Aces Up

Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

Aces Up

By

Covington Clarke

The Reilly & Lee Co.

Chicago--New York

Aces Up

Copyright 1929 By The Reilly & Lee Co.

Printed In The U.S.A.

"By the shore of life and the gate of breath, There are more things waiting for men than death."

Aces Up

Chapter I

The New Instructor

1

Tex Yancey, called "The Flying Fool" by his comrades in the --th Pursuit Squadron of the American Expeditionary Force, entered the mess hall with lips pressed into a thin, mirthless grin that seemed entirely inappropriate in one who was thirty minutes late to mess and must therefore make out with what was left. The other members of the squadron had finished their meal and were now engaged in the usual after-dinner practice of spinning some tall yarns.

Yancey stalked slowly to his place at the long table, but instead of seating himself stood with hands thrust deep into his pockets and with his long, thin legs spread wide apart. For a full minute he stood there, seeming to be mildly interested in the tale that Hank Porter was telling. But those who knew Tex, as did the members of this squadron, knew that the cynical smile on his thin lips was but the forerunner of some mirthless thing from which only "The Flying Fool" would be able to wring a laugh. His was such a grotesque sense of humor; a highly impractical practical joke was his idea of a riotous time. Someone in the squadron, who had once felt the sting of one of his pranks, had called him a fool, and another member had responded, "Yeah, he's a fool, all right--but a flyin' fool!" The tribute had become a nickname, and Yancey rather reveled in it.

Just now his smile was masking some grim joke and his eyes held the mild light of pity.

"Well, Hank," he drawled at last, when Porter had wound up his story, "that yarn, as much as I get of it, would lead the average _hombre_ to pick you out as a sho' 'nuff flyer. I would myself. Me, I'm easy fooled that way. I reckon all you buckaroos think you know somethin' about flyin', eh?"

Standing a full six feet two, he looked down upon them, the look of pity still in his eyes in strange conflict with the mirthless smile still on his lips.

"What's eatin' you?" Porter growled. "We can't help it because you're late for mess. Where've you been?"

Siddons and Hampden, not greatly interested in what they felt was some new strained humor on Yancey's part, pushed back from the table and started for the door, their objective being the French town of Is Sur Tille.

Yancey waited until they were near the door before he answered Porter.

"Oh, I've just been over to Is Sur Tille havin' a look-see at this new instructor that's comin' down here to teach us how to fly."

Siddons, with his hand upon the door, wheeled abruptly and studied Yancey's face, trying to discover the jest hidden behind that baffling, masking smile.

"Are you joking us?" he demanded from the doorway, but sufficiently convinced to turn back.

The "Flying Fool" smiled sweetly. "Why, Siddons, I wouldn't kid you-all about that sort o' thing," he drawled. "I saw him myself, in town, ridin' in a car with the C.O.[A] Like as not the Major will bring him in here this evenin' for a little chin-chin."

A suppressed growl arose from the other pilots.

"What is he coming here for?" young Edouard Fouche demanded, knowing the answer but anxious to have it brought out in the open where it could be attacked and vilified by all.

Yancey seated himself, tilted his chair back from the table and bestowed another sweet smile upon a room filled with scowling faces. It was a delicious moment--for Tex.

"Why, he's comin' here to teach you poor worms how to fly. It seems that someone back in the States made a mistake in thinkin' we were pilots. We're here by accident. Ha! Ha! That's what we are--just accidents. Did you boys think we were sent over here to get all messed up in this little old war? Tut, tut! We're here just to add grandeur to the colorless scenery. Now be nice to this fellow when he comes. Maybe after he has labored with us for a while we'll be turned into ferry pilots and be sent to ferryin' planes up to the regular guys. I'm so glad I horned in on this scrap; it's so well planned and--and thrillin'."

More growls. Tex wasn't being at all funny. Indeed, if this ridiculous story were true, then it was the last straw on the camel's back. Had they not already suffered enough?

The squadron had been in France for two weeks, an interminable time to the restless group of young airmen who, booted and belted and ready for the fray, now found themselves suddenly faced with the prospect of still more training and when as yet they had not the haziest notion of the type of ship that was to be given them for mounts. One rumor had it that they were to get American ships powered by a much-talked-of mystery motor. Very well, but where were those ships? Another rumor, equally persistent, was to the effect that they were to draw French Spads. Very well again, but where were the Spads? Still other rumors included Camels, Sopwiths, Nieuports and Pups. One rumor, uglier and more maddening than all the others, was to the effect that the entire squadron was to be used in observation work. Fancy that! A pursuit pilot being given a slow-moving observation crate with a one-winged, half-baked observer giving orders from the rear cockpit! It was enough to make a man wish he had joined the Marines. What was the good of all their combat training if they were to poke around over the front in busses that were meat for any enemy plane that chanced to sight them? It was enough to make a sane squadron go crazy, and the --th Pursuit Squadron was known throughout the service as the wildest bunch of thrill chasers ever collected and turned over to a distressed and despairing squadron commander.

Some swivel-chair expert must have been dozing when the order went through sending them to France. In wash-out records they were the grand champions. They had left behind them a long train of cracked props, broken wings, stripped landing gears--and a few wrecks so complete that the drivers thereof had been sent home in six foot boxes draped with flags. But whatever may be said against them, one thing was certain in their minds and in the minds of all who knew them: They could fly! To them, any old crate that could be influenced to leave the ground was a ship, and they were willing to take it up at any time, at any place, and regardless of air conditions. Perhaps their record had been less black had they been given better ships.

A student, seeking a perfect cross-section of American youth, would have found this squadron an interesting specimen. War drums, beating throughout the land, had summoned them from the four points of the compass. How they had ever been assembled at one field is a problem known only to the white-collared dignitaries who sat in swivel chairs and shuffled their service cards. The result of the shuffle caused many a commander to tear his hair and declare that the cards had been stacked against him.

No two members of the squadron came from the same town or city; no two of them had the same outlook on life; no two members thoroughly understood one another. A Texan, such as Yancey, from the wind-swept Panhandle, may bunk with a world-travelled, well educated linguist, such as Siddons, and may even learn to call him Wart, but he never thoroughly understands him. A tide-water Virginian, such as Randolph Hampden, of the bluest of blue blood, may sit at mess by the side of a Californian, such as Hank Porter, but he will show no real interest in California climate and will never be able to make the westerner understand that Virginia is American history and not just a state. A nasal-voiced Vermonter, such as Nathan Rodd, brought up among stern hills and by sterner parents, will never fully understand a soft-voiced Louisianian, such as Edouard Fouche, who has found the world a very pleasant place with but few restrictions.

Leaving out the question of patriotism, the members had but three common attributes: They had scornful disregard for any officer in the air service who knew less of flying than they had learned through the medium of hard knocks; they were determined from the very beginning to get to France; and they were the most care-free, reckless, adventurous, devil-may-care bunch of stem-winders that had ever plagued and embarrassed the service by the simple procedure of being gathered into one group.

It may be that the War Department, in despair, at last thought to be rid of them by sending them overseas where their ability and proclivity for stirring up trouble could be turned to good account against the enemy. In any case, they were at last in France and from the moment of their landing had been exceedingly voluble in their demands for planes. They wanted action, not delay. And now that Yancey had brought word of this last crushing indignity, they opened wide the spigots of wrath, all talked at once, and the sum total of their comments contained no single word that could be considered as complimentary to management of the war. More instruction in flying! It was unthinkable. But then, perhaps this grim joker, Yancey, was spoofing a bit.

"Come on, Wart," Hampden called to Siddons from the doorway. "Tex has just been listening to old General Rumor. I'd like right much to see this instructor before I get excited about it. Come on, let's go into town. The night's young--and so am I."

"You'll get excited when you see him," Tex responded, sagely.

"Who is he?" Nathan Rodd asked, which was about as long a sentence as Rodd ever spoke. He saved words as though they were so much gold.

"He's an English lieutenant," Tex answered. "Red-headed, freckle-faced, and so runty that he'd have to set on a stepladder to see out of a cockpit."

"A Limey!" chorused half a dozen incredulous, angry voices. "Whatdya know about that!"

Tex nodded solemnly. He was enjoying the situation. Inwardly, he was as furious as any of the others, but he had the happy faculty of being able to enjoy mob distress. "Yeah, a Limey! Some gink in town told me he was a famous ace. I forget his name. Never could remember names. But you boys'll love him. Like as not he'll let some of us solo after a month or so. Ain't the air service wonderful?"

More growls, and a half dozen muttered threats.

"Now boys, you-all be good, or Uncle Samuel'll send you back home and let you work in the shipyards at twenty per day. I'm surprised and hurt that you take this good news in this fashion. I should think you'd be delighted to have a Limey show you how he shot down a few of--"

"Attention!" Hampden called from the doorway, a warning quality in his voice.

The men looked up. There in the doorway stood Major Cowan, and by his side was a neatly uniformed, diminutive member of the Royal Flying Corps. The men scrambled hastily to their feet. Yancey upset his chair with a clatter as he unwound his long, thin legs from around the rungs.

Major Cowan, always maddeningly correct in military courtesies, turned upon Hampden with a withering look.

"Lieutenant," his voice had the edge of a razor but its cut was not so smooth, "do you not know that attention is not called when at mess?"

"Yes, sir."

"You do, or you do not?"

"Double negatives bother me right much," Hampden replied, his eyes on the English pilot and caring not a whit for court-martial now that he saw in the flesh the proof of Yancey's report, "but I do know the rule."

"Then observe it," Major Cowan responded, testily. "Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant McGee, of the British Royal Flying Corps, who has been assigned to us as flying instructor."

Lieutenant McGee felt that the room was surcharged with hostility, and he found himself in the position of one who is ashamed of the acts of another. Major Cowan, altogether too brusque, failed utterly to impress McGee, whose service in the Royal Flying Corps had been with a class of men who thought more of deeds than of rank and who could enjoy a care-free camaraderie without becoming careless of discipline. Discipline, after all, is never deeper than love and respect, and McGee felt somehow that Cowan was not a man to command either. McGee felt his face coloring, and tried to dispel it with a smile.

"I am glad to meet you, gentlemen," he said, "and I want to correct the Major's statement. I am not here as a flying instructor, in the strict sense of the word, but to give you, first hand, some of our experiences in formation flying, combat, and patrol work. I dare say you are all well trained. In fact, I have heard some rather flattering reports concerning you."

Yancey cast a sidelong glance at his neighbor; Siddons nudged Hank Porter. Porter pressed his foot against Fouche's boot. Not a bad fellow, this. Something like, eh?

Major Cowan was not one who could permit others to roll the sweets of flattery under their tongues. He must qualify it with a touch of vinegar.

"Lieutenant McGee is modest concerning his duties," he said. "In fact, you will find all English officers becomingly modest."

"But I am not English!" McGee corrected. "I am an American--born in America, and that's why I have been so happy about this assignment."

Several members of the squadron began edging nearer. Perhaps things were not going to be so dreadful after all.

"Indeed?" Major Cowan lifted his eyebrows in surprise. The points of his nicely trimmed moustache twitched nervously as he began to wonder just how he should treat an American who happened to be wearing the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant in the R.F.C.

"My parents were English," McGee decided to explain, "but I was born in the States. When the war broke out, my brother, who was older by a few years, came over and joined the balloon corps. I was too young to enlist, but my parents were both dead and I came along with my brother, remaining in London until--" he hesitated and cleared his voice of a sudden huskiness, "until word came that my brother had been killed. His balloon was shot down while he was up spotting artillery fire. Naturally, I began to try to get in. I had to put over a fast one on the examining board, but I made it. And here I am at last, with my own countrymen. Top hole, isn't it?" His smile was so genuine and compelling that none could doubt the sincerity of his pleasure. All barriers of restraint were broken down. This chap actually courted conversation.

"Why don't you get repatriated, Lieutenant?" Yancey asked.

"The tactless fool!" Hampden thought, but dared not say. Of course the Texas clown would rush in where angels feared to tread. Didn't the fathead have any conception of pride of uniform and pride in a nation's accomplishments? Hampden felt that he would like to hit Yancey with one of the water carafes.

"What's that? Repatriated?" McGee repeated. "How can that be done?"

"Haven't you seen the General Order providing for it?" Tex continued, despite Major Cowan's silencing frown.

"I'm afraid not," McGee replied. "I've been pretty busy--and I don't get a great thrill out of G.O's. Tell me about it."

"Well--" Yancey began slowly, enjoying to the fullest the opportunity to provide information uninterrupted, "as you know, a lot of Americans joined the English and French air forces before we came in. Some of 'em, just like you, maybe, had a sort of score to settle. But I reckon most of 'em went in because it offered something unusual and a lot of thrills. Huh! You tell 'em! Then when Uncle Sam got warm under the saddle and came hornin' in, a lot of the boys who'd come over and joined up began castin' homesick glances back in a westerly direction. Natural-like, Uncle Samuel is willin' to welcome home all his prodigal sons, if he can get 'em back, and he's specially forgivin' considerin' that his army at the beginnin' of hostilities is just about one day's bait on a real war-like front. As for flyers, he hasn't got enough of 'em, trained, to do observation work for an energetic battery of heavies. So he makes medicine talk with Johnny Bull and with France, and for once he comes out with all the buttons on his trousers. They agree to release all the Americans servin' under their colors who express a desire to get into O.D. under the Stars and Stripes. 'Repatriation' was the flossy name they gave it, but I call it homesickness. A lot of the wayward sons jumped at it quick, and we're 'way ahead on the game, any way you look at it. Now take some of those boys in the Lafayette Escadrille. Why, if they--"

Yancey's voice droned on, but McGee no longer heard what he was saying, though to all appearances he was paying courteous attention. But as a matter of fact his eyes were resting upon Lieutenant Siddons, and he was cudgelling his brain in an effort to remember where he had seen him before. The blond, curly hair; the rather square face and brow; the thin lips, the calm, cold grey eyes; and the air of self-satisfied assurance, all were part of a memory which was vivid enough but which refused to come out of the back of the mind and associate itself with identifying surroundings. Where had he seen that face? New York? No, not there. He knew very few people in New York. Well, after all, perhaps it was only a strong resemblance. But resembling whom? Surely no one of his acquaintances looked like Siddons, at least none that he could remember.

McGee's gaze must have been a little too steady, at least enough to prove discomfiting, for Siddons half turned away and began speaking in whispers to Hampden. He talked out of the corner of his mouth, as one who is ashamed of the words he utters, and McGee felt the stirrings of a faint dislike for him.

Yancey reached the end of his monologue. The moment of silence that followed brought McGee sharply back to the present. He smiled graciously at the Texan.

"That's quite interesting," he said. "Strange I missed that order, and stranger still that no one mentioned it to me. But we've been pretty busy up in the Ypres salient--too busy to think much about what flag we were fighting under. I've enjoyed being with the English, but of course 'there's no place like home'. I'm very happy to be assigned here, and I am glad Major Cowan gave me this chance to meet you. The Major tells me that you are to get several new Spads in the next two or three days. Until that time, I won't disturb you. I'm driving back into town. Anyone want a lift?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hampden spoke up, "Siddons and I are going in. Have you room?"

"Certainly. Glad to have you along. Major Cowan, how about you?"

"Sorry," the Major replied, dourly, "but I have to pay the price of command by poring over a lot of detail work which would be spared me if I had a more efficient staff."

