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Page 2
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
The Hosts of the Air, Frontispiece
"Once they came to the very edge of the trench to be slain there" 28
"'You! You! Is it really you?' she cried" 260
"Now the aeroplanes flew at almost incredible speed,
the _Arrow_ always at their head", 332
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.
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