Grace Harlowe with the American Army on the Rhine

A LEAP FROM THE SKIES

GRACE HARLOWE regarded him calmly, rather to the surprise of the balloonist, for he had feared a different attitude.

“What are the probabilities, sir?” she asked.

“Oh, we are certain to get down, Mrs. Gray.”

“But – ” She smiled doubtfully.

“We are getting higher all the time, and I am in hopes that we shall run into a counter-current that will drive us back over our own lines. Once there we can come down with nothing more than a shaking up. We can do that anyway if we do not become mixed up with more currents.”

“But, sir, I do not see how getting back to our own lines is going to be of much assistance to us. Granting that we reach a current of air that will take us over our lines, haven’t we got to pass through the present level to get down, and will not that level blow us toward the Rhine again? We might keep on seesawing indefinitely, it appears to me.”

“You surely have a head on your shoulders, young woman,” answered the major laughingly. “This being the case I’ll tell you the truth. We are in a fix. The best we can do at the moment is to let the bag drift where it will, hoping for the best. Provided it doesn’t carry us too far away, the wind probably will at least moderate by sundown, then I shall liberate some gas and we will make a landing. To try it in this wind would mean that the ship surely would be torn to pieces and that quite probably we would share a similar fate.”

“How long can the balloon be depended upon to stay up?”

“Until sometime to-morrow morning. Of course if it takes a great altitude it is liable to burst, but I shall try not to let it get up that high.”

“It is a cheerful outlook, Major. I thank you for your frankness, just the same. It is considerable satisfaction to know just what the probabilities are.”

As she was speaking, the officer, with glasses to his eyes, was studying the terrain ahead of them. Grace applied her own glasses to her eyes and gazed off to the eastward. She could make out the narrow ribbon of water, a crooked ribbon it was, that marked the course of the Rhine. Beyond it were rugged, terraced hills which she knew were vineyards, here and there the towers of a castle relieving the monotony of the hills. She was interrupted by a shout from the pilot.

“Here we go back,” he cried. “In another level now. That’s good.”

It was not long before they had swept over the marching American army, now so far below them that it could be made out only with the binoculars. The major liberated a little gas, whereupon the big bag was caught in a blast and driven to the eastward again. This time he let the ship go. There was no other safe course to follow. As it swept through the air it gained in altitude again, but did not go so high as before. Soon the earth was blotted out by a sea of clouds, which only now and then broke sufficiently to give the aviators a view of what lay beneath the cloud-sea.

“We must go lower,” the pilot told her, opening the gas valve ever so little, whereupon the balloon slowly sank through the clouds and the earth grew into their vision.

Something pinged through the air close at hand. Grace Harlowe had heard that sound many times since she arrived on the western front, and so had the major. It was a bullet, probably a rifle bullet. She flashed a significant glance at her companion and he nodded.

Ping! Another bullet had flung itself up from the earth.

The major threw over some ballast, which in this instance proved to be one of his sailing instruments.

“Sorry, but I had to do it,” he explained in answer to her look of inquiry. “Of course I might throw myself out, but that would be too much ballast and you never would stop going heavenward until the outfit blew up.”

Grace laughed and the officer joined in the laugh. The balloon had quickly shot through the clouds and was sailing along, the basket just grazing the tops of them. It was a wonderful spectacle, which the Overton girl, despite her serious situation, found time to gaze upon, and marvel at the beauties of cloudland.

All at once the clouds broke up into huge banks of black and white vapor, and looking down the officer saw that they had been swept back some little distance to the westward. He reasoned that they were about over the spot where the shots had been fired, which proved to be the range of terraced hills on the eastern side of the river.

“I told you we would reach the Rhine before the army did,” he chuckled.

Ping!

A little chip of wicker was neatly snipped from one corner of the basket. Grace Harlowe regarded it questioningly, and grinned.

“I thought you said the war was ended, sir,” she said, glancing over at him.

“Huns!” he replied explosively. “What can one expect?”

“What I am concerned about principally, sir, is what would happen to us if the gas bag were hit by a rifle bullet. Would it be a serious matter for us?”

He nodded.

“We would be obliged to give up our joy ride and go home.”

Ping! Pock!

“Hit!” exclaimed the major, glancing up apprehensively at the bag.

“I heard it, sir. Are we losing altitude?”

“Not much, but we shall be soon. Yes, she’s settling a little now. Look up.”

Grace did so and observed a fold in the bag that had not been there before, showing that some gas had escaped.

“How long will it take to let us down?”

“About twenty minutes. We shall go down faster after a little. Look over your harness and make certain that the lines are not fouled,” he directed, taking his own advice. “Just in case of emergency,” he nodded.

“They seem to be all right, sir,” Grace informed him. “You do not think we shall have to use them, do you?”

Major Colt shook his head.

“Not at this rate of descent.”

Ping! Pock!

They had been hit again. Grace found herself admiring the shooting, for it really was excellent work, probably done with an automatic rifle in the hands of a former enemy sharpshooter.

The major cast an anxious glance up at the swaying bag, then down at that which was slowly assuming the appearance of Mother Earth. He was disturbed, not for himself but because of his passenger. Grace observed his distress.

“Don’t worry, Major. You know you said that nothing serious possibly could happen on this voyage, now that the war is over.”

“I take it back. The war isn’t over. It will be over mighty quickly, though, if I get my hands on the miserable Boche who is trying to shoot us down.”

“Trying to? He already has,” corrected the Overton girl.

There were now several folds in the big envelope, the sides of which seemed to be respirating like those of some huge animal, and they were falling altogether too rapidly to leave much hope for what was to come.

“We shall be down in a heap soon,” announced the officer calmly. “Mrs. Gray, are you in full possession of your nerve?”

“I think so. Why?”

“Because you’ve got to jump.”

“Oh!” “Captain” Grace could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over her. “Ho – ow – ho – ow high are we?”