BokRobot 읽기판
도서
무료The Air Scout
F. Britten Austin
버전 선택
A wide, level meadow cut into the edge of the woodland. The center of the open space, enclosed on three sides by trees like a wall, was a stretch of empty turf, browned by heavy traffic and littered with scraps of paper, the inevitable deposit of any gathering of people. The left side was occupied by a neat row of slate-grey motor-lorries. The right side showed an equally neat array of tents and sheds, over which hung a faint film of wood-smoke. At regular intervals along the third side, placards were affixed to the tree-trunks, each showing a conspicuous number, like stands at a cattle-show. But the stands were vacant. In front of the sheds on the right stood a small group of men in khaki, and near them two men in shirts and trousers were busy at a portable forge, from which the film of smoke came.
The hammer-strokes of those men were visible and evidently struck with force, yet, oddly enough, at a little distance they seemed to fall in silence.
A vast noise coming from beyond the wood swallowed all other sounds. The drowsy air of the hot noon trembled with concussions so rapid they merged into one deep-throated, deafening roar. The field was the aeroplane depot of the Army. The roar was the roar of the battle that Army was fighting.
Despite the apparent nearness of the strife, there was little military spectacle about the depot. At the corner of the wood, a squadron of dismounted troopers stood by their horses. A little further back, along the rough lane leading into the field, a gun mounted on a motor-lorry pointed its nose perpendicularly into the air. Three or four men sat on the lorry in easy attitudes, and one stood up, glasses to his eyes, scanning the blue sky. The group of khaki-clad men paid no more attention to them than they did to the battle-din swelling over the woodland. They were absorbed in looking at a large, curious bush a few yards in front of them.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 1 / 13
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
A wide, level meadow cut into the edge of the woodland. The center of the open space, enclosed on three sides by trees like a wall, was a stretch of empty turf, browned by heavy traffic and littered with scraps of paper, the inevitable deposit of any gathering of people. The left side was occupied by a neat row of slate-grey motor-lorries. The right side showed an equally neat array of tents and sheds, over which hung a faint film of wood-smoke. At regular intervals along the third side, placards were affixed to the tree-trunks, each showing a conspicuous number, like stands at a cattle-show. But the stands were vacant. In front of the sheds on the right stood a small group of men in khaki, and near them two men in shirts and trousers were busy at a portable forge, from which the film of smoke came.
The hammer-strokes of those men were visible and evidently struck with force, yet, oddly enough, at a little distance they seemed to fall in silence.
A vast noise coming from beyond the wood swallowed all other sounds. The drowsy air of the hot noon trembled with concussions so rapid they merged into one deep-throated, deafening roar. The field was the aeroplane depot of the Army. The roar was the roar of the battle that Army was fighting.
Despite the apparent nearness of the strife, there was little military spectacle about the depot. At the corner of the wood, a squadron of dismounted troopers stood by their horses. A little further back, along the rough lane leading into the field, a gun mounted on a motor-lorry pointed its nose perpendicularly into the air. Three or four men sat on the lorry in easy attitudes, and one stood up, glasses to his eyes, scanning the blue sky. The group of khaki-clad men paid no more attention to them than they did to the battle-din swelling over the woodland. They were absorbed in looking at a large, curious bush a few yards in front of them.A closer look revealed that the bush was artificial. It was, in fact, a largish shed whose walls and roof were made of green boughs. Men were busy inside, and a shaft of sunlight penetrating the leaves fell in a patch of gold upon some yellow fabric. The object thus illuminated was the wing of a small, single-seater monoplane.
A little apart from the others, a slightly-built young fellow, dressed for the ascent, stood in earnest talk with a tall, lean staff-officer. Behind them, the others conversed in tones just loud enough to be heard over the roar. They were discussing the disaster of the dawn.
The enemy's blow had been terrible. The Army had been struck blind. It was now only a blind giant swinging at an adversary with unimpaired vision. The entire air squadron, rising from its base at daybreak, had been suddenly attacked by a superior fleet that dropped out of the clouds. Watchers below had seen short lightning flashes stabbing the grey mist, heard sharp outbreaks of firing, seen phantom aeroplanes rising, circling, swooping, colliding in thin cloud, and then seen the machines tumble and dive, lapped by flames, in a sickening rush to earth. Not one of theirs had escaped. Now their machines lay crumpled and twisted masses of scrap-iron across the countryside. The enemy's rear was a picture his scouts could report at leisure. What lay behind his own? None knew, but the force of his fire showed he was pressing his advantage.
The sense of defeat hung heavy over the little group as they argued about who was to blame for the catastrophe.
The staff-officer tugged impatiently at his little grey moustache. His teeth gnawed at a piece of grass that was no longer there; in his agitation he had not noticed it fall.
"I wish those men would hurry," he said. "The General is most anxious to have that flank cleared up."
"They're being quick, sir," replied the aviator with a smile. His keen, thoughtful face showed he understood the urgency, but his calm mouth told of nerves that nothing could shake. Within that green bower lay the Army's only hope, its lightest and swiftest monoplane, damaged while landing the day before, now being repaired as fast as skilled hands could work.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 2 / 13
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
A closer look revealed that the bush was artificial. It was, in fact, a largish shed whose walls and roof were made of green boughs. Men were busy inside, and a shaft of sunlight penetrating the leaves fell in a patch of gold upon some yellow fabric. The object thus illuminated was the wing of a small, single-seater monoplane.
