Air Service Boys Over the Atlantic | Page 7

beneath they could see by the aid of the
powerful binoculars marching columns of soldiers, all heading toward

the northwest. These they knew to be the German forces, making one
of their regular daily retreats in fairly good order.
Behind them the Hun armies left innumerable nests of
machine-gunners to dispute the advance of the Yankee battalions, and
hold them in check, even at the price of utter annihilation. Many times
the men selected for this sacrifice to the Fatherland held grimly on until
they were completely wiped out by the sweep of the Americans.
Occasionally one of the Yankee pilots, provoked because none of the
enemy dared to accept the gauge of battle he flung before them, would
swoop down and try to make a target of these marching columns. Then
for a brief period there would be exciting work, with the machine gun
of the scurrying plane splashing its spray of bullets amidst the
scurrying soldiers, and the daring pilot in return taking their volleys.
Perhaps, if the boldness of the Americans caused them to take too great
chances, there might be one less plane return to its starting point that
day; and the report would be brought in that the pilot had "met his fate
in the discharge of his duty."
Wearied at length of the useless task, the Air Service Boys finally gave
it up for that afternoon. Jack in particular showed signs of keen
disappointment, for he always chafed under inaction.
"There was some talk of another raid for tonight, you remember, Tom,"
he said, when they once more alighted and gave the plane over into the
charge of the hostlers; "and if it turns out that way I only hope we're
detailed to go along to guard the bombers. It's growing worse and
worse right along these days, when Fritz seems to have gotten cold feet
and refuses to accept a dare."
"I see fellows reading letters," remarked Tom suddenly. "Let's hope
there is something for us."
"It's been a long time since I heard from home," sighed Jack. "I
certainly hope everything is going on well in old Virginia these days.
There's Captain Peters waving something at us right now, Tom!"

"Letters, Jack, and a sheaf of them at that!"
"Come on, let's run!" urged the impatient one, suiting his actions to the
words by starting off on a gallop.
Tom took it a little more slowly so that when he arrived and received
his letters from the aviation instructor, who happened to be in the camp
at the time, Jack was already deeply immersed in one which he had
received.
It was late in the afternoon. The sun hung low in the west, looking fiery
red, which promised a fair day on the morrow. Once he had his letters,
however, Tom paid but scant attention to anything else.
His news from Virginia must have been pleasant, if one could judge
from the smile that rested upon his wind and sun-tanned face as he read
on. Again in memory he could see those loved ones in the old familiar
haunts, going about their daily tasks, or enjoying themselves as usual.
And whenever they sat under the well-remembered tree in the cool of
the early fall evening, with the soft Virginia air fanning their cheeks,
the red and golden hues of frost-touched leaves above them, he knew
their talk was mostly of him, the absent one, most fondly loved.
Tom looked up. He thought he had heard a groan, or something very
similar, break from the lips of his chum. It startled Tom so that when he
saw how troubled Jack looked a spasm of alarm gripped his heart.
"Why, what is the matter with you?" he cried, leaning forward and
laying a hand on the other's arm. "Have you had bad news from home?"
Jack nodded his head, and as he turned his eyes his chum saw there was
a look of acute anxiety in them.
"No one dead, or sick, I hope, Jack?" continued the other
apprehensively.
"No, at least that is spared me, Tom; they are all well. But just the same,
it's a bad muddle. And the worst of it is I'm thousands of miles off, held

up by army regulations, when I ought to get home for a short visit right
away."
"See here, is it anything connected with that Burson property--has that
matter come to a head at last?" demanded Tom, as a light dawned upon
him.
"Nothing less," assented the other gloomily. "The issue has been
suddenly forced, and may be settled any day. If I'm not there, according
to the eccentric will of my uncle, Joshua Adams Kinkaid, that property
will fall into the hands of my cousin, Randolph Carringford, who, as
we both know, is just at present