Mullins, the peppery little Operations Officer, felt the full force of the sting but he passed it off by winking wisely at Yancey. Why worry? Cowan was always looking for work and for trouble. He was never so happy as when bawling someone out.

McGee felt sorry for Mullins and sorrier still for Cowan. One with half an eye could see that Cowan was about as popular with his command as would be a case of smallpox. McGee had been trained in an atmosphere where discipline was a matter of example rather than a matter of fear, and as a result had always known a sort of good-fellowship which he felt instinctively would be impossible with such a commander as Cowan.

"I'm sorry you can't come with us, Major," McGee said in a voice that carried no conviction. "However, I must toddle along." He turned to Siddons and Hampden. "Ready? Right-O!"

During the short motor trip into Is Sur Tille, McGee's curiosity finally got the better of his natural dislike for admitting that his memory had failed him. "I think I have met you somewhere before, Lieutenant," he said to Siddons.

"Yes? I do not remember it," Siddons replied, with the air of one who is making no great draft upon his own memory. He himself evidently sensed the lack of courtesy, for he added, "New York, perhaps. Have you been around New York much?"

"No, I haven't. Somewhere else--"

Lieutenant Hampden's mellow laugh interrupted.

"Siddons has the idea that one never meets anyone outside of New York," he said. "He's terribly provincial, Lieutenant. He thinks there are only two places in the world--New York and everywhere else."

Siddons displayed no resentment at the taunt; he seemed quite well satisfied with the opinion expressed. In fact, he appeared quite satisfied with everything--especially with himself.

McGee wondered how a likeable chap, such as Hampden, could choose as companion one so utterly different in manner, in ideas, and in speech. But then, war brings together strange bedfellows and establishes new standards. McGee dismissed the matter from his mind as the car swung into the narrow streets of the darkened town.

"Where can I drop you?" he asked.

"Going by the cafe down on the main drag?" Hampden asked.

"Right."

"That will be fine. I hope to see you again soon, Lieutenant."

"Thanks. The Spads are due to arrive on Monday. That's three days. See you then. Well, here we are," as the car swung in to the curb in front of the cafe. The shutters were closed, no light came from any of the stores or houses along the street, but from behind the closed door of the cafe came the sound of voices and laughter mixed with the metallic banging of a very old piano beating out tuneless accompaniment to a bull-voiced singer roaring through the many verses of "Hinkey Dinkey Parlez Vous".

"The Yank Marine went over the top, _Parlez Vous_, The Yank Marine went over the top, _Parlez Vous_, The Yank Marine went over the top And gave old Fritz a whale of a pop, Hinkey Dinkey, _Parlez Vous_."

McGee smiled as he sat for a moment listening to the words. All his service had been with the English, who of course had composed many songs highly complimentary to themselves, and only in the last few days had he come in contact with the forerunners of the mighty American army now pouring into French harbors from every arriving boat.

"Quite a fellow--this Yank Marine," he said to Siddons.

Siddons nodded, rather stiffly. "So it seems. Though he hasn't been over the top yet. Prophecy, I suppose." He stepped from the car to the curb with the bearing of one accustomed to being delivered in a chauffeur-driven car.

McGee was on the point of calling out, "When shall I call, sir?" but at that moment noticed young Hampden's genuine smile and heard him voicing words of appreciation for the lift.

"Don't mention it," McGee said. "It was a pleasure. Cheerio! old man!"

"There," he thought, sinking back in the tonneau. "I said 'old man'. Singular case, and that lets Siddons out rather neatly. Hum. I'll bet a cookie he knows more about flying than I do--or anyone else, for that matter. Well, we'll see. I wonder what sort of outfit Buzz drew."

Lieutenant "Buzz" Larkin was closer to McGee than any person in the world. Close bonds of friendship had been formed while they were in training in Cadet Brigade Headquarters, at Hastings, England. During their months of service together in the Royal Air Force, on exceedingly hot fronts, those bonds of friendship had become bands of steel, holding them together almost as firmly as blood ties. Both were Americans, but the motives back of their entrance into the R.F.C. were as widely divergent as possible. Larkin, the son of a wealthy manufacturer, had never disclosed the real reason for his entrance into a foreign service. Perhaps he sought adventure. McGee, however, made no secret of the motives back of his entrance. When word reached him that his brother had been killed while doing observation work in a captive balloon, young McGee, not yet eighteen, employed a trick (which he thought justified) to gain entrance to the Air Force. He felt that he must carry on an unfinished work, and few will find fault with him if his actions were motivated by a slight spirit of revenge. After all, blood is thicker than water.

Whatever the motives of the two youths, once in the uniform of cadet flyers, the spirit of service seized them. Side by side, encouraging, entreating, helping and driving one another they plugged through their training with their eyes fixed upon the coveted reward of every air service cadet--a pair of silvered wings!

Together they had won their wings; together they had gone to the front; together they had gone out on patrol, high above the lines, and met the enemy. Thereafter, the fortune of one was the fortune of both. Each had saved the other's life, the culminating tie in their friendship, if indeed their friendship needed any further tie.

Both had become aces, though in combat work McGee was easily the superior. This, however, he constantly denied and was forever admiring Larkin's work. Larkin, if inferior to McGee in a dog fight, was better disciplined. He could go up in formation, keep his eye on his flight commander, obey orders, and keep his head when he saw an enemy plane. McGee, on the contrary, went as wild as a berserker the moment he laid eyes on a plane bearing the black cross. Orders were forgotten and he dived, throttle wide open, stick far forward, every thought gone from his mind but the one compelling urge to get that other plane on the inside of his ring sight. McGee had his personal faults, but he was a faultless flyer. The same may be said of Larkin, for men in aerial combat never make but one vital mistake. Those who become aces have no great faults; those with great faults become mere tallies for the aces. Now and then, of course, the grim scorer nods during the game and a fault goes unpenalized, but as a rule it can be said that a man who can become an ace may well be called a faultless flyer, for an ace is one who has rolled up a score of five victories against those whose skill was less than his own. Of course, there is the element of luck to be considered, for luck and skill must go hand in hand when youths go jousting in the clouds. But luck can only attend the skillful. With skill wanting, luck soon deserts.

Beyond doubt both McGee and Larkin had enjoyed a full measure of luck, and were still enjoying it. For example, wasn't it luck that had sent them both down here on the French front to act as instructors to newly arriving American squadrons? Wasn't it luck that they were still billeted together in the lovely old chateau at the edge of town, and could look forward to many, many more days together?

These latter thoughts were running through McGee's mind as his car swung under the trees lining the drive that led up to the chateau. Why, but for luck both of them might now be pushing up the daisies instead of being happily, and comparatively safely ensconced in such comfortable quarters. No more dawn patrols--for a while at least; no more soggy breakfasts--with comrades missing who banteringly breakfasted with you twenty-four short hours ago.

McGee's thoughts took unconscious vocal form as he stepped from the car. "Lucky? I'll say we are!"

"What did you say, sir?" asked the driver.

The question snapped McGee back to earth.

"I was complimenting myself upon some very narrow escapes, Martins, but I'll repeat--for your benefit. You are a very lucky boy."

Martins blinked. He held opposite views. "You think so, sir? I've gotta different idea. I wanted to be a pilot, like you, sir, and here I am toolin' this old bus around France with never a chance to get off the ground unless I run off an embankment. And this old wreck is no bird."

"So you really wanted to be a pilot, Martins?"

"I sure did, sir."

"Um-m. That's why I said you were a very lucky young man. I know the names of a lot of young fellows who wanted to become pilots--and did. But they've gone West now and their names are on wooden crosses. Hoe your own row, Martins, and thank the Lord for small favors."

"Yes, sir," aloud, and under his breath, "It's easy enough for them that has wings."

"How's that, Martins?" McGee asked, rather enjoying himself.

Martins fidgeted with the gear shift. "I said I had always wanted a pair of wings, sir."

"Well, be a good boy and maybe you'll get them--in the next world. Good night, Martins."

"'Night--sir." Gurrr! went the clashing gears as the car got under way with a lurch that spoke volumes for the driver. It was tough to be held to the ground by a wingless motor.

McGee caught a gleam of light through the shutters of the upstairs windows. So Larkin was back already? He took the front steps in a jump and raced up the stairs in a manner most unbecoming to a First Lieutenant with a score of victories to his credit.

"What kind of an outfit did you draw, Buzz?" he demanded as he burst into the room.

Larkin was buried behind a Paris edition of the _Tribune_, his legs sprawled out into the middle of the floor where the heel of one boot balanced precariously on the toe of the other.

"Oh, so-so," never bothering to look from behind his paper. Phlegmatic old Buzz, McGee thought, what was the use of getting excited over an instructor's job?

"Are they good?" McGee asked.

"Um. Dunno." Still reading.

"Mine are great!" McGee enthused. "Stiff, crusty young C.O., who needs a couple of crashes--one fatal, maybe--but the rest of them are fine. Great bunch of pilots."

"Yeah?" Still reading, but doubtful. "See any of 'em fly?"

"No-o," slowly, "of course not."

"Um-m. Well, wait until they begin sticking the noses of those new Spads in the ground, and then tell me about 'em. They've been trained on settin' hens. Wait until they mount a hawk."

McGee jerked a pillow from the bed and sent it crashing through the concealing paper. "Old killjoy! If a man gave you a diamond you'd try it on glass to see if it was real."

Larkin began rearranging his crumpled paper. "Well, why not? If it wasn't real I wouldn't want it. And I wish you'd keep your pillows out of my theatrical news. I was just reading about a play at the _Folies Bergeres_, called 'Zig Zag'. They say it's a scream. By the way, Shrimp, how'd you like to fly to Paris to-morrow morning and give it the once over?"

"Fine, but--"

"But nothing! We can see it to-morrow night and be back the next day. That fine bunch of pilots of yours can't get off the ground until the Spads get here--and maybe not then."

"See here!" McGee challenged stoutly. "I'll bet you anything you like that those boys--"

"Will all be aces in a month," Larkin completed, knowing the extent and warmth of McGee's habitual enthusiasm. "All right, Shrimp, so be it. But what has that to do with the show? Want to go?"

"Sure. But what about passes? I don't know just who we are answerable to down here, in the matter of privileges and so forth. I've been sort of lost for the last few days."

Larkin shoved his hand into his inside blouse pocket and brought forth two folded papers which he displayed proudly.

"Here are the passes--all jake! Marked official business and authorizing fuel and supplies, if needed. I'm a great little fixer. And about that question of not knowing who you are answerable to, don't forget that it's little Johnny Bull--capital J and B. You're liable to get jerked off this detail so quick you'll leave toothbrush and pajamas behind. Every morning now when I wake up and remember that I don't have to go out on dawn patrol I start pinching myself to see if I'm awake. Boy, in this game it's here to-day and gone to-morrow. Wasn't it old Omar who handed out that gag, 'Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend'?... Yeah? Well, he must have written that for war pilots. The minute J.B. finds out how comfortable we are down here we'll be recalled and sent to chasing Huns back across the line. In fact, I think we're both asleep and having nice dreams."

"That reminds me," McGee said, drawing up a chair and sitting gingerly on the edge after the manner of one about to indulge in confidential disclosures. "Have you heard anything of this repatriation business?"

"Sure. Haven't you?"

"Not a word."

"Where have you been? It came down in a G.O."

McGee scratched his head. "So I've just learned, but it's the first I've heard of it. Funny you didn't mention it to me."

Larkin eyed him curiously. "Well," slowly, "I knew you were English and--"

"But I'm not, and you know it!" McGee flared.

"Calm, brother, calm! I mean, I knew your father and mother were English, and so was your brother."

"But I was born in America. I'm just as much of an American as you are!"

"Calm, brother, calm! No one says you are not. But because of your family nationality, I supposed you would want to finish out the string with the R.F.C. and," he reached over and tousled McGee's mop of flaming red hair, "I'm just fool enough to want to stick around where you are--you little shrimp! So I thought I wouldn't bring up the subject."

McGee gave him a look of deep understanding and appreciation.

"Fact is," Larkin went on, "I just got a letter from Dad the other day and he seems to be pretty hot under the collar because I haven't made any move to get repatriated."

"Why haven't you?"

"You poor nut! I've just told you."

"No you haven't, Buzz. There is some reason deeper than that."

Larkin fingered his newspaper nervously and tried to simulate an interest in some news note. He hated to display sentiment, yet the fates had given him a double burden of it. As a matter of honest fact, he was as sentimental as a woman, and was forever trying to hide the fact behind a thin veneer of nonchalance and bluster.

"Did you see this communique from our old front?" he asked, trying to shift the subject. "They're having some hot fighting up there."

"Yes, I know. Things look pretty dark for the English. But answer my question: What is the real reason why you haven't thought of getting transferred into the United States forces?"

"I didn't say I hadn't thought of it," Larkin avoided. "Maybe I didn't want to trade horses in the middle of the stream."

"Any other reason?"

"Well, hang it all! a fellow builds up some pride in the uniform he wears. A good many of our buddies have gone out for their last ride in this uniform and--and it stands for a lot. Of course I am proud of my own country, and sometimes I feel a little strange in this uniform now that my own country is in the war, but it isn't a thing you can put on or take off just as the spirit moves you. It becomes a part of you. Say! What's eatin' you, anyway? Are you anxious to change uniforms?"

"Um-m. I'm not so sure. I like that bunch I met over there to-night."

"Yes, and they are all afoot. The truth is, our own country hasn't enough combat planes to send out a patrol. They are developing some mystery motor, I hear, but I'm not very keen about trying out any mystery motors. Our Camels are mystery enough to suit me. When I'm up against the ceiling with a fast flying Albatross or tri-plane Fokker on my tail, I don't want any mysteries to handle. No, Red, for the time being I guess I'm satisfied. Besides, they might chuck me in the infantry, and I have a horror of having things drop on me from overhead. Let's to bed, old topper, so we can hop off early in the morning. The sooner we start the sooner we get to 'Gay Paree'. Besides, early to bed and early to rise makes a man ready to challenge the skies. How's that for impromptu poetry?"

"Rotten! Omar and Ben Franklin both in one evening!" McGee yawned as he began pulling at a boot. "But it makes me sleepy. Go on, say me some more pretty pieces. Or maybe you'd like to sing me to sleep."

[Footnote A: For definitions of military and aeronautical terms, as well as certain slang peculiar to army life, see glossary at the back of the book.]

Chapter II

A Pass to Paris

1

The following morning dawned with the quiet splendor and benediction which April mornings bring to the rural province of Cote d'Or. By the time the sun had climbed above the low hills to the east and was turning the dew covered fields into limitless acres of flashing diamonds and sapphires, McGee and Larkin had hurried through breakfast and were on their way out to the hangars where the mechanics, following Larkin's orders, would have the two Camels waiting on the line. As the car rolled along the smooth highway leading to the flying field, McGee sank back in the none too comfortable cushions and drank deep of the tonic of early morning.

"Some day!" he said. Larkin merely nodded--the only reply needed when Spring is in the air.

"It would be more fun to drive up to Paris," McGee offered.

Larkin looked at him in surprise. "Where'd you get that idea?"

"Well, nearly all of my impressions of France are from the air. It stands for so many squares of green fields, of little rivers gleaming like silver ribbons interlaced through squares of green and brown plush, of torn up battlefronts where there is no life, no color--nothing but desolation. But this seems like another world. Here are spring flowers, the orchards are in bloom, and children are playing in the narrow streets of the towns. Flying over it, you look down on all that. You see it--and you don't see it. But in driving we would feel that we were a part of it. There's a difference. It gives you a feeling that you are better acquainted with the people, and you get a chance to smell something besides the beastly old Clerget motors in those Camels. I'm getting so I feel sick every time I smell burning oil. Let's drive up, Buzz."

