Chapter II.
L'Aviation Militaire
The next day Randolph found Allison standing outside the barracks, watching the pilots who were going “out on a job”.
Wishing he were going up too, thought Randolph.
“Hullo, old boy,” he said, coming up behind Allison suddenly. “Get into your togs; I’m taking you up.”
“Up? What for?”
“For practice. Renhard’s going up too. It’s mainly to see what you know and, more crucially, what you don’t. No one’s allowed to go over the lines until he’s had 60 hours or more in the air, you know, so you’ve several more to go.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Hurry up; I’ll see that your ‘plane is ready.”
Randolph walked over to the hangar and inspected the three trim SPADs that the mechanics had just wheeled out onto the runway. Two of them had arrived only the day before and, their canvas sides resplendent in new paint, had just had their respective numbers put on. Randolph was frowning over one of the engines when Allison and Renhard appeared in their flying togs.
“Is something wrong?” asked Renhard.
“It’s these new engines,” said Randolph. “They give us no end of bother. There’s scarcely a flight that a pilot isn’t forced to go back because of engine trouble. These look as if they’ll run, though.
“Right,” he said, straightening up and getting down to business. “There are a few things to know before you go up.” (Here he began to rattle off information at an alarming rate.) “The S.XIII is a single-seat fighter bi-plane and scout aircraft. It is equipped with twin Vickers 7.7mm, .303 caliber machine guns and a 220 horsepower Hispano-Suiza 8Be V-8 engine.”
Renhard and Allison looked at each other apprehensively.
“Its dimensions are as follows,” Randolph continued. “It stands 7’8” tall, is 20’8” long, has a 26’7” wingspan and a wing area of 199 sq. ft. It has a maximum takeoff weight of 1,859 lbs, a service ceiling of 21,800 ft, a maximum speed of 140 mph, an estimated combat radius of 250 miles and can stay in the air for up to 2 hours. The design was produced by the SPAD aircraft company last spring, and the S.XIII model is far more powerful than the S.VII in use in 1916. What is it?” he asked, as Allison coughed.
“Will we be obliged to remember all this, sir?”
“No. I’m just telling you so you’ll know. You will be obliged to look over your craft before each flight to see that everything is in order, though.”
He then made them go over the airplane from propeller to rudder to see that they knew how everything worked. This was not too difficult for them, for they had spent hours poring over diagrams during flight training. Renhard, however, seemed surprisingly to know the machine better even than Randolph.
“Why, I daresay you could build one!” Randolph exclaimed. “Have you worked on airplanes before?”
“No, not really. I’ve had a little mechanical experience, though.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“When do we go up?” asked Allison.
“Now, if you like. Get into your ‘planes.”
“Not much different from a 504, eh?” he asked Allison as soon as he was inside the cockpit.
“Not too much.”
“Right. Taxi around the field a little until you get used to it.”
He repeated his instructions to Renhard.
The men figured out the SPADs soon enough and they took to the air. First they practiced combat maneuvers—rolling out of a spin, making sharp turns, circling, pulling out of a dive. They practiced marksmanship by shooting tin cans which Randolph tossed from his cockpit. This last was harder on Randolph than the other men, for the bullets whistled past him pretty closely sometimes.
As Randolph had said, the new men were ready for combat after two days of this training, and Woodward, who was the best artist, painted the squadron insignia on the sides of their ‘planes. The insignia was an apple with an arrow through it—Farnsworth’s idea. One could see that the men of 11 squadron prided themselves on their marksmanship.Renhard and Allison went up on their first patrol on Thursday. Randolph was the commander of “C” flight, which was made up of Hayes, Kearns, Renhard, Allison and a sixth man, Anderson. They had been up for about an hour when Randolph’s engine started to mis-fire. Fearing trouble, he signaled for Hayes to take over and headed back towards the airdrome.
“Pity,” said Randolph, who had a habit of talking to himself. “I’d better give the old girl a go-over when I get back. These new Hispano-Suizas are always making a nuisance of themselves. Hullo, it’s righted itself. Well, no good wasting a flight. Might as well go back and see if I can’t locate the others.”
He turned about and headed back in the direction of No-man’s-land. The little patrol was nowhere in sight and, although it had only been a few minutes since Randolph had parted company with them, were probably miles away, since they had been traveling in opposite directions at the speed of 120 miles per hour.
Randolph scanned the sky, hoping to meet up at least with an Allied patrol. Several specks materialized to the south-east and, as they were flying into enemy territory, Randolph hoped they were friendly. As he got closer and they didn’t fire on him he fell into formation.
Suddenly Randolph saw the black crosses on their ‘planes. For some reason they had not seen him. Never one to sit about and let the other chap shoot first, Randolph slipped up under the tail of the last one and let him have it with both Vickers. The fellow was down in a moment, but the other pilots were at last aware of Randolph’s presence and came down on him like angry hornets. Randolph knew when he was out-numbered and high-tailed it for his own lines before the fuel ran out.
He was greeted on the landing strip by his worried comrades, who had returned before him.
“What happened?”
“Did you run into any Bosches?”
“What was wrong with the engine?”
“The engine’s all right, I think,” said Randolph. “Low on fuel, though. It’s sort of a long story.”
“Well, come inside and get something to eat,” said Anderson. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Oh good. I hope it’s something edible. I’m starved.”
“It’s not,” said Kearns.
