“Now, my young men,” said the general, speaking briskly and to the point, “what are you doing here, where are you going, and is there anything else you wish to say?” As Billy had not as yet opened his mouth, he thought the general was rather ahead of his questions in the last quoted particular.
“Allow me, general, to introduce Mr. Trouville, a native of France, who only lacks the years to vote in America. He has the desire, I assure you. As for myself, I am William Thomas Barry of Maine, United States of America, known as Billy—and together we are known as the Aviator Boys. We are in the flying trade, and with your kind permission we would like to fly now.”
The officers observed the boys with new interest. The London Times had some months ago printed the experiences of a prominent English visitor to America, who had seen these young a?rialists in some of their sky-scraping exhibits, and had even taken a short flight with Billy.
“We military fellows are all great for aviation—it’s a big card in this war game”—this observation from the member of staff seated nearest the general—a[59] thoroughbred sort of man who also wore the badge of valor. “And more than that,” he added, “I have a boy of my own in the flying corps of the army.”
It occurred to Billy that this officer might care to hear the sad story of the death flight of the British youth that they had witnessed on the shores of the North Sea.
Billy, in real dramatic style, described the thrilling incident. There was no lack of attention on the part of his listeners; especially did the man who looked like a thoroughbred seem lost to everything else but the tale the boy was so earnestly telling. When Billy produced from the inside pocket of his blouse the photograph and ring that he had taken from the heart pocket and finger of the dead aviator there was strained silence, first broken by the man who had been most intent as a listener.
“It was my boy, my own son!”
This man who had faced shot and shell with never a tremor on many a blackened battlefield, and had won the magic initials “V. C.” after his name, bowed his head in grief and not ashamed of the sob in his throat.
“Some day, God willing,” he softly said to Billy, “you shall guide his mother and me to that resting place.”
A bugle call outside aroused the officers to the[60] grim business of the hour. The roar of another battle would soon be on.
The general turned the boys over to the care of a veteran soldier, a sergeant, with strict orders that they should not be allowed to leave the rear of the brigade about to advance.
Billy and Henri, however, had the opportunity of observing during their first actual army experience, even though of the rear guard, the striking device of a French officer in order to steady his men, in an infantry regiment, called upon for the first time to face the discharge of German shells. For a moment the men hesitated, and even made a slight movement of withdrawal. Instantly the officer seemed to have taken in the situation. The boys heard him shout:
“Halt! Order arms!”
Then, quite coolly, he turned his back upon the enemy—for the first and last time—whipped out his camera, called upon his men not to move, and proceeded to take a leisurely snapshot of his co............