Larkin, being in a different frame of mind, shook his head.

"No, you're too blasted poetic about it already. Besides, we have permission to fly up, not to drive. I suppose we could get the pass changed, but why fool with your luck? And the quicker we get there the more we see."

"All right, but on a day like this I could get more pleasure out of just wandering through the countryside than in seeing all the cities of the world rolled into one. Look!" he pointed to the flying field as the car turned from the highway. "There are the Camels, warming up, and filling this good, clean air with their sickening fumes. Bah! I hate it!"

"Say, have you got the pip? You talk like a farmer. Snap out of it! We're headed for Gay Paree!"

The car had rolled to a stop at the edge of the field. McGee climbed out slowly. "All right, big boy. You lead the way. And no contour chasing to-day. I'm too liable to get absent-minded and try to reach out and pick some daisies. Besides, this motor of mine has been trickier than usual in the last few days despite the fact that the Ack Emma declares she is top hole. So fly high and handsome. Know the way?"

Larkin was crawling into his flying suit and did not answer.

"Know the way?" McGee repeated.

"Sure. That's a fine question to ask a pilot bound for Paris. We land at Le Bourget field, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"Where'd you think you'd land--in the Champs Elysees?"

"I'm liable to land on a church steeple if that motor cuts out on me as it did yesterday afternoon--for no reason at all. Remember, no contour chasing and no dog-fighting. We're going to Paris."

Larkin grinned. Rarely did they go into the air together but what they engaged in mimic warfare--dog-fighting--before their wheels again touched the ground. It was the airman's game of tag, the winner being that one who could get on the other's tail and stay there. It was a thunderous, strut singing game wherein the pursued threw his plane into fantastic gyrations in a frenzied, wild effort to shake off the pursuer and get on his tail. It was a game in which McGee excelled. Although Larkin recognized this fact, he was always the first to start the dog fight and had never found McGee unwilling to play. As for contour chasing--well, they had broken regulations times without number, and to date had paid no penalty.

McGee, knowing what thoughts lurked behind Larkin's grin, wagged a prudent finger under his nose.

"Mind your step, Buzz," he warned. "We are supposed to be sedate, dignified, instruction-keeping instructors. Fly northwest to Auxerre, then follow the railroad toward Sens and on to Melun. Then swing straight north and come into Le Bourget from the east."

"All right. All set?"

"Yes. You lead off and I'll follow. Wait! On second thought I think I'll lead and pick my own altitude. And if you start any funny business, I'll leave you flat!"

They climbed into the waiting planes, whose motors were still warming idly. Members of the ground crew took up their stations at the wing tips. McGee was on the point of nodding to the crew to remove the wheel chocks when he remembered that for the first time in his experience as a pilot he had climbed into the cockpit without first casting an appraising eye over braces, struts and turn buckles. He promptly cut the motor and climbed from the plane, saying, half aloud; "I must be getting balmy. It's the weather, I guess."

"How's that, sir?" asked the air mechanic.

"I say, it's balmy weather we're having."

"Oh! Yes, sir."

"You've checked her all over, Wilson?"

"Yes, sir. And fueled her according to Lieutenant Larkin's instructions."

"Hum." McGee slowly walked around the plane, giving every functional detail a critical look, nor was he the least hurried by the fact that Larkin was displaying impatience. Satisfied at last, he climbed back into the plane. A member of the ground crew took his place at the propeller.

"Petrol off, sir?"

"Petrol off."

Whish! Whish! went the prop as the helper began pulling it over against compression.

"Contact, sir!"

"Contact."

The motor caught, coughed, caught again and the prop whirled into an indistinct blur. The sudden blast of wind sent clouds of dust eddying toward the hangar, but ahead lay the cool, fresh, dew-washed green of the field. McGee turned to look once more at the wind sock which, for want of a breeze, hung limp along its staff. He nodded to the men at the wheel chocks, waved his hand to Larkin and gave her the gun.

No pilot in the service could lift a Camel off the ground quicker than could McGee, but this morning he taxied slowly forward and was getting dangerously near the end of the field before he began to get the tail up.

Larkin, watching him, chuckled. "Guess he wants to take a spin on the ground," he commented to himself. "Fancy that bird wanting to go to Paris by motor!" Then to show how little he thought of the ground he advanced his throttle rapidly and took off on far less space than should ever be attempted by one who knows, from experience, how suddenly a crowded Clerget-motored Camel can sputter and incontinently die. And as a parting defiance to his knowledge, Larkin pulled back his stick and zoomed. Altitude was what McGee wanted, eh? Well, here was the way to get altitude in a hurry.

McGee, glancing backward, saw the take-off and the zoom. "The poor fish!" was his mental comment. "If he shows that kind of stuff to this squadron they'll be needing a lot of replacements--or yelling for a new instructor."

But the appreciative ground crew, watching, expressed a different view. "Boy!" exclaimed an envious Ack Emma. "Can that baby fly! I'll tell the world! Watch him out-climb McGee. Did you see how McGee took off? Like a cadet doin' solo--afraid to lift her. And they say he's one of the best aces in the R.F.C. Huh! I think he's got the pip! Ever since he first touched his wheels to this 'drome he's been yellin' about his motor bein' cranky. And it's all jake. She takes gas like a race horse takes rein."

"Yeah," growled a mechanic by the name of Flynn, who by nature and nationality stood ready to defend anyone bearing the name of McGee, "a lot you know about those little teapots in them Camels. You was trained on Jennies and--and Fords! What you know about a Clerget engine could be written on the back of a postage stamp. Say, do you know why he took her off so gentle? Well, I'll spread light in dark places, brother. He took off slow because he _knew_ you didn't know nothin', see?"

"Say, listen--"

The quarrel went on, despite the fact that the two pilots constituting the meatless bone of contention were rapidly becoming specks in the sky to the northwest.

At five thousand feet McGee leveled off and swung slightly west. He looked back and up. Larkin was five hundred feet above him and somewhat behind, but at McGee's signal he dived down, taking up a position on the left. In this manner they could point out objects below and engage in the sign language which they had perfected through many hours spent in the air together.

As they flew along McGee felt his spirits mounting. It was a good world to live in and life was made especially sweet and interesting by the soft unfolding greens of a land brought to bud and blossom by April's sun and showers. In the beautiful panorama below there was nothing to indicate that a few miles to the eastward mighty armies were striving over a tortured strip of blasted land that for years to come would lie fruitless and barren. Here all was peace, with never a hint--yes, far below on the white ribbon of roadway a long, dark python was slowly dragging itself forward. It was a familiar sight to Larkin and McGee--troops moving up to the theatre of war. And over on another road a long procession of humpbacked brown toads were plodding eastward. Motor lorries, carrying munitions and supplies. Strange monsters, these, to be coming from the green fields and woods of a seeming peaceful countryside. Forward, ever forward they made their way. Never, it seemed to McGee, had he seen roads choked with returning men and munitions. Was the maw of the monster there to the eastward bottomless and insatiable? Where were the roads that led men back to the land of living, green things?

As they passed over a town, McGee saw Larkin point down. On the outskirts of the village a great cross in a circlet of green marked the location of a military hospital. Ah!... Yes, some came back. But even then they must brand their pain-racked sanctuary with the mercy imploring emblem of the Red Cross so that enemy planes, bent on devastation, would mingle mercy with hope of victory and save their bombs for those not yet carried into the long wards where white-robed doctors and nurses battled with death and spoke words of hope to the hopeless.

It was a sorry world! McGee, who but a few short minutes ago was entranced by the beauty of the world, now felt a sudden, marked disgust. He pulled his stick back sharply. He would climb out of it! He would get up against the ceiling, where the world became a dim, faint blur or was lost altogether in a kindly obliterating ground haze.

On McGee's part the action was nothing more than an unconscious reaction to distressing thoughts. Larkin, however, on seeing the sudden climb, grinned with delight. This climb for altitude was nothing more than the prelude to a dive that would start them into a merry game of hare and hound. So McGee had forgotten all about his doleful sermon against dog-fighting? And so soon. Ha! Trust the freckled "Little Shrimp" to feel blood racing through his veins when motors are singing sweetly.

Instead of following, Larkin decided to nose down and offer more tantalizing bait.

McGee, seeing the dive, found it more than he could resist. Besides, a merry little chase would serve to wash the brooding thoughts from his mind. This was a morning for sport, for jest, for youth--for hazard!

Forward went the stick and he plunged down the backwash of Larkin's diving plane, his motor roaring its cadenced challenge. This was something like! Sky and ground were rushing toward each other. The braces were screaming like banshees; the speed indicator hand was mounting with a steady march that made one want to dive on and on and on until--

Larkin, in the plane ahead, brought his stick backward as he made ready to go over in a tight loop. McGee smiled and followed him over. When they came out of the loop they were in the same relative position--Larkin the hare, McGee the tenacious hound.

For the next few minutes the open-mouthed countrymen in the fields below were treated to a series of aerial gymnastics which must have sent their own pulses racing and which might well serve them for fireside narration for years to come.

The two darting hawks Immelmanned, looped, barrel-rolled, side-slipped, and then plunged into a dizzy circle in which they flew round and round an imaginary axis, the radius of the circle growing ever shorter and shorter. Every action of the leading plane was immediately matched by the pursuer.

Larkin, realizing that his skill in manoeuvering was something less than McGee's, decided to bring the contest to a close with a few thrills in hedge hopping.

Of all sports that offer high hazard to thrill satiated war pilots, that of hedge hopping, or contour chasing, occupies first place. This is particularly true when the pilot is flying a Sopwith Camel powered by the temperamental Clerget motor with its malfunctioning wind driven gasoline pump. The sport had been repeatedly forbidden by all the allied air commands, but these commands had to deal with irrepressible youth, which has slight regard for doddering old mossbacks who think that a plane should be handled as a wheel chair.

Larkin dived at the ground like a hawk that has sighted some napping rodent, and so near did he come that by the time he had leveled off, his wheels were almost touching the ground--and wheels must not touch when one is screaming through space at the rate of a hundred and forty miles per hour.

He glanced back. Sure enough, McGee was still on his tail. No hedge hopping, eh? Huh! Trust The Shrimp to keep young, he thought. Fat chance they had of getting old. Who ever heard of an old war pilot? Ha! That's a good one! And here's a double row of tall poplars fringing the road directly ahead. Hold her close to the ground and then zoom her at the last minute ... landing gears just clearing the topmost branches ... make it, and that's hedge hopping. Fail to make it--and that's bad news!

Larkin made it, a beautiful zoom that carried him over the trees by a skillful margin. Then he swooped down again, skimming along the level field on the other side of the road.

McGee's zoom was just as spectacular and as nicely timed, but as his nose climbed above the first row of trees his motor died as suddenly as though throttled by the strangling hands of some unseen genii. Sudden though it was, McGee had sensed that he was crowding the motor too much and had tried to ease her off and still clear the trees. It was too late to relieve the choked motor but he did clear the first row of trees. He was about to close his eyes against the inevitable crash into the poplars on the other side of the road when he saw that two of the trees had been felled, and that so recently that the woodsmen had not yet worked them up. There was one clear chance left. If only he could slip her over just far enough to clear the outstretched limbs of the tree to the right.

At such a time seconds must be divided into hundredths, and action must be instantaneous, instinctive, and without flaw. McGee felt one of the spreading limbs brush against his right wing tip, felt the plane swerve for a moment, then respond to rudder and aileron. It was a case where one moment he was supremely thankful for flying speed, and the next, as the ground of the level field was flashing under the wheels, wishing that he had held to his resolution concerning hedge hopping.

The wheels struck hard. The plane bounded, high, and again the wheels touched. Again the plane bounded, and this time came down with a shock that left McGee amazed with the realization that the undercarriage was intact and that he still had a chance to keep her off her nose if only he could get the high-riding tail down.

Crash! Crack! The tail was down now ... and broken to splinters, like as not. Never mind.... By some great mercy he was at last on three points and rolling to a stop.

He suddenly felt very weak. A narrow squeeze, that! Stupid way for an ace--and an instructor--to get washed out. Like a Warrior falling off his horse while on the way home from a victorious field.

He saw Larkin bank his ship into a tight turn, set the plane down in a perfect landing and come careening down the open field to stop within a dozen paces of McGee's plane.

Larkin, white-faced, tight-lipped, crawled from his plane and came forward on the double-quick. Not a word did he speak until he stood by the side of Red's plane, his hands gripping the leather piping at the edge of the cockpit until his knuckles were white.

"What happened, Red? Gee, you're white! All the freckles gone."

"Lucky I'm not gone!" McGee answered. "My knees are too shaky to crawl out yet. It looked like _finis la guerre pour moi_ for a second." He turned and blew a kiss at the gap in the trees. "Thanks, Mr. Woodchopper, whoever you are. Buzz, never repeat that old poem about 'Woodman, spare that tree!' If he had spared those two--well! Take a look at my tail skid, Old Timer. Is it broken off?"

"No. It's cracked and sort of cockeyed, but a piece of wire from that fence over there will fix it all O.K. What happened?"

McGee fixed him with a baleful glare. "You should ask--with as much experience as both of us have had with these tricky motors. I choked it down, that's all. That same little fault has sent many a pilot home in a wooden box. Go get me a piece of that wire. We'll fix the skid, somehow, and when I get to Le Bourget I'll set her down on two points. And listen! From here on in we do--"

"No contour chasing," Larkin completed, forcing a thin smile. "Seems I heard that somewhere before. Crawl out, Shrimp. You said you wanted to be out among the flowers and sweet things. Well, here's a sweet thing, and this field is full of flowers. I brought you down low so you could enjoy them."

"Yeah! I said I wanted to be among 'em--not pushing 'em up. Hurry over and get that wire before I do something violent."

2

Thirty minutes later two chastened pilots took off from the level field, with a half dozen curious French peasants for an audience, and laid a straight course for Le Bourget. No more acrobatics and no more hedge hopping. To an observer below they would have resembled two homing pigeons flying rather close together and maintaining their positions with a singleness of mind and purpose.

When they reached Le Bourget they circled the 'drome once, noted the wind socks on the great hangars, and dropped as lightly to the field as two tardy, truant schoolboys seeking to gain entrance without attracting notice.

A newly arrived American squadron was stationed at the field, jubilant over the fact that they were trying their skill on the fast climbing, fast flying single-seater Spads. Five of these swift little hawks were now on the line, making ready for a formation flight.

McGee and Larkin introduced themselves to the officer in command, presented their passes and authority for refueling, and McGee requested that his tail skid be repaired and his motor checked over.

"Let's stick around and watch this formation flight," McGee then said to Larkin. "I want to see what these lads can do with a real ship."

"All right, but don't get goggle-eyed. I came up here to see Paris, and I'm thirty minutes behind time now."

The take-off of the five Spads was good, and in order. McGee noticed with considerable satisfaction that the flight commander knew his business, and the four planes under his direction followed his signaled orders with a precision that would have been creditable in any group of pilots.

"Nice work!" Red said to an American captain who seemed not at all impressed.

The captain was six feet tall, burdened by the weight of rank and the ripe old age of twenty-four or twenty-five years, and was somewhat skeptical of McGee's judgement. He wondered, vaguely, what this youthful, freckle-faced, five-foot-six Royal Flying Corps lieutenant could know about nice work. Why, he couldn't be a day over eighteen--in fact, he might be less than that. A cadet who had just won his wings, probably.