A little apart from the others, a slightly-built young fellow, dressed for the ascent, stood in earnest talk with a tall, lean staff-officer. Behind them, the others conversed in tones just loud enough to be heard over the roar. They were discussing the disaster of the dawn.
The enemy's blow had been terrible. The Army had been struck blind. It was now only a blind giant swinging at an adversary with unimpaired vision. The entire air squadron, rising from its base at daybreak, had been suddenly attacked by a superior fleet that dropped out of the clouds. Watchers below had seen short lightning flashes stabbing the grey mist, heard sharp outbreaks of firing, seen phantom aeroplanes rising, circling, swooping, colliding in thin cloud, and then seen the machines tumble and dive, lapped by flames, in a sickening rush to earth. Not one of theirs had escaped. Now their machines lay crumpled and twisted masses of scrap-iron across the countryside. The enemy's rear was a picture his scouts could report at leisure. What lay behind his own? None knew, but the force of his fire showed he was pressing his advantage.
The sense of defeat hung heavy over the little group as they argued about who was to blame for the catastrophe.
The staff-officer tugged impatiently at his little grey moustache. His teeth gnawed at a piece of grass that was no longer there; in his agitation he had not noticed it fall.
"I wish those men would hurry," he said. "The General is most anxious to have that flank cleared up."
"They're being quick, sir," replied the aviator with a smile. His keen, thoughtful face showed he understood the urgency, but his calm mouth told of nerves that nothing could shake. Within that green bower lay the Army's only hope, its lightest and swiftest monoplane, damaged while landing the day before, now being repaired as fast as skilled hands could work."You understand, don't you?" said the staff-officer, repeating himself for the tenth time. "The General thinks a movement is underway against our right flank. A screen is extending there that he cannot penetrate. If they're moving a large force around us, he can detach the Sixth Division to hold them, and with a massed attack he'll crush their weakened left centre. He'll repeat Salamanca—that's what he said—though I don't know what happened at Salamanca," he added irritably, "but he daren't move a man until he's sure. I wish your men would finish." He looked up into the sky, scanning it.
"How many have they got now?"
"Four, I make it," replied the aviator calmly. "They had ten yesterday. Five were shot down this morning. One got winged an hour ago."
At that moment a dirty, perspiring man came out of the bower and saluted.
"Ready, sir," he said.
"Right. Get her out," said the aviator. "No, wait!" His gaze had gone to the sky. "There he comes again."
"Damn!" said the staff-officer, also staring upward.
High above, an aeroplane was coming towards them, parallel to their own battle-line. In the roar of conflict, the hum of its engine was inaudible. It seemed to drift leisurely, sinking slightly as it approached but well above effective gunfire. Tiny white dots of smoke springing into the air below it proved that. Slowly, as if making a careful inspection, it passed overhead. Suddenly it turned and dropped still lower, coming back toward them. Something had stirred suspicion in the men up there. The reason for the artificial bush became clear. The staff-officer stared at the aeroplane, now rapidly growing larger in his vision, as though hypnotized. Anxiety for the precious machine under the leaves paralyzed him.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 3 / 13
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"You understand, don't you?" said the staff-officer, repeating himself for the tenth time. "The General thinks a movement is underway against our right flank. A screen is extending there that he cannot penetrate. If they're moving a large force around us, he can detach the Sixth Division to hold them, and with a massed attack he'll crush their weakened left centre. He'll repeat Salamanca—that's what he said—though I don't know what happened at Salamanca," he added irritably, "but he daren't move a man until he's sure. I wish your men would finish." He looked up into the sky, scanning it.
"How many have they got now?"
"Four, I make it," replied the aviator calmly. "They had ten yesterday. Five were shot down this morning. One got winged an hour ago."
At that moment a dirty, perspiring man came out of the bower and saluted.
"Ready, sir," he said.
"Right. Get her out," said the aviator. "No, wait!" His gaze had gone to the sky. "There he comes again."
"Damn!" said the staff-officer, also staring upward.
High above, an aeroplane was coming towards them, parallel to their own battle-line. In the roar of conflict, the hum of its engine was inaudible. It seemed to drift leisurely, sinking slightly as it approached but well above effective gunfire. Tiny white dots of smoke springing into the air below it proved that. Slowly, as if making a careful inspection, it passed overhead. Suddenly it turned and dropped still lower, coming back toward them. Something had stirred suspicion in the men up there. The reason for the artificial bush became clear. The staff-officer stared at the aeroplane, now rapidly growing larger in his vision, as though hypnotized. Anxiety for the precious machine under the leaves paralyzed him.The aviator turned to look at the gun on the motor-lorry. The men around it sat in quiet readiness. Its muzzle moved slightly, coming a bit out of the perpendicular. The aviator looked up again at the aeroplane overhead. He heard a sudden heavy detonation on his left and, almost simultaneously, saw a bright flash appear in the dark body of the aeroplane. The machine lurched, toppled, dived, and, falling fast, turned upside down in the air. Two dark figures fell out, racing it to the ground. A long minute later it struck the center of the field. Flames burst from a shapeless wreck. The aviator paid no heed; he ran toward the bower.
