The Hosts of the Air by Joseph A. Altsheler (books under 200 pages txt) 📕

By JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER THE CIVIL WAR SERIES

The Star of Gettysburg
The Guns of Bull Run
The Guns of Shiloh
The Scouts of Stonewall
The Sword of Antietam
The Rock of Chickamauga

THE WORLD WAR SERIES

The Guns of Europe
The Hosts of the Air
The Forest of Swords

THE YOUNG TRAILERS SERIES

The Young Trailers
The Forest Runners
The Free Rangers
The Riflemen of the Ohio
The Scouts of the Valley
The Border Watch

THE TEXAN SERIES

The Texan Star
The Texan Scouts
The Texan Triumph

Apache Gold
The Quest of the Four
The Last of the Chiefs
In Circling Camps
A Soldier of Manhattan
The Sun of Saratoga
A Herald of the West
The Wilderness Road
My Captive

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK

The Hosts of the Air

WORLD WAR SERIES THE HOSTS OF THE AIR THE STORY OF A QUEST IN THE GREAT WAR BY JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER AUTHOR OF THE GUNS OF EUROPE, THE FOREST OF SWORDS, ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLES WRENN

 

D. Appleton and Company
New York and London 1915 FOREWORD

"The Hosts of the Air" is the third and concluding volume of the World War Series, of which "The Forest of Swords" and "The Guns of Europe" were the predecessors. It deals primarily with the love story of John Scott and Julie Lannes, but all the characters of the earlier books reappear in this romance also.

CONTENTS   CHAPTER I   THE TRENCH CHAPTER II   THE YOUNG AUSTRIAN CHAPTER III   JULIE'S COMING CHAPTER IV   THE HOTEL AT CHASTEL CHAPTER V   THE REGISTER CHAPTER VI   JOHN'S RESOLVE CHAPTER VII   THE PURSUIT CHAPTER VIII   INTO GERMANY CHAPTER IX   THE GREAT CASTLE CHAPTER X   THE FAIR CAPTIVE CHAPTER XI   THE EFFICIENT HOSTLER CHAPTER XII   THE HUNTING LODGE CHAPTER XIII   THE DANGEROUS FLIGHT CHAPTER XIV   THE HAPPY ESCAPE LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS   The Hosts of the Air "Once they came to the very edge of the trench to be slain there" "'You! You! Is it really you?' she cried" "Now the aeroplanes flew at almost incredible speed, the Arrow always at their head" THE HOSTS OF THE AIR CHAPTER I THE TRENCH

A young man was shaving. His feet rested upon a broad plank embedded in mud, and the tiny glass in which he saw himself hung upon a wall of raw, reeking earth. A sky, somber and leaden, arched above him, and now and then flakes of snow fell in the sodden trench, but John Scott went on placidly with his task.

The face that looked back at him had been changed greatly in the last six months. The smoothness of early youth was gone—for the time—and serious lines showed about the mouth and eyes. His cheeks were thinner and there was a slight sinking at the temples, telling of great privations, and of dangers endured. But the features were much stronger. The six months had been in effect six years. The boy of Dresden had become the man of the trenches.

He finished, rubbed his hand over his face to satisfy himself that the last trace of young beard and mustache was gone, put away his shaving materials in a little niche that he had dug with his own hands in the wall of the trench, and turned to the Englishman.

"Am I all right, Carstairs?" he asked.

"You do very well. There's mud on your boots, but I suppose you can't help it. The melting snow in our trench makes soggy footing in spite of all we can do. But you're trim, Scott. That new gray uniform with the blue threads running through it becomes you. All the Strangers are thankful for the change. It's a great improvement over those long blue coats and baggy red trousers."

"But we don't have any chance to show 'em," said Wharton, who sat upon a small stool, reading a novel. "Did I ever think that war would come to this? Buried while yet alive! A few feet of cold and muddy trench in which to pass one's life! This is an English story I'm reading. The lovely Lady Ermentrude and the gallant Sir Harold are walking in the garden among the roses, and he's about to ask her the great question. There are roses, roses, and the deep green grass and greener oaks everywhere, with the soft English shadows coming and going over them. The birds are singing in the boughs. I suppose they're nightingales, but do nightingales sing in the daytime? And when I shut my book I see only walls of raw, red earth, and a floor, likewise of earth, but stickier and more hideous. Even the narrow strip of sky above our heads is the color of lead, and has nothing soft about it."

"If you'll stand up straight," said John, "maybe you'll see the rural landscape for which you're evidently longing."

"And catch a German bullet between the eyes! Not for me. While I was taking a trip down to the end of our line this morning I raised my head by chance above the edge of the trench, and quick as a wink a sharpshooter cut off one of my precious brown locks. I could have my hair trimmed that way if I were patient and careful enough. Ah, here comes a messenger!"