"Oh, fair," the captain admitted.

McGee, sensing what was running through the captain's mind, and having no wish to set him right, winked at Larkin and said:

"Let's go, Buzz. It isn't often that two poor ferry pilots get a twenty-four hour leave."

Later, as they were bounding cityward in a decrepit, ancient taxi driven by a bearded, grizzled Frenchman who without make-up could assume a role in a drama of pirates and freebooters, McGee said to Larkin:

"You know, Buzz, I think a lot of these American pilots are better prepared for action right now than we were when we got our wings. And we had hardly gotten ours sewed on when we were ordered to the front. These fellows will give a good account of themselves."

"I think so, too. Do you remember how the Cadets of our class were sent up for solo in rickety old planes held together by wire, tape and chewing gum? Poor devils, they got washed out plenty fast! I've seen 'em go up when the expression on their faces told that they had forgotten everything they had learned. No wonder a lot of them took nose dives into the hangars and hung their planes on smokestacks and church steeples."

McGee frowned, remembering some of the friends who had tried for their wings and drew crosses instead. Quickly he threw off the mood with a laugh.

"Yes, and I was one of those 'poor devils' who forgot. I'll never forget _that_! I had no more right being up in that old Avro than a hog has with skates. But England needed pilots and needed them badly. I guess it was a case of 'what goes up must come down' and the government gave wings to the ones who came down alive. The others got angels' wings."

"I suppose so. And before another month passes the need will be greater than ever. Look what the Germans did to the British Fifth Army just last month. I'll never know what stopped 'em. But they're not through. What do you make of that long range gun that is shelling this very city?

"Um-m. Dunno. Seems to me that well directed reconnaissance flights should be able to locate that gun."

"Maybe; but locate it or not, its purpose is to drive war workers out of Paris, cripple the hub of supplies and make it more difficult for us to coordinate the service of supplies through here when they make their drive at Paris. It'll come within a month. Then we'll need every pilot and every ship that can get its wheels off the ground. I'm tellin' you--a month!"

"Think so?"

"I know so! America is going to have her big chance--and may the Lord help us if she doesn't deliver! I don't know how many combat troops she has landed, but I do know that her eyes, the air service, is in need of ships. The French and English are willing to give them all the old, worn out flying coffins that they can pick up out of junk heaps--old two-seater Spads, old A.R.'s, 1-1/2 strutter Sopwiths, and crates like that. If they can get new Spads, like those we saw 'em flying this morning, or Nieuport 28's, or the Salmsons which their commander has been trying to get, then all will be jake. Otherwise--" he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"Otherwise," McGee took advantage of the pause, "Otherwise they'll deliver just the same, even if they have to fly Avros, Caudrons or table tops. Buzz, these Americans over here have fight in their eyes. They've got spirit."

"Yes, but spirit can't do much without equipment."

"Huh! Ever read any history?"

"What's on your mind now, little teacher? I read enough to pass my exams in school."

"Then you've forgotten some things about American history, especially about spirit and equipment. Where was the equipment at Valley Forge? What about the troops under Washington that took the breastworks at Yorktown without a single round of powder--just bayonets? What about the war of 1812, when we had no army and the English thought we had no navy? You don't remember those--"

"That's just what I do remember," Buzz interrupted, "and that's what I'm howling about. We never have been prepared with anything except spirit. Right now we have a lot of good pilots over here and the air service is having to beg planes from the French and English. And here we are, sent down to this front to act as instructors to a shipless squadron, at the very time when the Germans are making ready for another big drive. It's all wrong. Every minute is precious."

McGee had been looking out of the window of the swaying, lurching cab that was now threading its way through hurrying traffic. "Forget it!" he said. "Give Old Man Worry a swift kick. Here we are in Gay Paree. The war's over for twenty-four hours!"

3

To all allied soldiers on leave of absence from the front, Paris represented what McGee had voiced to Larkin--a place where the war was over for the time limits of their passes. Forgotten, for a few brief hours, were all the memories of military tedium, the roar of guns, the mud of trenches, the flaming airplane plunging earthward out of control--all these things were banished by the stimulating thought that here was the world famous city with all its amusements, its arts, its countless beauties, open to them for a few magic hours.

The fact that Paris was only a ghost of her former self made no impression on war-weary troopers. What mattered it, to them, that the priceless art treasures of the Louvre had been removed to the safety of the southern interior? Was it their concern that the once mighty and fearless Napoleon now lay blanketed by tons of sand bags placed over his crypt to protect revered bones from enemy air raids or a chance hit by the long range gun now shelling the city? What mattered it that famous cafes and chefs were now reduced to the simplest of menus; what difference did it make if the streets were darkened at night; who that had never seen Paris in peace time could sense that she was a stricken city hiding her sorrow and travail behind a mask of dogged, grim determination?

Paris was Paris, to the medley of soldiers gathered there from the four points of the compass, and it was the more to her credit that she could still offer amusement to uniformed men and boys whose war-weary minds found here relief from the drive of duty.

Everywhere the streets were swarming with men in uniform--French, English, Australian, Canadian, New Zealanders, colored French Colonials, a few Russians who, following the sudden collapse of their government, were now soldiers lacking a flag, Scotch Highlanders in their gaudy kilts, Japanese officers in spick uniforms not yet baptized in the mud of the trenches--a varied, colorful parade of young men bent on one great common objective.

At night, the common magnet was the theatre, and the _Folies Bergeres_, featuring a humorous extravaganza, Zig Zag, in which was starred a famous English comedian, drew its full quota of fun-seeking youths.

It was this show that McGee and Larkin had come to see, and at the end of the first act they were ready to add their praises to the chorus of approval. During the intermission they strolled out into the flag bedecked foyer to mingle with a crowd that was ninety per cent military and which was in a highly appreciative frame of mind. One particularly pleasing note had been added rather unexpectedly when one of the feminine stars, in singing "Scotland Forever," had been interrupted by a group of Highlanders who boosted onto the stage a red-headed, bandy-legged, kilted Scotchman who had the voice of a nightingale. And when, somewhat abashed, he took up the refrain, he was joined by a thunderous chorus from the audience that made the listeners certain that Scotland would never die so long as such fervor remained in the hearts of her sons. The English soldiers, not to be outdone, had followed with "God Save the King" and then, down the aisle with a flag torn from the walls of the foyer stalked an American sergeant, holding aloft Old Glory and leading his countrymen in the singing of "The Star Spangled Banner."

Trust a group of soldiers to take charge of a show and run it to suit themselves. But they were pleased, beyond question, as was evidenced by the buzzing conversations during the intermission.

"Great show, eh?"

"I'll tell the world!"

"Hey, Joe! You old son-of-a-gun! How'd you get down here? Thought you were wiped out up at Wipers."

"Huh! Not me! They haven't made the shell that can get me. Look who's over there with a nice cushy wound to keep him out of trouble. Old Dog Face himself. Hey! Dog Face ... Come here!"

Such were the greetings of soldiers who hid their real feelings behind a mask of flippancy.

McGee drew Larkin into an eddy of the milling throng where they could the better watch what Red termed "the review of the nations." A strapping big Anzac, with a cockily rosetted Rough Rider hat, strolled arm in arm with a French Blue Devil from the Alpine Chasseurs. A kilted Highlander, three years absent from his homeland and bearing four wound stripes on his sleeve, was trying vainly to teach the words of "Scotland Forever" to a Russian officer whose precise English did not encompass the confusing Scotch burr. Mixed tongues, mixed customs, variety of ideals; infantrymen, cavalrymen, artillerymen, war pilots; men with grey at the temples and beardless youths; here and there a man on crutches, here and there an empty sleeve, and many breasts upon which hung medals awarded for intrepid courage; here grizzled old Frenchmen with backs bowed by three years of warfare, and there fresh, clean young Americans recently landed and a little amazed that they should be looked upon as the hope of the staggering allies. Color, color, color! Confused tongues, the buzz and babble of a thousand half-heard conversations, the fragments of marching songs! Here was a cross section of the Allied Armies, all of them with but one purpose. How could they fail!

The scene had a telling effect upon McGee and Larkin. Wordless, for a few minutes, they stood watching the throng. It was McGee who spoke first.

"Did you ever see anything like it, Buzz? Just look at the different uniforms. There--look over there! A bunch of American Blue Jackets. Wonder how they got here?"

"Humph! Wonder how all of us got here? That's what I've been thinking about. This is just a moment snatched from the lives of all these fellows. What went before? What homes did they come from, and who is waiting for them? And what comes to them to-morrow? Gee!" He shook his head, slowly. "It doesn't do to think about it. You want to find out about them ... and you get to wishing they could all go on back home to-morrow. Say, who started this talk, anyhow? Come on, let's go back in."

"Wait a minute!" McGee seized his arm and turned him around. "There's plenty of time before the curtain. Look, Buzz. See that black fellow over there in French Colonial O.D.? Came from Algiers, I guess, or Senegal, maybe. What brought him here, and what sort of stories will he tell ... when he gets back home? Will he tell about what he did, or will he talk about what he saw and what others did?"

"Dunno. Why?"

"Well, this has set me to thinking. We're all here on exactly the same business. The uniform doesn't count so much, nor does the branch of the service. It's just a question of getting the job done--a sort of 'Heave Ho! All together, now!' Get me?"

"Yes--I guess so. What are you driving at?"

"This. See that American sergeant over there--the one who carried the flag down the aisle and jumped up on the stage?"

"Yes. Big fellow, isn't he?"

"You said it! The biggest duck in this puddle, in more ways than one. And I want to get into the uniform he is wearing. Understand, Buzz? Oh, I'm proud enough of the one I'm wearing, but when he started the national anthem, and they all came in on that chorus, 'Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,'--well, I felt cold shivers running up and down my backbone. None of the other songs did that to me. Do you get me, Buzz?"

"Sure. I felt it, too." He put both his hands on Red's shoulders, holding him off at arm's length. "You want back under the old Stars and Stripes, don't you? ... you little shrimp!"

"Yes," slowly, "and--yet--"

"I know how you feel. I'm with you, fellow, when you get ready to make the change."

McGee's eyes lighted with surprise and joy. "Really, Buzz?"

"Surest thing you know!"

"And you don't think we'd feel like--like--"

"We'd feel like two Americans, _going home_. Shake, little feller! There, I feel better already. Come on, let's go in; that's the curtain bell."

Chapter III

Night Raiders

1

On the following Tuesday morning a group of two Spads and several Nieuports were delivered to Major Cowan's pursuit squadron at Is Sur Tille. A Lieutenant Smoot, one of the ferry pilots who had flown up one of the Nieuports, sought to ease the pain caused by his own lowly calling by taunting Tex Yancey--an extremely dangerous pastime, for Tex had a ready tongue.

"When you buckoes have washed out these planes," he said, "the Old Man will see the error of his way and send us up to do the real flying. What's left of this gang will then be put to ferrying. Did any of you ever see a Spad or Nieuport before?"

Yancey, standing well over six feet, looked down on him pityingly. "Did you say your name was Smoot, or Snoot? Smoot, eh. Well, transportation _to the rear_ is waitin' for you at headquarters. Don't let me keep you waitin'. I'm surprised you're not pushin' a wheelbarrow in a labor battalion, the way you set that Nieuport down a few minutes ago. Clear out, soldier! This squadron is gettin' ready to do some plain and fancy flyin'. I don't want you to have heart trouble."

"Humph! You'll have heart trouble the first time you try to land one of those Spads. You'll think you have been trained on a peanut roaster. Who's the Britisher over there snooping around with Cowan?"

"Name's McGee. But he's not a Limey; he's an American. I'm told he won a coupla medals in the R.F.C., and has sixteen Huns to his credit. He must be good--though he doesn't wear the medals to prove it. Not a bit of swank."

"What's he doing here?"

"He's an instructor," Yancey replied without hesitation.

"Oh Ho! So you still need instruction? I heard that Cowan knows it all."

"Naw, he only knows half, and you know the other half. Too bad both sets of brains wasn't put in one head. In that case somebody would have been almost half-witted. Better toddle along, soldier. The animals are goin' on a rampage in a minute."

"Yeah? Well, turn 'em loose. I'm something of a big game hunter myself. What sort of a flyer is this instructor?"

"Dunno. We'll see in a minute, maybe. He's crawling in that Spad. Yep, they're turnin' her around. Don't go now. You can learn a lot here."

During the next ten minutes the entire squadron, and the ferry pilots, were given an excellent opportunity to form their own conclusions about McGee's ability to fly. He took the Spad aloft, in test, and plunged through a series of acrobatics that served to convince all watchers that here was a man whose real element was the air. Ship and man were one.

The group on the ground watched, open-mouthed, despite the fact that they themselves were flyers of no mean ability. But they had never flown such ships as the Spads, and the prospect and possibilities made their hearts race with feverish eagerness to take off in one of these trim little hawks.

Yancey and Smoot had now joined the watching group around Major Cowan, and as McGee rolled at the top of a loop, Yancey turned to the doubting ferry pilot.

"Yes, I think he can fly. What do you think, brother? When you can do stick work like that, you'll be sent up here to join us."

Major Cowan was equally envious, but he was not one to betray it. "A very bad example," he commented, testily. "An excellent pilot, doubtless, but reckless. His take-off, for instance. He zoomed too long. I want to warn you against such a mistake."

The ferry pilot, Smoot, decided to take a chance. "The example seems good enough, and if that fellow's flying is a mistake, I'm sure Brigade would like to see a lot more mistakes like him."

"The commander of this squadron will answer to Brigade for the conduct of this group, Lieutenant Smoot," Major Cowan retorted with such acidity that the poor ferryman decided it was time to join his own group and head for the base. But before taking his departure he relieved his mind in the presence of Yancey, Siddons and Hampden, who had drawn away from Cowan through a desire to watch the flying rather than listen to his lectures on the art of flying.

"If you had a flyer like that one up there for a C.O.," Smoot said to them, "you'd get somewhere in this little old war. But as it is, you have my sympathy. Well, toodle-oo, _mes enfants_. Be careful with those Spads. They were built for flyers."

"You be careful that you don't fall out of that motor cycle side car on the way back," Yancey retorted. "They look like baby carriages, but they're not."

As Smoot walked away, stung by this last retort, Yancey turned to Hampden and Siddons. "How'd you like to have a flyer like that in this outfit?" he asked.

"He's all right," Hampden replied. "A lot of the ferry pilots are crack flyers--just a tough break in the game. It might have happened to you."

"I wasn't talkin' about _him_" Yancey replied and pointed to McGee's plane, now banking in to a landing at the far end of the field. "I meant that bird down there."

"Oh, McGee?"

"Yes."

Hampden laughed, skeptically. "Fine chance to get a flyer like that!"

"Oh, I dunno. Some American outfit will draw him. He and that other fellow, Larkin, have asked to be repatriated."

"How do you know?"

"I was with 'em in town last night and they told me all about it. They flew up to Paris day before yesterday, and on the way back they landed at Chaumont and made a call on G.H.Q. They put their case before the Chief of Staff and asked him to use his influence. They've made out formal application. Both of them are tickled pink over the prospect. McGee said he would like to get with this squadron."

"Bully for him!" Hampden enthused. "Maybe we don't look so bad, if fellows like that are willing to throw in with us, eh, Tex?"