The men were delighted with Randolph’s escapade once they had been filled in on the details. It made the 19th victory for their squadron.
"Those Germans must have been rather nearsighted, don't you think?" said Kearns. "Not to have seen you all that time, I mean."
"I can't figure that out either," said Randolph. "Must have been the sun was in their eyes."
“How many ‘planes were there?” asked Anderson.
“Five. Fokkers, I think.”
The men all admired Randolph’s pluck, but they thought at the same time that it was a rather foolish thing to do.
“What took you so long to see their insignias?” asked Renhard.
“Well, sometimes it’s difficult to see a ‘plane’s wing markings unless you’re above it.”
The men seemed satisfied with this explanation and Randolph was relieved.
“Where’s Allison?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Took his dinner in his room. Won’t associate with us,” said Hayes.
“I wonder what’s the matter with that fellow, anyhow,” said Kearns. “If I so much as whistle he glares at me.”
“Speaking of music,” said Hayes, “when’s the major going to get us that gramophone?”
“Yes,” said Kearns. “I miss that song we used to always listen to. You remember, Hayes, don’t you? The one that went, ‘though your lads are far away'—” he broke forth in his golden tenor.
“What happened to the gramophone?” interrupted Renhard.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” said Kearns. “It broke. We were all sitting about enjoying ourselves when all of a sudden we heard—”
“Let me have a look at it. I might be able to mend it.”
“Oh yes, he’s a dab at that sort of thing,” said Randolph.
Renhard began to examine the object in question.
“Elementary,” he declared promptly. “I’ll have it mended in a jiffy. Really, I don’t see why you fellows couldn’t have mended it before.”
“Oh, none of us are much good at mending things,” said Kearns. “We aren’t that sort. My uncle could mend anything. He was a telegraph officer. He’s in Arabia now. They couldn’t keep him out of the war, although he’s 45.”
“Is he indeed?” asked Renhard curiously. “What does he do?”
“He’s a colonel. Always had an adventurous mind. Why once—”
“Come along, Fin,” said Hayes, and led him away, Kearns still talking.
“Letter for you, Captain,” said Pitt the adjutant, coming in with the mail.
Randolph took the letter eagerly and retired to his room to read it. There he found Allison, stretched out on one of the beds. His inseparable cigarette was in his mouth, but he wasn’t smoking it and his eyes were closed so Randolph supposed he was asleep. He sat down on his bed and put on his reading glasses.
The letter was from his mother. Dear Quentin, it read. I hope you have had news from Tom and Arthur, as it has been nearly three weeks since I last heard from either of them. Karl wrote last week from Kut telling me that he was well and wanting to know if you were all right. I’m afraid we all worry very much about you, dear. Every week it seems we hear another story of a dreadful smash-up. I am glad to hear that the wristlets suit, for I was so afraid they wouldn’t be needed now that the warm weather has begun. I started a sweater for you as well after you told me how cold it gets up in an airplane. Tom and Arthur always write for socks as it is so wet in the trenches and Karl for chocolate or anything edible, as he says rations are uncertain. I am so glad he was not in Kut when it was being besieged. I am proud that he is fighting in the British army, but I hope he will be able to get his citizenship back when the war is over. Father is quite well and sends his regards. He has been kept rather busy of late, looking after little Grace so Esther is freed to help Harold at the hospital.
“Good for him!” said Quentin here.
Allison looked at him out of one eye, but Quentin was so absorbed in his letter that he didn’t see.
Father is so good with children, the letter continued, and Esther is so anxious to be of help, as they need so many nurses for the poor boys being brought back. It seems as if everybody were busy helping the war along in some way, except for me. But I have my task as well, though it is a small one. It is to pray for my dear boys at the front, that they may honor Him above, and that, if it His will, He will bring them home safe to me.
At this juncture Randolph was obliged to take out his handkerchief and blow his nose hard.
“Got a cold?” asked Allison.
Randolph started and hurriedly pulled his glasses off of his nose.
“Thought you were asleep,” he said.
“Go on and read it; I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“No, that’s all right,” said Randolph, slipping the letter under his pillow. “It will keep.”
He waited, hoping Allison might leave, but Allison lit up his cigarette and lay there puffing leisurely. Randolph at last grew tired of waiting and went out.
Allison lay in bed staring up at the ceiling for several minutes. He wondered why Randolph had thought that letter so special. The obvious answer, that it was none of Allison's business, did not occur to him. Instead he arrived at his favorite conclusion that Randolph had a girl-friend and the letter was from her. He got up with a smirk on his face and pulled the letter from under the pillow. He read until he got to your loving mother, when he jumped as if something had stung him and hurriedly replaced the letter under Randolph’s pillow. He stood for a moment with his hands in his pockets, staring at the bed. Then he turned on his heel and went out.
When Allison came down to the main room later he was greeted with strains of “Tipperary.”
“Somebody fixed the gramophone,” he observed.
“Oh yes, Renhard did that; genius, isn’t he?” said Kearns.
“Somebody break it again.”“What? Why?”
“I hate that song.”
“What!” cried several voices at once, for the song was a general favorite.
“Here I go to all that trouble just because I knew you were sick of the boys’ singing!” said Renhard, acting hurt.
“Yes,” said Kearns, “you owe Renhard an apology. Come on, let’s hear it.”
“Shut up,” said Allison, going out the door.
“Bad tempered chap!” said Kearns.
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