"Quick!" he cried. "Get her out!"
Torn down by twenty eager hands, the bower collapsed. The little monoplane was rolled out, resting on the earth like a dragonfly.
The aviator climbed into his seat between the wings, checked the compass and the map held open in its frame, saw the message bags were within reach, and tested the strap of the field-glasses hanging from his neck with a sharp tug. He was ready. In front, two soldier mechanics stood holding the long blades of the tractor screw. Beyond the wood, the noise of battle swelled in violent surges. The tall staff-officer approached and held out his hand.
"Goodbye—and good luck," he said. "And for heaven's sake, let us know what's happening on that flank. Don't wait to get back—drop the message." He looked at his watch. "It's now twelve—if we don't hear something within an hour, our chance is lost. Can you manage it?"
"I'll try, sir," said the aviator, checking his own clock.
The staff-officer turned anxious eyes upward for a quick glance at the sky, seemed about to say something, then obviously refrained. "Good luck!" was all he trusted himself to say.
The aviator smiled and nodded cheerfully. Then he gave a sharp order to the mechanics. They swung the propeller blades. The machine, with a series of rifle-like reports, began to move across the field. The propeller became a blur.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 4 / 13
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The aviator turned to look at the gun on the motor-lorry. The men around it sat in quiet readiness. Its muzzle moved slightly, coming a bit out of the perpendicular. The aviator looked up again at the aeroplane overhead. He heard a sudden heavy detonation on his left and, almost simultaneously, saw a bright flash appear in the dark body of the aeroplane. The machine lurched, toppled, dived, and, falling fast, turned upside down in the air. Two dark figures fell out, racing it to the ground. A long minute later it struck the center of the field. Flames burst from a shapeless wreck. The aviator paid no heed; he ran toward the bower.
"Quick!" he cried. "Get her out!"
Torn down by twenty eager hands, the bower collapsed. The little monoplane was rolled out, resting on the earth like a dragonfly.
The aviator climbed into his seat between the wings, checked the compass and the map held open in its frame, saw the message bags were within reach, and tested the strap of the field-glasses hanging from his neck with a sharp tug. He was ready. In front, two soldier mechanics stood holding the long blades of the tractor screw. Beyond the wood, the noise of battle swelled in violent surges. The tall staff-officer approached and held out his hand.
"Goodbye—and good luck," he said. "And for heaven's sake, let us know what's happening on that flank. Don't wait to get back—drop the message." He looked at his watch. "It's now twelve—if we don't hear something within an hour, our chance is lost. Can you manage it?"
"I'll try, sir," said the aviator, checking his own clock.
The staff-officer turned anxious eyes upward for a quick glance at the sky, seemed about to say something, then obviously refrained. "Good luck!" was all he trusted himself to say.
The aviator smiled and nodded cheerfully. Then he gave a sharp order to the mechanics. They swung the propeller blades. The machine, with a series of rifle-like reports, began to move across the field. The propeller became a blur.The woodland seemed to rush toward him, then suddenly dropped away diagonally below. Keeping his eyes on the barograph dial, the aviator warped the machine around and set the planes to a steep angle of climb. Confident in his engine's power, he mounted steeply in a spiral. The dial's reading rose with every second—100 feet, 200, 400. In two and a half minutes he reached 1,000 feet. He cast a quick look below. He was still over the field, seeing a group of tiny figures in front of the sheds. The horizon rose, the earth fell into a vast bowl containing woods, fields, and flattened hills. From the bowl clouds of yellow-grey dust rose like smoke, and out of the dust came heavy crashes, distinct from a background of unceasing clatter and one long rolling thunder.
That was but a hasty glance. Still climbing, his eyes searched the blue air at his level and above.
Where were the enemy's other machines? Far to his left, a dark speck hung in the sky. He watched it as his machine climbed. It was a biplane, drifting away from him, perhaps reconnoitering their left flank. They seemed not to have noticed him yet. The others were invisible. He glanced at the barograph—3,000 feet—after five and a half minutes of climbing. Almost immediately he saw a trail of smoke rising at incredible speed below and to his right. It ended in a vivid flash, a burst of white smoke, and a violent explosion. The monoplane rocked in the disturbed air but continued to climb. A second later another trail exploded at his level to the left. He saw a gash appear in the fabric of one wing, and the barograph needle jumped back 50 feet. Then the altitude record climbed steadily again—3,250—3,500—4,000. The battle noise dimmed as he rose, until it was almost lost in his engine's roar.
Below, smoke trails leaped up at him and burst harmlessly.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 5 / 13
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The woodland seemed to rush toward him, then suddenly dropped away diagonally below. Keeping his eyes on the barograph dial, the aviator warped the machine around and set the planes to a steep angle of climb. Confident in his engine's power, he mounted steeply in a spiral. The dial's reading rose with every second—100 feet, 200, 400. In two and a half minutes he reached 1,000 feet. He cast a quick look below. He was still over the field, seeing a group of tiny figures in front of the sheds. The horizon rose, the earth fell into a vast bowl containing woods, fields, and flattened hills. From the bowl clouds of yellow-grey dust rose like smoke, and out of the dust came heavy crashes, distinct from a background of unceasing clatter and one long rolling thunder.