Siddons was coldly skeptical. "You have the weirdest imagination. Why should he want to be with us?"

"Dunno. Ask him."

"I shall," Siddons answered as he moved over toward the point where he estimated McGee's taxiing plane would come to a stop.

"Big stiff!" Yancey said under his breath. "He'll ask him, all right, and right out in meetin'. He never believes anything he hears until he has asked a thousand questions about it. What do you see in that fellow to like, Hamp?"

"He's all right, Tex. He was pretty decent to me while I was acting as Supply during that time Cowan grounded me. Came around to help me with the paper work and put in a good word for me."

"Yeah, he's always chummy with Supply and Operations--but only because he thinks he can get some favors that way. I despise him."

"Oh, come now! You mustn't feel that way. We are all in the same boat, and we'd as well be chummy."

"Huh! If you ever get in the same boat with that fellow he will do the steerin' while you do the rowin'. He gives me a pain!"

2

Two weeks later orders came down concentrating several pursuit, observation and bombing groups in the neighborhoods of Commercy and Nancy. The members of the squadrons to which McGee and Larkin had been detailed were feverish with excitement. Operations and armament officers were busy with the duties incident to making all planes ready for combat. This could mean but one thing--Action!

Three nights after the move McGee and Larkin sat at a late dinner in one of the little cafes on the main street of the small French town. They were discussing the progress of their work and each was heatedly contending that his own group was superior in every way.

"Just come over and watch my flight do formation work," Larkin urged. "They'll open your eyes."

"Humph! You'd better open your own eyes! I have watched you. We were up in the sun this morning--five thousand feet above you--and watched you for half an hour. A fine bunch you have! We could have smothered you like a blanket. Have you ever shown them anything about looking in the sun for enemy planes?"

Larkin's face evidenced his chagrin. "Are you kidding me?"

"Not much! We kept right along above you, but in the sun. I'll admit they did good work, but oh, how blind! Boy, we're not too far back to get jumped on. There have been fights farther back from the lines than this. You know Fritz dearly loves to raid 'dromes where new squadrons are in training. Believe me, their spy system is perfect. I'd be willing to wager my right eye that they know these groups are stationed in this area, how long they have been in France, and just what types of planes we are using. They've the best spy system in the world. You know how many times they have raided green squadrons. They figure it puts the wind up a bunch of inexperienced men. So keep your eye peeled. And if you want to see something pretty, come over and watch my gang. They're ready for combat work right now--except Siddons."

Larkin looked up in surprise. "I thought you told me he knew more about the planes and about flying than any of the others."

"He does. But he can't--or won't--keep in formation. He cuts out, and goes joy-riding."

"Seems to me I remember someone else who used to do that same little stunt," Larkin said, smiling reminiscently.

McGee flushed. "Yes, I suppose I did, but not in training. I never cut formation until--"

"Until you saw something that looked like meat. Don't try to kid me, Red. You've dragged me into too many dog fights. Do you think I have forgotten the day we were out having a look-see, five of us, and spotted five Albatrosses below? Bingo! Down you went like a shot, and the rest of us had to follow to keep you from being made into mincemeat. Talk about being blind! All the time a bigger flock of Fokkers were in the sun above us and they came down like 'wolves on the fold.' Fellow, you had your little faults. Don't be too hard on Siddons."

"Cutting formation to get in a fight and cutting to go joy-riding are two different things. If it were anyone else but Siddons I'd ask Cowan to ground him."

"You like him?"

"Emphatically, NO! And he knows it. That's why I hesitate to make an example of him. He would think that I was satisfying a grudge. Besides, he has some sort of a drag with someone. Cowan thinks he is a great flyer. He is, too. Knows more about both the technical and practical side of the game than any of the others. That's what's wrong with him. He is so self-satisfied, so arrogant, and so cocksure of every word he utters and every movement he makes. He is the coldest fish I ever met. He reminds me of someone--but I can't remember who it is. Sometimes I think he is--Listen! What's that?"

McGee's question went unanswered as the shrill blasts of the air raid siren shattered the peace of the village with its frenzied warning. It moaned, deep-throated, then became panic-stricken and wailed tremulously in the higher registers. It was a warning to all to seek the comparative safety of the _abris_ which the town had constructed against just such an emergency.

The cafe emptied quickly, but even the quickest followed on the heels of McGee and Larkin who, once outside, ran briskly down the street toward the house where they were billeted. They halted at the drive entrance to gaze upward as great searchlights began playing upon the dark inverted bowl of the heavens. The long, shifting beams of light were accusing fingers seeking to point out the unwelcome, stealthy nocturnal sky prowlers.

"Listen!" McGee gripped Larkin's arm.

Sure enough, from the east, and high above, came the sound of German motors, a sound unmistakable by anyone who had once heard their unsynchronized drone. It rose and fell, rose and fell, like the hurried snoring of a giant made restless by nightmare. The sound was drawing nearer. Doubtless it had been heard by the soldiers manning the searchlights for the beams now swept restlessly across the eastern sky. To the eastward, two or three kilometers, an anti-aircraft battery opened fire, and from aloft came the dull _pouf!_ of the exploding shells. Vain, futile effort! It was only the angry thundering of admitted helplessness. One chance in a million! The motors droned on, coming nearer and nearer. Excited townspeople, in wooden sabots, clattered down the streets seeking shelter; fear-stricken mothers and fathers spoke sharply to their little broods as they hustled them along.

"Buzz," Red said, "it's dollars to doughnuts they're coming here to lay some eggs on our 'drome--just to put the wind up these boys. Remember what I told you a few minutes ago."

Larkin was more hopeful. "I guess not," he said. "Headed for some supply base or ammunition dump farther in, would be my guess. But if they are coming here, there's little we can do about it. It's up to the anti-aircraft boys."

"Hum-m," McGee mused. "I wonder."

A motor cycle, with side car, running without lights, came popping down the street. Without hesitation McGee ran out into the middle of the street, waving his arms and shouting wildly. The motor cycle swerved sharply, missed the dancing, gesticulating figure and skidded to a stop.

"Say, what's eatin' you, soldier?" demanded the irate American motor cycle orderly.

For answer McGee sprang into the side car and barked a few crisp, sharp orders that brooked no hesitation. The responsive little motor roared its staccato eagerness as the machine lurched forward, leaving Larkin speechless and wondering.

"What do you know about that?" he mused. "Now what can that little shrimp be up--" he hesitated, struck by the same thought, he felt sure, that had plunged McGee into such sudden action. Then he began shouting for the driver of their motor car.

"Martins! Martins! Oh, Martins!" Blast the fellow, doubtless he was already in some place of security. "Martins! Oh, Martins!"

A door flew open, letting out a beam of light as Martins came out, clad only in his underclothes and yawning prodigiously.

"Did you call, sir?" he asked, blinking foolishly as he studied the flashing rays of the sky-searching lights.

"Yes! Get the car! Snappy, now!"

"Yes, sir. Just as soon as I can get on some clothes."

"Hang the clothes! Get the car--and set the road afire between here and the 'drome. Move! Don't stand there blinking like a blooming owl."

Martins sped around the house, a white-clad figure racing bare-footed for the car and muttering under his breath every time his flying feet struck bits of gravel and sharp stones. The sound of the airplane motors was now much nearer; the siren was still screaming its fright; anti-aircraft guns were futilely belching steel into the air, and the searchlights were getting jumpy in their haste to locate the intruders and hold them in a beam of light.

3

Martins, with Larkin seated at his side, hurled the car through the narrow streets and out to the airdrome with a daring recklessness known only to war-trained chauffeurs who could push a car faster without lights than most people would care to ride in broad daylight. But their speed was slow compared to that made by the surprised motor cycle orderly who had thundered off with McGee, and when Larkin sprang from the car as it screeched to a stop at the edge of the 'drome his ear caught the sound of a Clerget motor pounding under an advanced throttle as it lifted a plane from the ground at the far end of the dark field. An excited, buzzing group of pilots and mechanics were huddled together on the tarmac near the circus tent that served as a hangar, and still more men were emerging hastily from the humpbacked, black steel elephants that served them as quarters.

Larkin ran toward the group near the hangar entrance,

"Where's McGee?" he shouted, knowing the answer but hoping for some word that would give the lie to what his ears told him. He knew that the plane which had now swung back over the field and was roaring directly above as it battled for altitude was none other than McGee's balky little Camel. But no one answered him; they merely stared, as men who have just witnessed a feat of daring too noble for words, or as girls who face an impending tragedy and are too horror-stricken for action.

"Where's McGee?" Larkin shouted again. "Don't stand there like a bunch of yaps! You'll be getting a setting of high explosive eggs here in a minute. Don't you hear that siren? Those Boche planes? Where's McGee, I asked you?"

Yancey stepped from the group and pointed up.

"I reckon that's him up yonder," he said in the slow drawl that was doubly maddening at such a moment. "He blew in here a few minutes ago like a Texas Panhandle twister, ordered the greaseballs to roll his plane on the line, and was off before she was good and warm. I reckon--"

Larkin did not wait to learn what Yancey reckoned. He dashed toward the hangar, shouting orders as he ran.

Major Cowan stepped from the hangar, barring the way. "Just a minute, Lieutenant! What is it you want?"

"What do I want? I want a plane on the line--quick!"

"No! Lieutenant McGee took off before we knew what it was all about. It is madness. You can't have--"

He stopped speaking to listen. From high above, and a little to the east, came the throbbing sound of German motors that in a few more seconds would be over the airdrome. Indeed, they might be circling now, getting their bearing and making sure of location. At that moment one of the large motor mounted searchlights near the hangar began combing the sky.

"Go tell those saps to cut that light!" Larkin shouted, hoping that the Major would be stampeded into action that would provide the slenderest chance for him to get the mechanics to roll a Spad to the line before Cowan could know what was happening. "Better cut it! If the others can't find 'em, this one can't. It will only serve as a path of light for one of those babies up there to slide down and leave you some presents you don't want."

Major Cowan was not one to go legging it about on errands. Besides, searchlights were provided for just such uses. Then too, he rather suspected Larkin's motives, and Larkin realized this.

"Please let me have one of those Spads, Major," he pleaded. "Can't you understand--McGee and I are buddies. With two of us up there we might turn 'em back."

"No! It is too hazardous. This squadron is still in training. We are not trained as night flyers, and certainly are not prepared to give combat to a flight of bombers."

Larkin's anger smashed through his long training. All rank faded from his mind.

"Not trained, eh? Major Cowan, that freckle-faced kid up there is a night flying fool--and I'm his twin brother. Get out of my way. Oh, greaseballs! Hey, you Ack Emmas! Roll out one of those Spads and--"

"Lieutenant!" Cowan barked. "You forget yourself. If you want to do night fighting go over to your own group and use your own plane! You forget yourself. I am still in command here!"

From aloft came the momentary stutter of two machine guns. Ah! McGee testing and warming his guns as he climbed. Oh, the fool! The precious, daring fool!

Larkin sat down on the tarmac, _ker plunk!_ Let 'em raid. What mattered it? He rather hoped one of them would be accurate enough to plant a bomb on the top of Cowan's head.

"Yes, you are in command," he said, rather limply, "but why didn't you stop McGee? And since you are in command, in Heaven's name tell that light crew to cut that light. It would be just their fool, blundering luck to spot McGee and hold him for the Archies."

Chapter IV

Victory

1

McGee, holding up the nose of his Camel at an angle that gave the motor every ounce it would stand, was thinking the same alarming thought that had just run through Larkin's mind. It would be just his luck to be spotted by the searchlight crew and held in its beam. If so, would they recognize him? Would they see the ringed cockades on his wings, or would eager anti-aircraft gunners start blazing away? Even if they recognized the plane, his whole plan would be knocked into a cocked hat should that telltale streamer of light point him out to the enemy planes above who must now be looking sharp. Darkness was both his ally and his foe.

McGee was too experienced to have any mistaken notions about the hazard of his endeavor. He knew what he was up against. In the first place, any bombing plane was a formidable foe, and he could not know how many were coming on this mission. All bombers were heavily armed, and had the advantage of having at least one man free to repel attack with twin machine guns. Many of the heavier German bombing planes carried crews of four or five men, though these were used in attack on highly important bases and would hardly be sent on a mission of this nature. Such machines were quite slow and not capable of being manoeuvered quickly, but their very size added to their invulnerability and their heavy armament made them a thing to be avoided by any single fighter mounted in a pursuit plane. Many pursuit pilots had learned the bitter lesson attached to a thoughtless, poorly planned attack upon a bomber or two-seater observation bus. They looked like an appetizing meal--but one must have a strong stomach if he finishes the feast.

McGee knew, also, that the oncoming raiders might be pursuit planes converted into bombers by the simple expedient of attaching bomb releases carrying lighter pellets of destruction which could be released by the pilot. This was not an unusual procedure, especially when the success of the venture might hinge upon speed. Such planes could strike swiftly, more easily avoid Archie fire, and having struck their blow could outdistance any antagonist with the nerve to storm through the night sky in pursuit.

So, as McGee climbed he realized that he was facing the unknown. The prospect of a raid had been his challenge; the size and strength of his enemy was unknown. So be it, he thought, and warmed his guns with a short burst as he continued climbing. Their quick chatter served to reassure him and for the moment he quite forgot how useless they would be should he chance to go crashing into one of the bombers. He felt that all would be well if only those saps on the ground would cut that searchlight. Didn't they know that it would simply serve as a guide to the plane whose mission it would be to dive at the field and release ground flares to mark the target for the bombers? Of course they wouldn't think of that. Green! And with a lot to learn.

Two or three times the beam of light flashed perilously near him, and once his plane was near enough to the edge of the beam for the glass on his instrument board to reflect the rays. Then, a moment later, the glaring one-eyed monster dimmed, glowed red, and darkness leaped in from all sides. But only for a moment. Other lights, from more distant points, were still combing the sky. These concerned Red not so much as the one near the hangar. Strangely, as is the way with men at war, he cared not so much what wrath might be called down on other places if only his own nest remained unviolated. Indeed, he found himself entertaining the hope that the raiders might become confused and drop their trophies in somebody else's back yard.

Then, as suddenly as a magician produces an object out of the thin air, one of the distant searchlights fixed upon one of the enemy planes. It was a single seater, McGee noted, and though somewhat southeast of the position he had expected, it was already pointing its nose down on a long dive that would undoubtedly carry it to a good position over the 'drome for dropping flares.

McGee knew the tactics. This was the plane whose job it was to spot the target for the bombers and then zoom away. Then the vultures would come droning over the illuminated field and drop their eggs.

Red kicked his left rudder and came around on a sharp climbing bank. By skill, or by luck, the light crew still held their beam on the black-crossed plane and in a twinkling two other lights were centered on it.

McGee made a quick estimate of distance and of the other's flying speed. Then he nosed over, slightly, on a full throttle, and drove along a line which he thought would intersect the dive of the enemy. He could hardly hope to get him in the ring sights; it was a matter of pointing the plane in what he thought was the correct line of fire and let drive with both guns.

The wind was beginning to scream and tear at the struts of the hard-pushed Camel. Speed was everything now. If that diving German plane once dropped its flares, the others, somewhere in the darkness above, would sow destruction on the field.

The distance was yet too great for anything like effective fire, but McGee decided to take a chance. After all, the whole thing was chance. He had one chance in a thousand to thwart their plans, very slim chances for bagging one of them, and some excellent chances to get bagged!

