Here and there in the streets he met sentinels and occasionally an airplane sailed overhead.

How he envied the men in those airplanes! He glanced in through broken windows at the interiors of simple abodes which the bestial Huns had devastated.

It thrilled him that the boys from America had dragged and driven the enemy out of these homes and would dig their protecting trenches around the other side of this stricken village, like a great embracing arm.

It stirred him to think that it was now within the refuge of the American lines and that the arrogant Prussian officers could no longer defile those low, raftered rooms.
He inquired of a sentinel where he could get some gasoline which he would need later.
"There's a supply station along that road," the man said; "just beyond the clearing." Tom turned in that direction.

The road took him out of the village and through a little clump of woods to a clearing where several Americans were guarding a couple of big gasoline tanks--part of the spoils of war.
He lingered for a few minutes and then strolled on toward the edge of the denser wood beyond where the firing, though less frequent, could still be heard.
He intended to go just far enough into this wood for a glimpse of the forest shade which his scouting had taught him to love, and then to return to headquarters for his machine.
Crossing a plank bridge across a narrow stream, he paused in the edge of the woods and listened to the firing which still occurred at intervals in the higher ground beyond.