That was but a hasty glance. Still climbing, his eyes searched the blue air at his level and above.
Where were the enemy's other machines? Far to his left, a dark speck hung in the sky. He watched it as his machine climbed. It was a biplane, drifting away from him, perhaps reconnoitering their left flank. They seemed not to have noticed him yet. The others were invisible. He glanced at the barograph—3,000 feet—after five and a half minutes of climbing. Almost immediately he saw a trail of smoke rising at incredible speed below and to his right. It ended in a vivid flash, a burst of white smoke, and a violent explosion. The monoplane rocked in the disturbed air but continued to climb. A second later another trail exploded at his level to the left. He saw a gash appear in the fabric of one wing, and the barograph needle jumped back 50 feet. Then the altitude record climbed steadily again—3,250—3,500—4,000. The battle noise dimmed as he rose, until it was almost lost in his engine's roar.
Below, smoke trails leaped up at him and burst harmlessly.At 4,500 feet he glanced at the hostile biplane and saw it growing larger; it was approaching at top speed. He was discovered, pursued. Instantly he turned to his right and raced across the battlefield toward the threatened flank. As he did, he saw another aeroplane rising from the enemy's lines. It climbed swiftly in bold swoops, then shot toward him in an upward slant. Two! Where was the third? He searched but failed to spot it, and held his course.
His direction took him at an angle across the battlefield toward the enemy's left flank. As he sped over, he looked down on a broad, miles-long belt of yellow-grey dust, rising raggedly and dotted with white puffs that renewed themselves instantly. In places, the puffs clustered thickly, merging into small, narrow clouds. Looking into the great bowl of the earth, he seemed to hover over an enormous smoking fissure in a crater whose rim was the horizon. The rumble and roar below heightened the illusion. Tiny sparks of flame darted in the fumes, and here and there flashed glittering points—the sun reflecting off advancing bayonets. Individual men were impossible to distinguish, but in occasional rifts in the dust clouds he could make out brown patches of various sizes, and to his left, on the enemy's side, similar but darker patches.
He could not scrutinize the scene below for long, as handling the machine demanded all his attention. Even at this height, the air, shaken by the incessant concussions of artillery, was full of flaws. The barograph needle flickered and oscillated violently. The monoplane tilted dangerously, now one side, now the other, caught in eddies of the turbulent air, sliding downward dizzily before climbing again. It took strong arms at the controls, a quick mind, and steady nerves to keep her on course. Glancing back, he saw the nearer of the two enemy machines, the one that had risen from their lines, also buffeted by the rough air.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 6 / 13
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
At 4,500 feet he glanced at the hostile biplane and saw it growing larger; it was approaching at top speed. He was discovered, pursued. Instantly he turned to his right and raced across the battlefield toward the threatened flank. As he did, he saw another aeroplane rising from the enemy's lines. It climbed swiftly in bold swoops, then shot toward him in an upward slant. Two! Where was the third? He searched but failed to spot it, and held his course.
His direction took him at an angle across the battlefield toward the enemy's left flank. As he sped over, he looked down on a broad, miles-long belt of yellow-grey dust, rising raggedly and dotted with white puffs that renewed themselves instantly. In places, the puffs clustered thickly, merging into small, narrow clouds. Looking into the great bowl of the earth, he seemed to hover over an enormous smoking fissure in a crater whose rim was the horizon. The rumble and roar below heightened the illusion. Tiny sparks of flame darted in the fumes, and here and there flashed glittering points—the sun reflecting off advancing bayonets. Individual men were impossible to distinguish, but in occasional rifts in the dust clouds he could make out brown patches of various sizes, and to his left, on the enemy's side, similar but darker patches.
He could not scrutinize the scene below for long, as handling the machine demanded all his attention. Even at this height, the air, shaken by the incessant concussions of artillery, was full of flaws. The barograph needle flickered and oscillated violently. The monoplane tilted dangerously, now one side, now the other, caught in eddies of the turbulent air, sliding downward dizzily before climbing again. It took strong arms at the controls, a quick mind, and steady nerves to keep her on course. Glancing back, he saw the nearer of the two enemy machines, the one that had risen from their lines, also buffeted by the rough air.An intense heat, as from a vast open furnace, rose from the battlefield. It came from thousands of explosions, renewed endlessly over hours. Suffocating gusts blew into his face, carrying a smell of burning cloth. With these gusts, the roar of battle seemed to leap up. The air was oppressive, charged with electricity, heavy with the threat of a storm. Yet no cloud broke the blue sky. The machine raced onward, crossing the enemy's left flank.
Suddenly he heard a faint rattle behind him. The enemy aeroplane, realizing it hadn't cut him off, was firing. The machine shivered under a rapid series of impacts. Instinctively, he pushed the accelerator and warped the lever, shooting forward at tremendous speed. The impacts stopped. He turned his head and saw his adversary shrinking behind; the first plane had fallen far to the rear. A confident smile crossed the aviator's tight lips. He could outpace them both.