"Very well," he found himself saying in answer to these swift thoughts. "Carry on!"

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Both his guns began their scolding chatter. Too far to the right--and below. He ruddered left and pulled her nose up a trifle. There! Again the guns spewed out their vengeful chorus.

At this second burst the German plane seemed to yaw off, then righted itself, leveled off and flew straight at McGee.

Red felt a momentary elation that the enemy had at least been made conscious of the attack and was, for the moment, forced to abandon his objective. Two beams of light still held him mercilessly. Doubtless they served to blind him and this advantaged McGee who, unseen in the darkness, kept his Vickers going. Some of the bullets must have gone home for the German swerved suddenly and began a series of acrobatics in an effort to escape the lights. But disturbed as he was, he evidently kept his mission in mind for he continued to lose altitude and thus draw nearer the field where he could drop his flares.

McGee decided to nose over and then zoom up under his belly--by far the most vulnerable point of attack but one in which the moment of fire is brief indeed, for Camels will not long hang by their "props."

Just as McGee dived the enemy swerved quickly and also began a dive. His diving angle was sharp; his speed tremendous. Doubtless he had determined to carry out his mission and get away from an exceedingly hot spot as quickly as possible. By the fortunes of war his diving angle cut directly across McGee's path. Close--almost too close! A brief burst spat from McGee's Vickers in that heart-chilling moment when collision seemed inevitable, but McGee pulled sharply back on his stick and zoomed. Whew! It was no cinch, this fighting a light-blinded enemy.

McGee glanced back. The lights had lost the plane as suddenly as they had found it. Night had swallowed it. Now there was an unseen enemy that might--

Ah! McGee sucked in his breath sharply. A tiny tongue of flame was shooting through the sky. For a second it was little more than the flame of a match, but in a few seconds it developed into greedy, licking flames that turned the German plane into a flaming rocket. The pilot, manfully seeking escape from such a death, began side slipping in a vain effort to create an upward draft that would keep the flames from incinerating him in his seat. For the briefest moment he did a first class job of it, and McGee, who a minute before had been hungry for victory, felt first a wave of admiration for a skillful job of flying and next a surge of pity that it must be of no avail. Even now the plane was wobbling out of control ... then it nosed over and plunged earthward, a flaming meteor.

Fascinated, McGee watched the plunge, climbing a little as he circled. He was three times an ace with two for good measure, seventeen victories in the air, but this was his first night flamer. It was far more spectacular than he could have imagined ... and somehow a little more unnerving. A moment ago that doomed creature had been a man courageous enough to undertake any hazard his country demanded. Enemy or no, he was a man of courage and in his own country was a patriot.

McGee felt very weak, and not at all elated. After all, he knew there were no national boundaries to valor or patriotism, and however sweet the victory it must always carry the wormwood of regret that the vanquished will see no more red dawnings and go out on no more dawn patrols. That plunging, flaming plane was as a lighted match dropped into a deep well--the deep well of oblivion.

The plane struck the earth some three or four hundred yards to the west of the 'drome. The flames, leaping afresh, lighted up the entire vicinity. McGee, looking down, could see the dim outline of the hangar tent and the running figures that were racing toward the burning plane. He smiled, rather grimly, and his eyes searched the heavens above him. The vultures had their target now!

At that moment one of the restless searchlights singled out one of the bombers, high above him, and two other streams of light leaped to the same spot. Another plane was caught in the beam. The anti-aircraft now had their target, and they lost no time. There came two or three of the sharp barks so characteristic of anti-aircraft guns, and coincident with the sound the bursting shells bloomed into great white roses perilously near the leading plane. It rocked, noticeably, and shifted its course. Then, seemingly, all the Archies in the countryside, within range and out of range, began filling that section of the sky with magically appearing roses that in their blooming sent steel balls and flying fragments searching the sky.

The upper air was quickly converted into an inferno of bursting shells and whining missiles of jagged steel. The enemy bombers, due to the delay caused by McGee's unexpected attack upon the plane whose mission it had been to drop the ground flares, had now worked themselves into a rather awkward formation and were faced with the responsibility of making instant decision whether they should now release their bombs in a somewhat hit or miss fashion or run for it and individually select some other spot for depositing their T.N.T. hate as they made their way homeward.

The embarrassment of their position was but little greater than that of McGee's. The burning plane offered sufficient light for landing, but it was also lighting up the hangars and the field, and he momentarily expected the enemy to let go with their bombs. It would not be pleasant down there when those whistling messengers began to arrive. His present position was equally unhealthy, even though he had considerably reduced his altitude. Any minute--yes, any second--some searchlight crew might pick him up, and there is never any telling what an excited anti-aircraft battery crew might do.

McGee made the decision which is always reached by an airman who finds himself in unhealthy surroundings: he would simply high-tail it away from there until "the shouting and the tumult" subsided. He swung into the dark sky to the north and then dived down until he felt that any less altitude would be extremely likely to bring him afoul of some church steeple or factory smokestack.

One of the German pilots decided to take a chance and release his bombs. Their reverberating detonations were terrifying enough, but aside from the ugly holes they made in the open field, some five hundred yards away from the 'drome, they accomplished nothing in the balance of warfare. The other planes, finding the welcome a bit too warm, took up a zig-zag course toward the Fatherland, but in a general course that would take them back over Nancy, where they could find a larger target for their bombs.

McGee, looking back, could see the searchlights sweeping eastward in their efforts to keep the fleeing planes spotted. But their luck had already been great indeed, and now they were again feverishly searching the black and seemingly empty sky.

"Good time to tool this baby home," McGee thought as he swung around and headed for the 'drome, its location still well marked for him by the flickering flames of the fallen ship.

"Poor old Nancy!" he said aloud as he realized that the thwarted bombers would likely spew out their hate on that sorely tried city. "I'm sorry to wish this off on you, but you are used to it and these lads are not. Talk about luck! I wonder what good angel is perched on my shoulder."

Back over the 'drome he signaled with his Very light pistol for landing lights, his take-off having been too sudden to permit of thinking of ground flares. He circled the field, waiting for the lights. No response. He signaled again. Still no response.

"Too much excitement, I guess," he mused. Then he flew low over the remains of the burning plane, around which had gathered a large group--large enough, McGee thought, to include every man of the squadron from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball.

"Humph! A fine target you'd make!" Red snorted, and felt like throwing his Very pistol into the group. "Well, here goes! I've made darker landings than this. And if I crack up--" he smiled as a grim Irish bull flashed through his mind--"it will be a good lesson to the ground crew. Nothing like Irish humor at a time like this."

2

If one who stands less than five feet six and is freckled of face and red of hair can command hauteur and dignity, then it can be said that a few minutes later McGee, with hauteur and dignity, strode into the excited, gabbling group that surrounded the burning German plane. For a moment none of them recognized him. With hands on hips, arms akimbo, he stood watching them. He was still just a little too mad to trust his tongue.

Major Cowan was the first to notice him. "Ah! Lieutenant McGee! I am--"

"No sir, I am Lieutenant McGee's ghost. McGee got his neck broken over there just now--trying to make a landing in the dark. Your ground crew were exceedingly helpful to him, Major. So nice of them to obey his signals so promptly."

For once Cowan was at a disadvantage. "Gad, man! Did you signal?"

"Oh, yes. I waved my hand. Rather original idea, don't you think? Perhaps you weren't expecting me to come back."

"Frankly, Lieutenant, I wasn't." The look on Cowan's face was one of genuine admiration. "You have done a courageous thing, Lieutenant--and I thought it foolhardy. I said as much to Lieutenant Larkin, and I apologize to you, here, in the presence of all these men who witnessed your courage."

All the others thereupon surged around McGee, pumping his hand vigorously and clapping him on the back.

McGee's anger faded. It was a thing that never stayed long with him.

"Is Larkin here?" he asked.

"He was," Cowan answered. "Came a few minutes after you took off, but when I refused him a ship he got mad as a hornet, bawled out the light crew and--and me, and then jumped back in his car and rode off. Rather tempestuous fellow."

"If he had stayed here," McGee said, regretfully, "my Camel wouldn't now be standing over yonder on its nose with its undercarriage wiped off. He'd at least think of landing lights." He pushed his way through the crowd toward the burning embers of the twisted, broken and charred plane. "Pilot burned to a crisp, I suppose," he mused half aloud.

Hampden, who was standing nearest, answered:

"No, the poor devil jumped. Landed over there by the road. They carried him over to the hospital tent. Not a--a whole bone in his body." His voice seemed choked. "It's a--a fearful way to go."

"A sporting way, I would say," Siddons spoke up. "Even in the last moment he rather cheated you, McGee. He escaped the flames, anyhow."

McGee looked at Siddons searchingly. In those cold grey eyes and in the half-taunting smile there was none of the sympathy or natural, normal emotion that had so choked Hampden's voice.

"He did not cheat me, Lieutenant Siddons," McGee said, his voice edged by his dislike of the man. "I am only one of the small factors in this unfortunate game. Duty may be pursued without wanting to see others suffer. He was a brave man. I salute him." He turned to Cowan. "Major Cowan, if your crew had attempted to extinguish these flames we might have added a great deal to our knowledge of the progress the enemy is making. I could not recognize this plane in the air. I think it is a new type."

"By Jove! I never thought of it."

McGee turned away to conceal an expression which he could not control, and as he did so he heard Yancey growl to Hampden:

"What a first-rate kitchen police in a Home Guard outfit that bimbo would make!"

As McGee walked back toward the hangar, Hampden and Siddons joined him. He felt Hampden give his elbow a congratulatory squeeze. Then Siddons said:

"Are you going over to have a look at your fallen adversary, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, I say, Siddons!" Hampden exclaimed, pained and surprised.

"I am going to make out my report," McGee answered, simply. "I wonder if you would like to give me a confirmation, Lieutenant Siddons?"

The question took Siddons off his feet. "Why--er--do you really want me to?"

"Not especially; I just had a feeling that you would be pleased to have your name brought in it somehow."

Several of the pilots followed McGee into the hut used for headquarters, but Siddons was not among them. Whatever his feelings, following the little instructor's pointed rebuke, he concealed them behind the cool indifference which marked all of his actions. At the door to headquarters he turned down the gravel walk that ran in front of the row of huts used as quarters and was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

3

McGee's report of his victory was characteristically laconic. Not a word did he employ that was not necessary to the report. No fuss, no feathers, no mock heroics. He had engaged an E.A. (enemy aircraft) and had sent it down in flames. Reading the report, one would find little enough to lift it out of the usual run of reports. Another meeting; another victory. No more, no less. Only in the last paragraph did he depart from his usual method of reporting. He wrote:

"My Camel carried no ground flares. Twice signaled for landing lights with no response. Circled field. Entire personnel was gathered around burning E.A. and making no effort to extinguish fire, which by this time had nearly consumed plane. Forced to land in dark. Wiped out landing gear and shattered prop.

"Recommendation: That all commands advise ground crews that a live pilot is of more importance than a dead enemy."

Having finished, he looked up at those who had followed him into headquarters. They were gathered in little groups, excitedly discussing the victory, which had actually been the first encounter they had witnessed. Fortunately, the victory had been on their side and they were considerably bucked. It seemed dead easy. Why, one man had gone aloft, bagged a plane, thwarted the plans of the enemy and was back on the ground before you could tell about it. The war was looking up! And this instructor was no slouch. What this squadron wouldn't do to the enemy when an over-cautious Chief of Air Service said "Let's go!"

Hearing their comments, McGee smiled. He knew, better than they, the great element of luck in his victory.

The enemy, whose aim it had been to thoroughly frighten and subdue this green squadron, had succeeded instead in greatly increasing their confidence in themselves. The enemy had come to sow destruction; they had actually planted a seed that sprang instantly from the ground, bearing the bold and sturdy flower of self-confidence. Old dogs of war had been unleashed, and now a new pack was yelping on the trail.

"Where is Major Cowan?" McGee asked.

"Over at the hospital tent," someone answered.

"Oh, I see. Perhaps it's just as well. He might not care to sign a confirmation after reading my recommendation. Which one of you will give me a confirmation?"

As one man they surged forward.

"Just a minute!" Red laughed. "I said which one. On second thought I guess I'd better leave that to the C.O. First victory from his squadron, you know."

"His squadron nothing!" Yancey growled. "You don't belong to us--yet."

"No, but I'm here by assignment; I wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings." He chuckled. "I'm afraid, though, that the last paragraph in this report has a sort of stinger in it."

"Let's see it," Hampden urged.

McGee handed him the report. Hampden read it, whistled softly and passed it to Yancey, who read quite as slowly as he talked. A look of disappointment spread over his face.

"It's a report, I reckon," he said slowly, "but it's about as satisfyin' as a mess of potato chips would be to a hungry cowhand. It's as thin as skimmed milk. Say, who won this fight? You or the other fellow?"

"I believe that report will give me the credit," McGee answered.

"Maybe. And that last paragraph will win somebody a bawlin' out. Cowan will ask you to change that. Looks like inefficiency on somebody's part."

"Perhaps it is. It goes as it stands. After all, it goes through channels to the Royal Flying Corps, you know. I'm flying their ship and still under their orders."

"Well, when I get my first one," Yancey replied, "believe me, they'll get the full details, and when they get through readin' it they'll think I'm the bimbo what invented flyin'. Those white-collared babies at Headquarters have to get all their thrills secondhand, and this thing of yours is about as thrillin' as the minutes of a Sunday School Meeting."

At that moment Mullins, the peppery little Operations Officer, entered the room, his face a mass of wrinkling smiles. He walked over to the desk where McGee was seated and from his pockets dumped out a double handful of articles, such as army men had learned to list under the broad heading--"Souvenirs." There was a wrist watch, a German automatic pistol, a silver match box, a leather cigarette case, a belt buckle bearing the famous "Gott Mit Uns" and a number of German paper marks.

For a moment McGee sat staring at them, then slowly pushed his chair back from the table as he looked up at the smiling Mullins.

"What's this--stuff?" he asked.

"Souvenirs, of course! From your latest victory. Cowan and I decided to go over to the hospital and run through the chap's pockets to see if we could find anything that should be sent back to Intelligence. Darned if Siddons wasn't there ahead of us, getting ready to fill his pockets with _your_ souvenirs. I told him to wait until he bagged his own game. So there you are--cups, belts and badges!"

McGee gathered up the articles, one by one, and handed them back to Mullins.

"Take them back," he ordered, somewhat firmly.

"What!" Mullins' jaw dropped. "You don't want 'em?"

"No."

"Not even _one_--for luck?"

"No. I've never carried anything that belonged to the _other_ fellow, for luck. Take them back."

Yancey stepped forward, but he was still behind the soft-voiced Edouard Fouche, who said:

"I'll take them, then. I'm not so high-minded about it."

Tex Yancey pawed Fouche aside as a bear might sweep aside an annoying puppy. "Out of the way, little fellow. We'll divide these spoils of war--or we'll draw for 'em. Everyone to draw straws."

"Wait!" McGee interposed himself between Mullins, Yancey, and the indignant Fouche. "If you boys want souvenirs, go out and get them for yourself. Mullins told Siddons to wait until he bagged his own game. That goes here, too. Take 'em back, Mullins. A man of courage has a right to his personal belongings--even after he is dead. Take them back and let them be buried with him. By the way," he turned back to the desk and picked up his report, "I want a confirmation from Major Cowan. Where is he?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Mullins replied. "He just jumped in a side car and went streaking off to Wing, looking like he thought the war had been won. And he took with him a nice little plum for Intelligence. We found an order in that pilot's pocket that should have been left behind."

