Meanwhile, Guynemer's engine was singing.
And for the fourth time it was heard again at twilight. Could it be
possible? Had Guynemer really succeeded four times? Four machines
brought down in one day by one pilot was what no infantryman, gunner,
pioneer, territorial, Anamite or Senegalese had ever seen. And from the
stations, field hospitals, dugouts, depots, parks and cantonments, while
the setting sun lingered in the sky on this May evening, whoever handled
a shovel, a pickaxe or a rifle, whoever laid down rails, unloaded
trucks, piled up cases, or broke stones on the road, whoever dressed
wounds, gave medicine or carried dead men, whoever worked, rested, ate
or drank--whoever was alive, in a word--stepped out, ran, jostled
along, arrived at the camp, got helterskelter over the fences, broke
into the sheds, searched the airplanes, and called to the mechanicians
in their wild desire to see Guynemer. There they were, a whole town of
them, knocking at every door and peeping into every tent.
Somebody said: "Guynemer is asleep."
Whereupon, without a word of protest, without a sound, the crowd
streamed out and scattered in the darkening fields, threading its way
back to the quiet dells behind the lines.
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