He was now above the enemy's left flank, a little to the right of the spot the Commander-in-Chief had designated as the objective. The scout switched off his engine and began a gliding descent toward the center of the enemy's position. With the engine silenced, the roar of battle burst up at him. He checked the time—12:13—and allowed himself two minutes for reconnaissance. He ignored his pursuers for the moment. Peering through the transparent panel between his feet, glasses to his eyes, the ground seemed to magnify as it slid below. Fields, houses, roads became more distinct. Keeping his gaze fixed below, he adjusted his glide and moved forward. His trained eye quickly absorbed details: the ground, the positions and rough numbers of the men massed in dark patches. Over a long stretch, the enemy line was clearly thinner; behind it the country was empty. The General's intuition was right: the enemy had weakened his left center.
Point one was confirmed. Now where had they put the withdrawn troops?
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 7 / 13
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
An intense heat, as from a vast open furnace, rose from the battlefield. It came from thousands of explosions, renewed endlessly over hours. Suffocating gusts blew into his face, carrying a smell of burning cloth. With these gusts, the roar of battle seemed to leap up. The air was oppressive, charged with electricity, heavy with the threat of a storm. Yet no cloud broke the blue sky. The machine raced onward, crossing the enemy's left flank.
Suddenly he heard a faint rattle behind him. The enemy aeroplane, realizing it hadn't cut him off, was firing. The machine shivered under a rapid series of impacts. Instinctively, he pushed the accelerator and warped the lever, shooting forward at tremendous speed. The impacts stopped. He turned his head and saw his adversary shrinking behind; the first plane had fallen far to the rear. A confident smile crossed the aviator's tight lips. He could outpace them both.
He was now above the enemy's left flank, a little to the right of the spot the Commander-in-Chief had designated as the objective. The scout switched off his engine and began a gliding descent toward the center of the enemy's position. With the engine silenced, the roar of battle burst up at him. He checked the time—12:13—and allowed himself two minutes for reconnaissance. He ignored his pursuers for the moment. Peering through the transparent panel between his feet, glasses to his eyes, the ground seemed to magnify as it slid below. Fields, houses, roads became more distinct. Keeping his gaze fixed below, he adjusted his glide and moved forward. His trained eye quickly absorbed details: the ground, the positions and rough numbers of the men massed in dark patches. Over a long stretch, the enemy line was clearly thinner; behind it the country was empty. The General's intuition was right: the enemy had weakened his left center.
Point one was confirmed. Now where had they put the withdrawn troops?As he turned to reconnoiter in that direction, he was startled to see the hostile aeroplane between him and his goal. Absorbed in his study, he had nearly forgotten it. It was slightly above and about half a mile away. He couldn't continue without coming within machine-gun range, nor could he return directly over the battle lines without passing through the crossfire of this and the other machine. Even as he realized his position, a narrow tear appeared in one wing. His nearer foe was already firing.
Quick as thought, he turned and raced off into the open country behind the battle. A plan, the only one with any chance, formed in his mind. He refused to fail this crucial mission. But first he had to escape that deadly machine-gun. He dared not climb across it at such close range. At full speed he dove away, sloping downward. The enemy followed, dropping too, to bring him into range or force him down. The scout's speedometer read 100 miles an hour. Below, trees, houses, fields rushed past in a blur. They looked oddly large after the altitude he had just left. He glanced back: the nearer pursuer was now over a mile away; the other had given up. The clock showed 12:15. In less than two minutes he had gained nearly a mile, a speed advantage of about twenty-five miles per hour. He didn't reason it out; his trained mind gave the answer instinctively. His plan was complete.
At this distance, he could risk a few moments in the machine-gun's range. He pulled up steeply. Within a minute the other plane was level, then below him. He rose at a slant, slowing his engine until his pace almost matched the machine below. Both climbed steadily.
The battle din faded behind. He flew in the apparent quiet of his own engine and the deeper bass of the other machine just audible below. He bent over his map, marked his approximate position, noted a village some twenty miles behind the battle, and drew an imaginary line southwest to the enemy's left flank.
That village would be his turning point. He would reach it, he estimated, at 12:27. The barograph showed 3,000 feet and climbing.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 8 / 13
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
As he turned to reconnoiter in that direction, he was startled to see the hostile aeroplane between him and his goal. Absorbed in his study, he had nearly forgotten it. It was slightly above and about half a mile away. He couldn't continue without coming within machine-gun range, nor could he return directly over the battle lines without passing through the crossfire of this and the other machine. Even as he realized his position, a narrow tear appeared in one wing. His nearer foe was already firing.
Quick as thought, he turned and raced off into the open country behind the battle. A plan, the only one with any chance, formed in his mind. He refused to fail this crucial mission. But first he had to escape that deadly machine-gun. He dared not climb across it at such close range. At full speed he dove away, sloping downward. The enemy followed, dropping too, to bring him into range or force him down. The scout's speedometer read 100 miles an hour. Below, trees, houses, fields rushed past in a blur. They looked oddly large after the altitude he had just left. He glanced back: the nearer pursuer was now over a mile away; the other had given up. The clock showed 12:15. In less than two minutes he had gained nearly a mile, a speed advantage of about twenty-five miles per hour. He didn't reason it out; his trained mind gave the answer instinctively. His plan was complete.