"Indeed? What was it?" McGee asked.

"It was in German, of course," Mullins continued, "and Cowan is as rotten in German as I am. But Siddons is a shark at it. Speaks half a dozen languages, you know, and--"

"No, I didn't know," McGee answered, cryptically.

"Yeah, reads it like English. That order was to the effect that their high command had received information that several air units were located in this sector, and ours, in particular, was placed to a T. It was an order for a bombing group to come over and give us an initiation. 'Highly important! Highly important!' Cowan said, and busted off for Wing. To watch him you'd think he had brought down the plane. It's strange, though, how those square-heads find out every move that is made on this side of the line."

"They have a wonderful spy system," McGee said. "We learned that well enough up on the English front, where we had reason to feel sure of the loyalty of every soldier. But the leaks get through. Cowan was right, the order was highly important. The Intelligence Department do some clever work with the bits of information gathered from first one place and another. It's somewhat like piecing an old-fashioned pattern quilt. A piece here, a piece there, all seemingly unrelated but in the end presenting a distinct pattern. Yes, it's important, I dare say."

Mullins sighed, heavily. "Well then, I suppose Cowan will come back here with a chest on him like a Brigadier!"

Yancey laughed, picked up McGee's report and handed it to Mullins. "Read that--especially the last paragraph. When Cowan reads that I can see his chest droppin' like a toy balloon that meets up with a pin. I sure want to be hangin' around when it is presented to him. This war has its compensations. Boys, make yourselves comfortable and await the comin' of the mighty. It's worth stayin' up all night to see."

Chapter V

Orders for the Front

1

McGee's victory had a most salutary effect upon the personnel of the squadron. They lost sight of the fact that he had been highly favored by luck in the encounter and that but for luck, coupled with skill, the balance might well have been in the enemy's favor. They began to look upon victory as a luscious fruit that would always be served to their table--defeats were the bitterberries that the enemy must eat.

This attitude was greatly strengthened by another fortunate victory of a squadron stationed at Toul. This squadron, while it boasted some splendid flyers, was quite green and had much to learn. But, despite this, they too had been victors in their first encounter with the enemy, and in a manner quite as dramatic as had been McGee's victory. And it was more widely heralded because the victor was wearing an American uniform and the victory could be properly called the first score for the Americans. It came about in this fashion:

A Spring day dawned, cold and foggy, and three members of the squadron at Toul had gone on patrol. Their ardor was soon dampened by the chill fog and they returned to their base. Shortly after their return the alert was sounded and the report came that German planes were coming over, concealed by the ceiling of fog. In a few moments their motors could be heard above the town. That minute two Americans left the ground, climbing rapidly toward the ceiling of fog. Just as they neared it, two German planes came nosing down. They were barely clear of the blinding fog cloud when they were attacked by the American pilots. So swift was the attack, and so accurate the fire, that both German planes were forced down and the two American pilots were back on the ground in less than five minutes from the time of their take-off.

Luck? Yes, Luck and Skill--the two things that must walk hand in hand with every war pilot. But there was no one to be found in all of Toul who even hinted of luck. Had not the fight taken place in full view of the townspeople? Had they not witnessed the daring and skill of these Americans? Luck? Ask the citizens of Toul. Ah, _mais non, Messieurs!_ they would tell you. The German planes dived--so. Whoosh! Out of the cloud they came. And there were those precious Americans, waiting for them--and in just the right place. Is not that skill, Monsieur? Then, _taka-taka-taka-taka_ went their guns. Only a minute so. _Voila!_ The Boche are both out of control. Ah, that is not luck, Monsieur.

All along the front American squadrons accepted the verdict as evidence of superior flying ability, but McGee and Larkin, with the knowledge bought by bitter experience, knew that perhaps in the very next encounter the balance would be in favor of the other fellow. They knew, too, that over-confidence is an ally singing a siren song. They worked hard to dispel this over-confidence that had laid hold of the group, but their words of warning fell on deaf ears.

This spirit of eager confidence was not peculiar to the air groups near the front; it was a part of the entire American Expeditionary Force. Where was this bloomin' war that seemed so difficult to win? asked the American doughboy. Bring it on! Trot it out! Let's get it over and get out of this _Parlez vous_ land. Just give them a crack at Fritz! Say! In no time at all they'd have Old Bill himself trussed up in chains and carried back to the little old U.S.A., and exhibited around the country at two-bits a peek. Guess that wouldn't be a nifty way to help pay for the war! And as for the Crown Prince--well, over a hundred thousand American doughboys had promised to bring his ears back to a hundred thousand sweet-hearts--just a little souvenir to show what an American could do when he got going.

2

This same boastful confidence was present among the pilots with whom McGee and Larkin were daily associated, but fortunately it was somewhat counterbalanced by the long-delayed orders sending the squadron to the front. April slipped away and May came. Still no orders. It was maddening! Yancey, Fouche, Hampden, Hank Porter, Rodd--in fact all members of the command, save Siddons, fretted and fumed and voiced their opinions of a stupid G.H.Q., that failed to appreciate just what a whale of a squadron this was.

Siddons accepted the delay in the same cool, indifferent manner with which he met all the vexations of the army. It was as water on a duck's back; he seemed not to care a hoot whether he ever engaged an enemy. Then in May, with alarming suddenness and force, the German Crown Prince began his great drive at Paris. His ears, it seemed, were yet intact, and those Americans who had so earnestly hoped to get them were soon to discover that the possessor thereof was all too safely ensconced behind an advancing horde of German infantrymen who were driving forward in a relentless, unhalting advance that struck terror to the very heart of war-weary France. In three days the enemy forces swept from the Aisne southward across the Vesle and the Ourcq. Their most advanced position came to rest on the Marne.

For the second time the German army was on the banks of the Marne. "Papa" Joffre had hurled them back from this river in the first year of the war; now Marshal Foch must do as well--or France was doomed.

But Foch was handicapped. He had an army bled white by four years of dreadful warfare. The French soldiers, no less valiant than when the war began, found themselves too weak in numbers to stem the tide of an advance conducted by an ambition crazed Crown Prince determined to reach Paris regardless of the cost to him in human sacrifice.

Sullenly the French fell back, fighting like demons, contesting every inch of the way, but none the less retreating. In this hour of peril France turned her eyes upon the newly arrived and partially trained Americans, and in those eyes, now almost hopeless, was a look of mute, desperate appeal. It must be now or never!

All the roads leading back from the front were choked with refugees too weary, too heartbroken, too barren of hope to do anything but hurry their children before them and strain at their hand drawn, heavy carts piled high with the household belongings which they hoped to save. Old men, old women, the lame, the halt, the blind; dogs, cats, goats, with here and there a dogcart, all struggling to the rear. Many came empty-handed, facing they knew not what, and looking with pity upon the French troops who were moving forward to battle the enemy unto death.

"Ah," said the refugees, shrugging their shoulders, "_finis la guerre!_ These poor Poilus of ours, they cannot stop the Boche. They are too tired, too worn with war. If only we had new blood. If only the Americans would come now. But no, perhaps it is now too late."

Behind them, all too close, rumbled and roared the angry guns--guns of the enemy furrowing fields and leveling houses and villages; guns of the French in savage defiance protesting every inch of advance and holding on with a rapidly failing strength. Help must come now, quickly.

And help came. Two American divisions, ready for action, were summoned by Foch to move forward with all possible speed. The 2nd Division came hurrying from their rest billets near Chaumont-en-Vexin, northwest of Paris; the 3rd Division came thundering by train and camion from Chateau-Villain, southeast of Paris. Two converging lines of fresh, eager warriors came marching, marching, the light of battle in their eyes and with rollicking, boisterous songs on their lips. At quick rout step they came. This was no parade; this was a new giant coming up to test its strength. And all up and down the brown columns the giant was singing as it came....

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, _Parlez vous_, Mademoiselle from Armentieres, _Parlez vous_, Mademoiselle from Armentieres Hasn't been kissed for forty years, Hinkey Dinkey _Parlez vous_!"

Slush, slog! Slush, slog! went the heavy hobnailed shoes slithering through the mud and water of the roads. Mile after mile, hour after hour. At the end of each weary hour a short rest, an easing of the shoulders from the cutting pack straps. Ten minutes only did they rest. Then down the long columns rang the sharp commands, "Fall in. Fall in! ... Com-pan-ee ... Atten-shun! Forward, March!" A few minutes in cadenced marching and then the command, "Rout step--March!" Again the confident, boisterous giant took up its song:

"Good-bye Ma, good-bye Pa, Good-bye mule with your old he-haw. I may not know what the war's about But I bet by Gosh I soon find out! O, my sweetheart, don't you fear, I'll bring you a king for a souvenir. I'll bring you a Turk, and the Kaiser too, And that's about all one feller can do."

Marching, singing, jesting, they pressed on until their advance guard met the plodding, cheerless, downcast refugees. The French peasants halted in their tracks, staring, unable to believe their eyes. Here, in the flesh, by thousands upon thousands, was the answer to their prayers. Perhaps it was not too late, after all. Here was new strength, new courage.

Old men danced with joy, embracing their wives and children, embracing one another, and tears of joy coursed down their wan, lined faces.

"_Les Americains!_" they shouted. "_Vive l' Amerique! Nous sauveurs sont arrivee!_" (The Americans! Long live America! Our saviors have arrived.)

The cry spread; it ran up and down the roads and bypaths; it became a magic sentence restoring courage throughout all France.

As for the resolute Americans, they merely plodded on, questioning one another as to what all the shouting was about. Oh, so that was it? Sure they were here, but why get excited about it? ... The Boche is breaking through, eh? As you were, Papa, and keep your shirt on! And as for that old lady over there by that cart, crying so softly--say! somebody who can parley this language go over there and tell that old lady not to cry any more. Tell her we'll fix it up, toot sweet. O-o-o! La, la! Pipe the pretty mademoiselle over there driving that dogcart. Ain't she the pippin though! Say--

"Fall in! Fall in!... Com-pan-ee, At-ten-shun! Forward, March!"

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, _Parlez vous_. Mademoiselle from Armentieres..."

A new giant was going in, a giant that did not yet know its own strength, a somewhat clownish giant, singing as it came.

3

Those three days of the Crown Prince's drive on the Marne were dark days for France. The French people listened eagerly for word from the front--and prayed as they had never prayed before, while every American unit, wherever billeted in France, waited impatiently for orders that would send them in for their first baptism of fire.

McGee and Larkin, though supposed to be instructors and therefore unmoved by the battle lust that had laid heavy hands on every pilot in France, found themselves itching for action. They could smell battle afar off; they knew the need of air supremacy at such a time. On the flying field, and at squadron headquarters, they tried to cheer up the depressed and sullen pilots who were chafing under the restraint of inaction. But alone, in the home of Madame Beauchamp, they freely expressed their feelings.

"I can't see why this squadron is not ordered up," McGee said to Larkin one night as they sat alone in their room. "They are better trained than we were when we hopped across the channel. Remember that day, Buzz?"

"Yes indeed! That was our big day; it's exactly the same big day these chaps are waiting for. There must be a great need of planes. I understand the German Army has crashed through to the Marne. If they pass there--" he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

They sat for a moment in silence, thinking the same gloomy thoughts that were so staggering to all the people of the allied nations.

"What if the squadron should be sent up?" Larkin asked at last. "Just where would we get off?"

McGee shook his head. "Don't know, I'm sure. It's strange how we've received no word on our applications for repatriation. I guess we are stuck for the rest of the war. Instructors! Bah! I'm developing an itch for action."

"So am I," Larkin agreed. "When we were first sent back from the front, I'll admit I was glad enough to come. I was fed up. But I'm fed up here now. And what can _we_ do about it?"

"Well, for one thing I can go to bed," McGee replied yawning. "To-morrow is another day." He began unwinding one of his wrapped puttees. "Ever notice how much longer these blasted things are when you are sleepy?" he asked.

Just as he had finished with one, and had rolled it into a neat ball, a motor cycle came popping into the yard. Buzz looked at Red inquiringly.

"Wonder what that is?" he asked.

The downstairs front door opened; heavy hobnail shoes sounded on the stairs.

"Dunno," McGee answered, looking at the puttee roll in his hand. "But I'll wager it's something that will force me to put this thing on again. I never got an order from headquarters in my life when I hadn't just finished taking off my putts."

A heavy knock on the door.

"Come in."

An orderly entered, saluted smartly, and handed McGee a folded paper. "A note from Major Cowan, sir. He said there would be no answer."

"Very well. Thank you, Rawlins. For a moment I thought it might be orders for the front."

"No chance, sir. We're the goats of the air service. The war will be over before we get a chance. I say they'd as well kept us at home where we could get real food and sleep in real beds instead of these blasted hay mows us enlisted men sleep in."

"Right you are, Rawlins. I'll speak to the Commanding General about it to-morrow. In the meantime, carry on, Rawlins."

"Yes, sir." A smart salute, a stiff about face, and he was gone. They could hear him grumbling as he went down the stairs.

McGee looked at the folded paper. On it, in Cowan's hand, was written; To Lieutenants McGee and Larkin.

"What is it?" Larkin asked, impatiently.

McGee unfolded the sheet. Scrawled across it were these electrifying words:

"Just finished talking over the phone to Wing. They inform me that orders have been received approving your application for repatriation. The order will come down in the morning. Congratulations. Cowan."

Red slapped Larkin on the back with sufficient force to start him coughing and then began tousling his hair.

"There, you old killjoy!" he was shouting. "Now stop your worrying. What do you think of that?"

Larkin began a clownish Highland fling that eloquently spoke his thoughts. At last he came to rest, snapped his heels together, saluted smartly and said:

"Lieutenant Red McGee, U.S.A., I believe. How do you like that--you little shrimp?"

"Maybe we'll be buck privates, for all you know."

"No, same rank," Larkin answered. "But believe me, I'm free to confess now that I'd rather be a buck in Uncle Sam's little old army than a brass hat in any other. Boy, shake!"

4

Sometime after midnight, at least an hour after sleep had at last overcome McGee's and Larkin's joyous excitement, a sleep-shattering motor cycle again came pop-popping to their door. The dispatch bearer hammered lustily on the barred front door until admitted by the sleepy-eyed, white robed, grumbling Madame Beauchamp, and then clattered up the stairs, two steps at a time. He pounded heavily on the door of the sleeping pilots.

McGee fumbled around on the table at the side of the bed, found the candle stub, and as the flaring match dispelled the shadows, called, "Come in! Don't beat the door down!"

Rawlins fairly burst into the room. "Major Cowan's compliments, sir, and he directs you to report to the squadron at once."

"Good heavens! At this hour? What's up, Rawlins?"

Rawlins smiled expansively. "Orders for the front, sir. They're taking down the hangar tents now, and trucks will be here in the next hour for baggage and equipment. All the ships are to be on the line, checked and inspected an hour before dawn. The C.O. said to make it snappy. He said a truck would come after your luggage. It's a madhouse over at headquarters, sir."

Both pilots sprang from the bed.

"Do you know where my orderly sleeps, Rawlins?" McGee asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Go bounce him out and send him up here, _tout suite_! Tell Major Cowan we'll be over on the double quick. By the way, Rawlins, do you know where we're going?"

"No, sir. Secret orders, I understand. But I don't care a whoop just so long as it's to the front."

