Prepared by Sean Pobuda
The scene in the valley was striking in one respect. Low ranges ofgently sloping hills had widened out, enclosing broad levels with whatin America would be termed a creek but was here poetically named ariver. By here I mean eastern France, not so many miles fromNo-Man's-Land. The "striking" feature was the "Flying Camp" spread outover a dead level of much trampled greensward, enclosed by high boardwalls, irregularly oval in shape, with a large clump of trees in thecenter and a multiplicity of large, small, mostly queer-shapedbuildings scattered about.
There were a few wide roadways, with smaller avenues intersecting them,and larger open spaces, bordered by hangars, at either end of the oval.
On a bulletin board in one of these open spaces a placard was tacked,at which several young men in khaki and wearing the aviator cap weregazing, commenting humorously or otherwise. All that this plainly openplacard published, apparently for all eyes to see, was as follows:
"Members of Bombing Squadron No. - will be on the qui vive at 7 p.m.tonight. Specific orders will be issued to each at that time."
Not much in that, an outsider might think. But wait! Listen!
"Say, Orry," remarked an athletic youth, throwing an arm casually overthe shoulder of a smaller companion beside him and tweaking the other'sear, "does this mean that you and me go up together in that crazy oldbiplane they foisted on us before?"
"How should I know?" replied the smaller lad, a nervous, sprightlyyoungster, dark-eyed, curly-headed, thin-faced. "Did she get yournerve last time?"
"Not by a long shot! But when we made that last dive to get away from
Fritzy in his Fokker, I noticed your hands on the crank were shaking.
Say, if that Tommy in the monoplane hadn't helped us, where'd we been?"
"Right here, you goose! We'd have got out somehow, but it was squallyfor about five minutes."
The two strolled off together as others, also in khaki but withdifferent fittings or insignia, gathered about to read, comment andthen turn their several ways.
"We are in that bombing squad all right, I guess remarked Lafe Blaine,the athletic youngster. "But I am tired of this everlasting bombingthat goes on, mostly by night. We're chums, Orry; we work together allright. There is no one in this camp can handle a fighting machinebetter than I; nor do I want a better, truer backer at the Lewis thanyou."
The Lewis gun was the one then most in use at this aerodrome station,which was somewhere on that section near where the British and Frenchsectors meet.
"You always were a bully boy, Lafe, in spite of your two big handles.Say, how'd they come to call you Lafayette when you already had such awhopper of a surname?"
"Oh, dry up, Orry! Those names often make me tired. I'm only anordinary chap, but with those names every noodle thinks I ought to besomething real big. Catch on?"
Orris Erwin nodded and pinched the other's massive fore-arm, as hereplied:
"So you are big! Bet you weigh one-eighty if you weigh a pound."
But Lafe was thinking. Finally he announced decidedly:
"I'm going to get after our Sergeant this afternoon. If he knowswhat's what, he'll let you and me take out that neat little Bleriot.We'll do our share of bombing o