At this distance, he could risk a few moments in the machine-gun's range. He pulled up steeply. Within a minute the other plane was level, then below him. He rose at a slant, slowing his engine until his pace almost matched the machine below. Both climbed steadily.
The battle din faded behind. He flew in the apparent quiet of his own engine and the deeper bass of the other machine just audible below. He bent over his map, marked his approximate position, noted a village some twenty miles behind the battle, and drew an imaginary line southwest to the enemy's left flank.
That village would be his turning point. He would reach it, he estimated, at 12:27. The barograph showed 3,000 feet and climbing.At 12:25, he looked down at the ground. A few minutes later a handful of white cottages passed beneath him. His enemy was out of sight below and behind. But the roar of his engine, louder than the scout's own, could be heard.
Now was the moment. He abruptly turned along his chosen line and accelerated to full speed. The speedometer needle hovered over 101 miles an hour. He calculated he had about twenty miles to go before reaching the area he wanted to explore. He should reach the enemy's left flank at 12:39, spend six minutes flying over five miles of ground, and have two minutes to spare. To his trained mind, six minutes were ample. After that, it was simple to turn right and glide into his own lines. Nothing seemed able to stop him. The pursuing machine was rapidly falling behind, the slow biplane far away to the right. The sky ahead was clear of threats.
Again he approached the great belt of dust-cloud to his right, and the battle din began to overpower his engine. Directly ahead lay a dark mass of woodland; from there the enemy's screen extended. He veered left, behind it. The time was a moment past 12:38.
Below was a network of country roads.
Along four roughly parallel strands, coinciding with his course, long dense dust-clouds rose—the dust of marching columns. He glanced back at his pursuer, five or six miles behind, and reduced his engine as he began a long, gradual descent over the columns.
For mile after mile, the dust-cloud continued. He checked off distances by villages on his map. Adding the lengths, he estimated about twenty miles of road were occupied. It was a whole army corps trying to turn his flank. In the fields between roads he spotted small bodies of cavalry moving in the same direction. The mass on the roads was infantry, broken by long columns of artillery. The low, dense dust clouds were cut where guns and wagons rolled. He judged there were four brigades of artillery. He descended to 2,000 feet and stayed there as he passed over the plodding columns. His pursuer had closed some distance, but was still dangerously far. The biplane on the right was also approaching. Still, he held on easily. Nothing could stop his plan.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 9 / 13
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
At 12:25, he looked down at the ground. A few minutes later a handful of white cottages passed beneath him. His enemy was out of sight below and behind. But the roar of his engine, louder than the scout's own, could be heard.
Now was the moment. He abruptly turned along his chosen line and accelerated to full speed. The speedometer needle hovered over 101 miles an hour. He calculated he had about twenty miles to go before reaching the area he wanted to explore. He should reach the enemy's left flank at 12:39, spend six minutes flying over five miles of ground, and have two minutes to spare. To his trained mind, six minutes were ample. After that, it was simple to turn right and glide into his own lines. Nothing seemed able to stop him. The pursuing machine was rapidly falling behind, the slow biplane far away to the right. The sky ahead was clear of threats.
Again he approached the great belt of dust-cloud to his right, and the battle din began to overpower his engine. Directly ahead lay a dark mass of woodland; from there the enemy's screen extended. He veered left, behind it. The time was a moment past 12:38.
Below was a network of country roads.
Along four roughly parallel strands, coinciding with his course, long dense dust-clouds rose—the dust of marching columns. He glanced back at his pursuer, five or six miles behind, and reduced his engine as he began a long, gradual descent over the columns.
For mile after mile, the dust-cloud continued. He checked off distances by villages on his map. Adding the lengths, he estimated about twenty miles of road were occupied. It was a whole army corps trying to turn his flank. In the fields between roads he spotted small bodies of cavalry moving in the same direction. The mass on the roads was infantry, broken by long columns of artillery. The low, dense dust clouds were cut where guns and wagons rolled. He judged there were four brigades of artillery. He descended to 2,000 feet and stayed there as he passed over the plodding columns. His pursuer had closed some distance, but was still dangerously far. The biplane on the right was also approaching. Still, he held on easily. Nothing could stop his plan.He was already well beyond his army's battle line when he reached the head of the marching infantry. To his surprise, they weren't wheeling right; they continued straight on, marching away from the battle. The scout was puzzled for a moment. He searched the ground ahead for more troops. Apparently empty.
Then, from a fold in the landscape ahead, he saw another small dust-cloud. He raced toward it, overtaking it in under a minute. Below, a cavalry brigade with two horse artillery batteries trotted briskly forward. What was their goal? He scanned the land in front. About three miles ahead was a wooded hill. He checked the map: it commanded the main retreat route for his army. The enemy's plan was now clear: seize the hill with cavalry and artillery until infantry arrived. If his own commander aimed to repeat Salamanca, the enemy was trying to reenact Jackson's march at Chancellorsville. The danger was urgent. Within half an hour the enemy cavalry would take that hill; in an hour the infantry would arrive. Where was the Sixth Division he'd been told could counter the move? He looked for it, saw a brown mass about two miles from the hill. Their cavalry might get there in fifteen minutes with a rapid dash.
