One more circle! How slack the engine sounded
to him! One more circle! Now it was impossible to wait any more: he must
go back alone.
On landing, his first word was to ask about Guynemer.
"Not back yet!"
Bozon-Verduraz knew it. He knew that Guynemer had been taken away from
him.
The telephone and the wireless sent their appeals around, airplanes
started on anxious cruises. Hour followed hour, and evening came, one of
those late summer evenings during which the horizon wears the tints of
flowers; the shadows deepened, and no news came of Guynemer. From
neighboring camps French, British, or Belgian comrades arrived, anxious
for news. Everywhere the latest birds had come home, and one hardly
dared ask the airmen any question.
But the daily routine had to be dispatched, as if there were no mourning
in the camp. All the young men there were used to death, and to sporting
with it; they did not like to show their sorrow; but it was deep in
them, sullen and fierce.
At dinner a heavy melancholy weighed upon them. Guynemer's seat was
empty, and no one dreamed of taking it.
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