
“You haven’t been in combat before, have you?” asked Randolph.
“No.”
“Well, we’ll take you up for practice a few times just until you get the hang of it.”
“That won’t take long, I hope?”
“Not more than a day or two.”
They were interrupted by Hayes and Kearns breaking forth into “Smiles” and Randolph and Woodward joined them.
“What’s that for?” asked Allison, as soon as there was an intermission.
“What?”
“That singing.”
“Oh, we like to exercise our lungs a bit,” said Hayes.
“Actually, the real reason is because our gramophone broke and we miss it, we’re so terribly fond of music,” explained Kearns. “The major promised to get us a new one but I think he’s forgotten about it, so we sing extra loudly when he's about to sort of give him a hint.”
“We’re coming up on the airdrome,” said Hayes.
“Right, boys,” said Randolph, “let’s let them know we’re coming. All together now!”
“♪ So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the ♫ sea—ee,
“While we were ♪ marching through Geor—gia!” ♪
“Hullo!” came a voice from the direction of the barracks.
“Hullo yourself! Has the major given orders yet?”
“He’s just going to. You’d better hurry in. Do you have the replacement?”
“Yes, he’s here. Roger Allison. This chap is George Farnsworth.”
“Hullo.” (Farnsworth.)
“Very nice.” (Allison.)
“Come on fellows,” said Randolph.
They entered a large room that was the main eating and lounging area of the barracks. It was lit by dim kerosene lamps which hung from the ceiling and jumped every time a shell exploded in the distance. The major, along with his adjutant, entered from his office on the opposite side of the room and the men assembled around him expectantly. After glancing at Kearns, who was the only one still talking, the major took out a sheet of paper and proceeded to give the orders for the next day. In 11 squadron there were three flights named A, B, and C. The new man, Allison, was relegated to "C" flight.
“Each of you will be obliged to make several patrols tomorrow,” the major concluded, “so I suggest you get all the sleep you can this evening. That’s all, men. Good night.”
The men dispersed quietly.
“One word with you, Randolph,” said the major.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like you to take the two new men up tomorrow morning. See that they know how to manage their ‘planes and their guns and teach them a few combat maneuvers.”
“Right.”
“That’s all.”
They saluted and parted.
“Our sleeping quarters are upstairs,” said Randolph to Allison. “I’ll show you your bed.”
“Not on your life. I can never get to sleep before ten o’clock.”
“You’ll have to get up at five.”
“Don’t bother about me. Where’s the bar?”
“Over there next to the kitchen. Goodnight.” And he disappeared up the stairs.
“Where’s Allison?” asked Kearns as Randolph entered the room.
“Downstairs. Not coming to bed yet.”
“Seems an ill-mannered fellow, doesn’t he?” asked Farnsworth.
"Yes," said Hayes. "Why did you laugh when he said that about the French girls?"
"I thought he was making a joke," Randolph confessed. "You don't think he really meant it, do you?"
"I wouldn't be surprised if he did."
"I don’t think he likes me very much, anyhow,” said Kearns. “He kept giving me dirty looks. Renhard’s a pleasant fellow, though. I wonder where he is, anyway?”
Randolph got into bed.
“Remember what the major said,” he hinted.
“Renhard sings, anyway,” said Hayes. “He doesn’t just sit and glower like, well, you-know-who.”
“Maybe he was irritable because he was hungry,” suggested Kearns. “We got back too late for him to get supper. Probably waited several hours before we picked him up, too. Oh well, we couldn’t help it that the major’s car broke down. Too bad we’re not better at fixing things.”
“Goodnight!” said Randolph, pulling the covers over his head.
“It was a good supper, too,” said Kearns, who hadn’t heard.
“But it’s just as well because there wasn’t very much of it,” said a chap by the name of Morgan.
“I’d say they were both cut from the same mold,” said Woodward, thoughtfully.
“Who?” asked several voices.
“Allison and Renhard.”
Everyone was surprised because Woodward rarely gave his opinion without being asked for it.
“Oh, no, Renhard’s a good fellow,” said Farnsworth, and everyone else agreed.
It is to be deduced by this statement that Allison was not a “good fellow”.
Allison found a lamp in the deserted bar and lighted it. He lit his cigarette with the same match and inspected the cupboard.
“What, no whisky? Siphon bottle full of soda water, but what good does that do me? Empty cognac bottle—don’t they ever stock this bar? Ah, a bottle of gin. That’s something, anyway. Now for a glass.”
“I could use some of that when you’ve finished.”
Allison turned to see another pilot standing on the other side of the counter. He slid the bottle towards him.
“I should think this place were full of teetotalers,” he said.
“Is it?” asked the man. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been here two days. Are you new as well?”
“Yes. Allison’s my name.”
“Bertram Renhard.”
Allison shook his hand mechanically. He didn’t much enjoy the man’s company. He had the ugliest mug Allison had ever seen, and on top of that the fellow looked like a German (perhaps you know what I mean).
“Where are you from?” asked the fellow matily.
“Arkansas. Where do you come from?” Germany, he thought.
“New York. Are you fond of flying?”
“Well,” he started to pour himself another glass of gin, but found that Renhard had finished off the bottle.
“Oh, did I drink it all? I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” said Allison. “What were you saying about flying?”
“I asked you if you liked it.”
“Yes. What about you?”
“Oh, not really. I joined an air squadron mostly to get out of the trenches.”
“Oh, were you in the trenches?”
“Since last November.”
“Well, can’t say I blame you for wanting to get out of ‘em.”
The lamps shook under the influence of another artillery explosion.
“Infernal racket!” said Allison, starting slightly.
“Ah, you’ll get used to it,” said Renhard.
“Are there ever any air raids on this place?”
“Not as I know. The Germans generally stay on their own side of the lines.”
“What, don’t they ever take the offensive?”
“Not very often.”
“Cowards!”
“It’s very sensible of them. If any of our men get shot down over there they’ll be taken captive—if they survive the crash, that is—while the Germans that get shot down go scot free.”
“But that’s no way to fight a war.”
“Why not? What difference does it make as long as you win?”
A light broke over Allison’s face.
“Why, you’re right, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Yes, but I mean, I never thought about it. What, after all, is the use of all that stuff about honor and glory? It doesn’t really pay in the end.”
Renhard turned his glass seemingly idly.
“It’s rather funny, really. If you ask me, it’s all a plot. They tell you all this about duty and everything just so they can get you to do what they want.”
“Well, I’m not fighting for duty’s sake,” said Allison. “I came out here to kill Germans. All that about this war being a ‘moral war’ is ridiculous. I’ll just bet those fellows upstairs are full of silly notions about saving Belgians, or something like that. We know better, don’t we?”
Renhard smiled.
No comments:
Post a Comment