He had a quarter of an hour to deliver his message and set the division in motion. It was 12:46.
He turned toward his own lines and started a slow glide down. Taking one hand off the controls, he quickly wrote a clear, concise report in his book. Even if he didn't survive, his message might. He looked up to see his persistent pursuer swooping to intercept him. Time was critical. He tore out the page, stuffed it into the weighted message bag, and tied it. Then he restarted the engine and aimed for the Sixth Division.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 10 / 13
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He was already well beyond his army's battle line when he reached the head of the marching infantry. To his surprise, they weren't wheeling right; they continued straight on, marching away from the battle. The scout was puzzled for a moment. He searched the ground ahead for more troops. Apparently empty.
Then, from a fold in the landscape ahead, he saw another small dust-cloud. He raced toward it, overtaking it in under a minute. Below, a cavalry brigade with two horse artillery batteries trotted briskly forward. What was their goal? He scanned the land in front. About three miles ahead was a wooded hill. He checked the map: it commanded the main retreat route for his army. The enemy's plan was now clear: seize the hill with cavalry and artillery until infantry arrived. If his own commander aimed to repeat Salamanca, the enemy was trying to reenact Jackson's march at Chancellorsville. The danger was urgent. Within half an hour the enemy cavalry would take that hill; in an hour the infantry would arrive. Where was the Sixth Division he'd been told could counter the move? He looked for it, saw a brown mass about two miles from the hill. Their cavalry might get there in fifteen minutes with a rapid dash.
He had a quarter of an hour to deliver his message and set the division in motion. It was 12:46.
He turned toward his own lines and started a slow glide down. Taking one hand off the controls, he quickly wrote a clear, concise report in his book. Even if he didn't survive, his message might. He looked up to see his persistent pursuer swooping to intercept him. Time was critical. He tore out the page, stuffed it into the weighted message bag, and tied it. Then he restarted the engine and aimed for the Sixth Division.Something made him look left. He was shocked to see a large biplane rushing up from the wooded hill. It had evidently landed to repair and hidden behind their lines. He recognized it—the swiftest and most powerful machine on either side. In seconds he would be in its range. To his right, the other plane was rapidly approaching. Ahead, the slow biplane had crossed the lines and was heading straight for him. Three machines were converging. The scout saw he would be forced away or destroyed, with his message undelivered.
He pulled up and climbed. If he could get above the Sixth Division for even an instant, he could throw down the message bag. But to do that, he had to gain altitude. At his current level he'd be riddled. His adversaries also climbed, but he gained on them.
As they circled upward, he watched for an opening when both would be turned away. The moment came; he dove at full speed. The earth rushed up, features swelling. The brown mass of the Sixth Division broke into battalions below him.
They were directly underneath. He flung out the message bag with a silent prayer. Both enemies were closing in. He thought he heard their guns, but the roar of his own engine made it uncertain.
Down and down the three machines plunged. Suddenly he noticed the slow biplane directly ahead, lower than he was, very close. He saw the pale face of the gunner. If he turned, he'd be under its fire. If he kept on, he'd crash into it. His choice was instantaneous and instinctive. He held his course. A single thought consumed him: had his message been picked up? If not…? He saw the shiny wing surfaces nearly beneath him and braced for impact. Another second—the yellow canvas suddenly swung left and crumpled in a blinding flash. He hadn't touched it. He swerved right and shot past something falling, flaming. A shell from below had struck the biplane at that instant.
He had a confused sense of other shells exploding around him. A battery was firing at the enemy aircraft, regardless of danger to him. He continued his dive, feeling, not knowing, that the other two planes were close behind. If only he could be sure his message was found!
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 11 / 13
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Something made him look left. He was shocked to see a large biplane rushing up from the wooded hill. It had evidently landed to repair and hidden behind their lines. He recognized it—the swiftest and most powerful machine on either side. In seconds he would be in its range. To his right, the other plane was rapidly approaching. Ahead, the slow biplane had crossed the lines and was heading straight for him. Three machines were converging. The scout saw he would be forced away or destroyed, with his message undelivered.
He pulled up and climbed. If he could get above the Sixth Division for even an instant, he could throw down the message bag. But to do that, he had to gain altitude. At his current level he'd be riddled. His adversaries also climbed, but he gained on them.
As they circled upward, he watched for an opening when both would be turned away. The moment came; he dove at full speed. The earth rushed up, features swelling. The brown mass of the Sixth Division broke into battalions below him.
They were directly underneath. He flung out the message bag with a silent prayer. Both enemies were closing in. He thought he heard their guns, but the roar of his own engine made it uncertain.
