that front which she could not see but where, she knew, the line on the ground was broken and gone and where the Germans, who were "coming on," must be pouring through. And her mind showed her in the pilot's seat of one of those airplanes—or in one just like them somewhere on that broken front—Gerry Hull. Vividly she fancied his face as he flew to fight and to make up, as well as one man might, for the millions of his people who should have been yesterday and today upon that broken battle line where the enemy, at last, had broken through!
Ruth could not know then all that a break "through" meant; no one could know; for in all the fighting in France, no army had broken "through" before. She could know only that upon her, as an American quite as much as Gerry Hull, was the charge to do her uttermost.
But what was she to do?
Gerry, arriving that morning at the airdrome to which he had been ordered, possessed the advantage over her of no uncertainty but of definite assignment to duty.
During his training and his service with the French, he had piloted many sorts of machines. He had flown the reconnaissance and photographic biplanes with duty merely to bring back information of the enemy's movements; he had flown the bombing machines entrusted with destruction, by aerial torpedo, of batteries, and ammunition dumps behind the enemy's front; he had flown the "artillery machines"—the biplanes with wireless by which he, or his observer, signaled to the French batteries the fall of their shots and guided the guns to the true targets; he had flown, as all the world knew, the swift-darting avions de chasse—the airplanes of pursuit—the Nieuports and