They heard a roar that turned to a shriek, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a black shadow passing over their heads. Then a huge shell burst behind them, and the air was filled with hissing fragments of steel. But in their five feet of earth they were untouched, although horrible fumes as of lyddite or some other hideous compound assailed them.

"This is the life," said Wharton, resuming his usual cheerfulness. "I take back what I said about our beautiful trench. Just now I appreciate it more than I would the greenest and loveliest landscape in England or all America. Oh, it's a glorious trench! A splendid fortress for weak human flesh, finer than any castle that was ever built!"

"Don't be dithyrambic, Wharton," said Carstairs. "Besides the change is too sudden. It hasn't been a minute since you were pouring abuse upon our safe and happy little trench."

"It's time for the Germans to begin," said John, looking at his watch. "We'd better lie close for the next hour."

They heard the shrieking of more shells and soon the whole earth rocked with the fire of the great guns. The hostile trenches were only a few hundred yards in front of them, but the German batteries all masked, or placed in pits, were much further away. The French cannon were stationed in like fashion behind their own trenches.

John and his comrades, for the allotted hour, hugged the side of the trench nearest to the Germans. The shells from the heavy guns came at regular intervals. Far in the rear men were killed and others were wounded, but no fragment of steel dropped in their trench. There was not much danger unless one of the shells should burst almost directly over their heads, and they were so used to these bombardments that they paid little attention to them, except to keep close as long as they lasted.

Wharton resumed his novel, Carstairs, sitting on one end of a rude wooden bench, began a game of solitaire, and John, at the other end, gave himself over to dreaming, which the regulated thunder of many cannon did not disturb at all.

It had been months now since he had parted with Philip and Julie Lannes. He had seen Philip twice since, but Julie not at all When the German army made a successful stand near the river Aisne, and both sides went into trenches, Lannes had come in the Arrow and, in reply to John's restrained but none the less eager questions, had said that Julie was safe in Paris again with her mother, Antoine Picard and the faithful Suzanne. She had wanted to return to the front as a Red Cross nurse, but Madame Lannes would not let her go.

A month later he saw Lannes again and Julie was still in the capital, but he inferred from Philip's words rather than his tone that she was impatient. Thousands of French girls were at the front, attending to the wounded, and sharing hardship and danger. John knew that Julie had a will like her brother's and he believed that, in time, she would surely come again to the battle lines.

The thought made him smile, and he felt a light glow pass over his face. He knew it was due to the belief that he would see Julie once more, and yet the trenches now extended about four hundred miles across Northern France and Belgium. The chances seemed a hundred to one against her arrival in the particular trench, honored by the presence of the Strangers, but John felt that in reality they were a hundred to one in favor of it. He wished it so earnestly that it must come true.

"You're smiling, Scott," said Carstairs. "A good honest English penny for your thoughts."

"What do I care for money? What could I do with it if I had it, held here between walls of mud only four feet apart?"

"At least," interrupted Wharton, "the high cost of living is not troubling us. Next month's rent may come from where it pleases. It doesn't bother me."

A messenger turned the angle of the trench and summoned John to the presence of his commander, Captain Colton, who was about three hundred yards away. Young Scott, stooping in order to keep his head covered well, started down the trench. The artillery fire was at its height. The waves of air followed one another with great violence, and the fumes of picric acid and of other acids that he did not know became very strong. But he scarcely noticed it. The bombardment was all in the day's work, and when the Germans ceased, the French, after a decent interval, would begin their own cannonade, carried on at equal length.

John thought little of the fire of the guns, now almost a regular affair like the striking of a clock, but force of habit kept his head down and no German sharpshooter watching in the trench opposite had a chance at him. He advanced through a vast burrow. Trenches ran parallel, and other trenches cut across them. One could wander through them for miles. Most of them were uncovered, but others had roofs, partial or complete, of thatch or boards or canvas. Many had little alcoves and shelves, dug out by the patient hands of the soldiers, and these niches contained their most precious belongings.

Back of the trenches often lay great heaps of refuse like the kitchen middens of primeval man. Attempts at coziness had achieved a little success in some places, but nearly everywhere the abode of burrowing soldiers was raw, rank and fetid. Heavy and hideous odors arose from the four hundred miles of unwashed armies. Men lived amid disease, dirt and death. Civilization built up slowly through painful centuries had come to a sudden stop, and once more they were savages in caves seeking to destroy one another.

This, at least, was the external aspect of it, but the flower of civilization was still sound at the stem. When the storm was over it would grow and bloom again amid the wreckage. French and Germans, in the intervals of battle, were often friendly with each other. They listened to the songs of the foe, and sometimes at night they talked together. John recognized the feeling. He knew that man at the core had not really returned to a savage state, and a soldier, but not a believer in war, he looked forward to the time when the grass should grow again over the vast maze of trenches.

A shell bursting almost overhead put all such thoughts out of his mind for the present. A hot piece of metal shooting downward struck