Down and down the three machines plunged. Suddenly he noticed the slow biplane directly ahead, lower than he was, very close. He saw the pale face of the gunner. If he turned, he'd be under its fire. If he kept on, he'd crash into it. His choice was instantaneous and instinctive. He held his course. A single thought consumed him: had his message been picked up? If not…? He saw the shiny wing surfaces nearly beneath him and braced for impact. Another second—the yellow canvas suddenly swung left and crumpled in a blinding flash. He hadn't touched it. He swerved right and shot past something falling, flaming. A shell from below had struck the biplane at that instant.
He had a confused sense of other shells exploding around him. A battery was firing at the enemy aircraft, regardless of danger to him. He continued his dive, feeling, not knowing, that the other two planes were close behind. If only he could be sure his message was found!He flung a glance back. The powerful biplane was right behind him. Why weren't they firing? He felt like a target, surprised not to see bullet holes appear. Then it hit him: their gun had jammed. They were going to ram him, sacrificing themselves to stop him from landing his information. They were almost upon him. He swerved and dodged; the biplane shot past.
Immediately, the other machine appeared close, its gun firing. He dove. A line of trees rushed up, frighteningly close. Their dark foliage seemed to explode in black puffs over his eyes.
He swerved instinctively, saw a meadow burst through the smoke, the ground flying up. With a desperate effort, he banked. His hands slipped from the controls—everything spun. He was dimly aware of a heavy impact from beneath…
Something burned his throat. He opened his eyes and looked into a man's face close to his. Consciousness rushed back. He pushed away the brandy flask pressed to his lips and struggled to stand. Strong arms held him up. Several men gathered around, staring. He was near a road, where he thought he saw artillery batteries galloping at full tilt. He couldn't be sure they were real—they passed like phantoms before his eyes. He needed to ask something, but the thought slipped away. His hand felt for the duplicate report book in his pocket, now gone. A fragment of his anxiety surfaced.
"What—what guns are those?" he asked thickly.
"Divisional artillery—Sixth Division," came the reply. "Everything's fine. We got your message."
The scout touched his forehead and looked at his hand; it was red.
"It's all right," the voice said. "You're hit, but not badly. Lie down."
The scout struggled to hold onto a final thought.
"What—what time is it?" he asked.
"Just one o'clock." The voice seemed to come from far away, though the man's face was close. "They're in time—don't worry. Lie down; the ambulances will be here any minute."
The scout remained standing.
"The—the other planes?"
"We got them both. You made a perfect landing—like a kite." The voice echoed from a distance.
The aviator put his hand to his head.
"In time!" he whispered, as if exhausted.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 12 / 13
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He flung a glance back. The powerful biplane was right behind him. Why weren't they firing? He felt like a target, surprised not to see bullet holes appear. Then it hit him: their gun had jammed. They were going to ram him, sacrificing themselves to stop him from landing his information. They were almost upon him. He swerved and dodged; the biplane shot past.
Immediately, the other machine appeared close, its gun firing. He dove. A line of trees rushed up, frighteningly close. Their dark foliage seemed to explode in black puffs over his eyes.
He swerved instinctively, saw a meadow burst through the smoke, the ground flying up. With a desperate effort, he banked. His hands slipped from the controls—everything spun. He was dimly aware of a heavy impact from beneath…
Something burned his throat. He opened his eyes and looked into a man's face close to his. Consciousness rushed back. He pushed away the brandy flask pressed to his lips and struggled to stand. Strong arms held him up. Several men gathered around, staring. He was near a road, where he thought he saw artillery batteries galloping at full tilt. He couldn't be sure they were real—they passed like phantoms before his eyes. He needed to ask something, but the thought slipped away. His hand felt for the duplicate report book in his pocket, now gone. A fragment of his anxiety surfaced.
"What—what guns are those?" he asked thickly.
"Divisional artillery—Sixth Division," came the reply. "Everything's fine. We got your message."
The scout touched his forehead and looked at his hand; it was red.
"It's all right," the voice said. "You're hit, but not badly. Lie down."
The scout struggled to hold onto a final thought.
"What—what time is it?" he asked.
"Just one o'clock." The voice seemed to come from far away, though the man's face was close. "They're in time—don't worry. Lie down; the ambulances will be here any minute."
The scout remained standing.
"The—the other planes?"
"We got them both. You made a perfect landing—like a kite." The voice echoed from a distance.
The aviator put his hand to his head.
"In time!" he whispered, as if exhausted.The man supporting him turned quickly and raised his binoculars toward the wooded hill. White puffs were exploding in the air above it.
Left unattended, the scout staggered, his hands outstretched like a blind man. The field spun around him with terrible speed, then rushed up to meet him.
The officer with binoculars ignored his fallen body, shouting joyfully, "We beat them on the post! By Lord, we beat them on the post!"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-0461e32b66d0405ba42f49ff3726c238
# book_title: The Air Scout
# chapter_id: 1-the-air-scout
# chapter_title: The Air Scout
# book_page: 13 / 13
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The man supporting him turned quickly and raised his binoculars toward the wooded hill. White puffs were exploding in the air above it.
Left unattended, the scout staggered, his hands outstretched like a blind man. The field spun around him with terrible speed, then rushed up to meet him.
The officer with binoculars ignored his fallen body, shouting joyfully, "We beat them on the post! By Lord, we beat them on the post!"
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