"Right you are. Toddle along, Rawlins. Buzz, light that other candle over there. I can't even find my shoe by this light."

An hour later, with all personal equipment packed and ready for the baggage truck, McGee and Larkin reported to Cowan, who was standing outside headquarters, issuing orders with the rapidity of a machine gun.

"All set, sir," McGee said, "and thanks for the note of congratulations. In the nick of time, wasn't it? Otherwise we would have been left behind."

"I suppose so," the Major replied. "Fact is, I don't know your status now, and I don't know how to dispose of your case. I called Wing and was told that your assignment hadn't come down. The personnel of this squadron is complete. Here's a pretty pickle! Guess I'd better pass the buck and send you back to Wing."

McGee's face fell. For once words failed him. He turned his eyes on Larkin, appealingly.

Larkin entered the breach manfully. "Major Cowan," he began, "when we made application to get back under our own flag, we did it hoping we'd go to the front--not to the rear. This sudden order comes because pilots are needed. The better trained they are, the better our chances for victory. I'm not boasting, sir, but McGee and I have been in action. We can be a help."

"Yes, yes. Of course. I'd like to have you in my squadron, well enough, but what about the red tape?"

"Wait until it catches up with us. Don't go looking for red tape to fetter us," Larkin replied.

"Hum-m!" Cowan mused. He knew, none better, that here before him stood two excellent pilots with a wealth of combat experience. If he sent them back, doubtless some other squadron would draw them, and that squadron commander would be the gainer, he the loser. Still, he had no authority for taking them along. An assignment order would doubtless reach them within twenty-four or forty-eight hours. Still and all, he considered, much can happen in that time--especially to an untried squadron going into action. Such pilots as these were scarce, and many were the commanders who would seek them. "Well," he said at last, "just what would you do in my place?"

It was a fair question, and one seldom heard from the lips of a commanding officer. Coming from Cowan, it was doubly surprising, and effectively blocked all pleas founded on sentiment and sympathy.

Now Larkin was stumped, but McGee was ready to take up the gage.

"Major Cowan, I have been in the service long enough to know that the wise army man always gets out from under. Pass the buck. It's the grand old game. But I see a way out. If I were in your position I would direct the issue of an order sending us back. But," he added as Cowan evidenced surprise, "I'd manage to have that order mislaid in the excitement."

Cowan nervously paced back and forth. Suddenly he wheeled in decision. "No," he said, "I won't pass the buck; I won't shift the responsibility. Passing the buck in training may be all very well, but a commander who does so in action is not fitted for command. We are on the eve of action. Report to Lieutenant Mullins, gentlemen, and tell him I said you were to go along. See that your ships are ready at four a.m." He turned and walked rapidly toward a group of ground men who were loading a truck.

Larkin's eyes became wide with astonishment. "Well what do you know about that! Say, that bird is going to make a real C.O."

"I think he is one now," McGee answered. "Action does that to men--sometimes."

Chapter VI

The Squadron Takes Wing

1

Only a war pilot can visualize the confusion and excitement incident to moving a squadron base up to the front. There is work enough for all even when such a move is foreseen and planned for days in advance, but when a moving order comes down in the dead of night--as is so frequently the case--then rank is forgotten. Pilots, Commanders, Supply and Operations officers, air mechanics, flight leaders, in fact everyone, from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball, pitches in with a gusto sufficient to produce a miracle. For it is little short of the miraculous to carry out an order, received at midnight, calling for a movement at dawn. In fact, one inexperienced in army ways would declare that it couldn't be done. But Great Headquarters considers only what must be done, issues orders accordingly, and such is the magic of discipline and proper spirit that lo! the thing _is_ done. The impossible becomes possible--and the ordinary!

And so it was with Major Cowan's squadron. The hour they had so long awaited had come at last. So great was their zeal that with the first hint of dawn in the east the planes were all on the field, properly outfitted, finally checked, and ready to go. Even the planes seemed to be huddled together, poised like vibrant butterflies, eager to take wing.

McGee and Larkin well knew, from experience, the varied, conflicting emotions felt by the members of the squadron. Standing near the barren spot where the large hangar tent had been, they watched the various members making their last minute preparations. Occasionally they gathered in groups, all talking at once, and in hurriedly passing one another they would slap each other on the back with a force greater than needed in friendly greeting. It was the fevered reaction of nerves! They had waited for this hour, yes, and at last they were going up to the front; but every man of them knew that some of them would never come back. There was a grim gateman up there where the guns roared, waiting to take his toll.

"They think they are going right in," Larkin said to Red, as he watched a pilot by the name of Carpenter make the last of at least a dozen inspections of his two machine guns. "We haven't the foggiest notion where we are going, but I'll wager we won't see action for several days."

"I think you are wrong there," McGee replied. "There's a tremendous push up on the Marne. My guess would be that we will go somewhere in the neighborhood of Epernay--probably to take over a sector patrolled by a French squadron so that they can be used on the more active front around Chateau-Thierry or up around Rheims. Hullo! There goes the siren and here comes the Major. We will know soon enough now."

"I'll wager you a dinner it's another soft spot--no action," Larkin said.

"Done! You are through with soft spots now."

Major Cowan's quick walk spoke volumes. The pilots shouted derisively at the sound of the siren, a distressingly noisy contrivance designed to arouse sleepy pilots and turn them out for dawn patrol.

"Fall in! Fall in!" Mullins began shouting. "You act like a bunch of sheep! Line up there!"

"Call the roll of officers," Cowan ordered.

A staff sergeant, who had kept his wits sufficiently to rescue the roll from another headquarters non-com who was packing everything in one of the trucks, came hurrying forward with the roll. The names were droned off. The "Here!" that responded to each name was a full commentary on the mental attitude of the respondent. Yancey, for instance, fairly shouted his, while Rodd hesitated, seeming to search for an even smaller word. Carpenter's "here," was little more than a whisper, as might come from one who was making an admission which he wished circumstances had ordered otherwise. And the rotund little McWilliams answered in a manner that convinced McGee that Mac was really wishing he were not here.

McGee and Larkin, not yet carried on the roll, stood to one side, conscious of the fact that they were still wearing uniforms of the Royal Flying Corps. They felt like two lost sheep.

"Look at their faces," Red whispered to Larkin. "Faces tell a lot. They're keen to go, all right, but take Carpenter and McWilliams, for instance. Scared stiff. They're expecting to meet an entire Hun Circus between here and--and wherever we are going."

The roll call ended.

"Gentlemen," Major Cowan began, his voice crisp and business-like, "we have been ordered up to La Ferte sous Jouarre, due southwest of the Chateau-Thierry salient."

The exclamation of surprise forced him to pause. McGee gave Larkin a dig in the ribs. "I win," he said. "That's no soft spot."

"But," Major Cowan continued, "for some reason Brigade has seen fit to divide the journey into two parts. Possibly to permit our trucks to reach there ahead of us, but more probably because it lacks faith in our ability to make the change without scattering our ships all along the line of flight. For my part, I have no such fear. I think I know the ability of this pursuit group." He hesitated, to let this sink in. And it was well that he did. Yancey gasped, and began coughing to cover it up. Hank Porter stepped on Hampden's boot with great force. Hampden in turn nudged Siddons, who alone of all the group displayed no emotion. Never before had these men heard Cowan indulge in compliment. Something had come over him. His moustache actually looked a little more like a _man's_ moustache. In fact, Yancey thought, the blasted thing was almost military.

"However," Cowan continued, "we will fly to a field just south of Epernay to-day. To-morrow morning we will take off and continue a course, almost parallel with the present lines, to La Ferte sous Jouarre. Our destination has been kept confidential until this moment. From necessity, of course, I have gone over the maps and our course with the flight leaders. They know the way. In case one of them should be forced down, that flight will double up with one of the others. You have little to worry about. Keep your head and remember where you are going. If forced down, proceed to La Ferte sous Jouarre, on the Paris-Metz road, at the earliest moment. But," he added, slowly, "as I said before, I expect to see us arrive there together, and in order. That is all, gentlemen. Yonder comes the sun. To your ships now, and look sharp as you take off. Remember, this is no joy-ride. Hold your positions."

The pilots broke into a run for their ships, slapping one another on the shoulder as they ran.

"Luck, old war horse."

"Same to you, big feller."

"Hey, Yancey! If you're leading B Flight, give her the gun and high-tail it. The war's waiting!"

"S'long, Hank. Luck, feller."

"Get a waddle on, Mac. The war's lookin' up, eh?"

"I hope to spit in your mess kit."

Laughing, bantering, shouting, they climbed into their planes. The helpers stood at the wings, ready to take out the chocks when the motors had warmed; the mechanics took their places at the props. How envious they were! The little wasps that they had so carefully groomed were going forward to the battle zone, and every mechanic offered up prayer that his ship would function perfectly and make good the hope which Cowan had expressed.

A prop went over, _whish_! The first motor caught and roared. Another ... another ... bedlam now. No longer any shouting, only a waving of hands, a few last minute adjustments as the motors warmed and sent a mighty dust cloud whirling back to obliterate the spot where the hangar had stood.

Straight ahead, a fiery red ball rose over a slate-colored hedge. A long flight of ravens crossed directly before the rising sun. Huh! Clumsy fellows. And slow. Better come over and take some lessons from some real birds.

Cowan's plane moved forward slowly, roared into life and fairly sprang into the fiery eye of the sun. Numbers two and three followed, skimming the dew drenched grass like swallows over a lake. Then four and five. By George, this was something like! This was worth waiting for!

The falconer of war had unhooded his new brood of hawks and they mounted up, free of bells and jesses.

2

The flight to the airdrome some six kilometers south of Epernay was made without incident. That is, it was thought to be without incident until Yancey, leading B Flight, reported to Cowan that Siddons had been forced down by some trouble over Vitry. Cowan was evidently displeased. He had hoped for a perfect score.

"What was the matter?" he demanded, the ends of his moustache twitching nervously.

"Don't know, sir. He kept droppin' back. I swung alongside but I couldn't savvy his signals. He kept pointin' back at his tail. I couldn't see anything wrong, but there's a big 'drome at Vitry and he signaled me that he was goin' down. I hung around to watch his landin' and then hustled back to my flight."

"Fuel up, fly back there and see what's wrong," Cowan ordered. "I've a sneaky suspicion that he wasn't as bad off as he made out."

As Yancey turned toward his ship, McGee came up, smiling with pleasure over the success of the flight.

"Just a minute, Yancey!" Cowan called. "I've changed my mind. You needn't go back."

He drew McGee to one side. "Do you remember passing over the French 'drome outside of Vitry?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Your plane is in good order?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Yancey tells me that Siddons was forced down there. I want you to refuel, go back there and see what the trouble was. I have my own ideas."

"Yes?" McGee queried.

"That fellow hates formation flying like the devil hates holy water," Cowan answered. "He's a joy-rider. He knows how anxious I am to effect this move without a hitch, and he also knows there'll be no passes into Epernay to-night. I've a hunch Vitry looked good to him. I want you to find out."

"Very well, sir."

"I'm sending you," Cowan explained, smiling faintly, "because it doesn't make so much difference if you get lost, since you are merely 'also along', and also because I don't expect you to get lost. Report to me upon your return."

"Yes, sir."

3

The mission was not particularly pleasing to McGee. Chasing around after Siddons was not his idea of a riotous time.

It was some fifty-five kilometers back to Vitry, but with a good tail wind he made it in quick time. The French major in command of the squadron stationed there was exceedingly gracious. Yes, the American had landed, he told McGee, but he had taken off again within the hour. The trouble? Well, he complained that his rudder was jamming, but the mechanics could not find anything wrong. He had said, also, that his motor was running too hot. Perhaps, the major suggested, with an understanding smile, this one had rather fly alone, _hein_? So many of them would--and especially by way of Paris, or other good towns. Yes, he had given his destination--La Ferte sous Jouarre, but is not that on a direct line for Paris, Monsieur? These youthful ones, would they never learn that this was a serious business? But no, Monsieur, they are young, and how can you make one fear discipline who daily faces death? Poof! It was the grave problem.

McGee left Vitry with his own conclusions. So Siddons had pulled a forced landing in order to go for a joy-ride. Now he was off having a fine time and would claim that his delay at Vitry was so long that he thought it best to head for La Ferte. Well, they would have him there. He had not reckoned that Cowan would send someone back.

4

Upon McGee's return to the squadron, Cowan was too busy to see him, nor did he send for him until after mess that night. When McGee arrived at the Major's temporary quarters he found him in company with Mullins, the Operations officer, and both were bending over a large map spread out on the table.

Cowan looked up with the quick, exasperated nervousness which he always displayed when interrupted.

"Well!" he barked, crisply.

"You sent for me, sir?"

"Yes, yes. I had forgotten. What about Siddons?"

McGee had decided to shield Siddons to the extent of not reporting the fact that the mechanics at Vitry had found nothing wrong with the plane. A squealer gains no friends in the Army.

"I don't know where he is, Major. He landed at Vitry, complaining of a jamming rudder and heating engine. He took off again in an hour. He hasn't showed up yet. Perhaps he thought it best to go on to La Ferte."

"Humph!" Cowan retorted, the pointed ends of his moustache twitching. "Maybe he did! He needs grounding. I'd send him to Observation if the Chief of Air hadn't ordered us to quit using observation work for punishment. They crack up those crates too fast. And Siddons is just the kind to do that sort of trick. He's a good flyer, certainly, but--what would you do with him, McGee?"

"Oh, I say now--"

"Rats! Mullins, how would you handle him? He's a cold fish, you know."

Mullins gulped. He was not accustomed to having Cowan ask his opinion about anything. However, here was a golden opportunity.

"Cold or hot, I'd let that bird cool off a little more on the ground. He's been joy-riding ever since we drew ships. We'll go into action soon, don't you think?"

"Doubtless."

"Keep him out of the first patrol. He'll come whining to you and he'll sit up and be nice from then on."

"Hum-m!" Cowan again bent over the maps.

"Anything else, Major?" McGee asked.

"No ... Yes, wait!" he called as McGee reached the door. "You have had a lot of combat experience, Lieutenant. I don't mind telling you that the load of responsibility gets heavier as we approach action." He turned away from the table, walked to the window, and stood gazing out into the utter blackness of the night. "I wonder," he mused, his voice subdued, "if any of you truly appreciate the weight of the responsibility."

Mullins glanced at McGee, wonderingly. Both were thinking the same thoughts. Here was a man, who, until the last forty-eight hours, had always been quite sufficient unto himself. Now a sudden change had come over him. One of two things was certain: either he was breaking, and would soon be taken from command for inefficiency; or he was a strong man indeed, strong enough to admit weaknesses, unblushingly seek aid, and make use of all available knowledge.

Mullins, in his own mind, decided it was the former; McGee, in his mind, was confident that it was the latter, and he warmed to him.

"No matter," Cowan himself made reply to his unanswered question as he turned from the window with much of his old self-confidence. "Responsibility is a thing which command imposes--and which I accept. However, that does not prevent me from profiting by the experience of others, as I expect to do in your case, McGee."

"If I can help--"

"You can. A recent report from General Mitchell declares that casualties from all causes have been as high as eighty per cent per month in squadrons at the front. That's pretty stiff! Fortunately, the General points out, the enemy losses have been as great, or even greater. I don't want to leave a stone unturned that may help us to decrease that percentage in this pursuit group--and _increase_ it among the enemy! Here, take a look at this map, McGee."

He stepped to the table and with a pencil drew a circle around a spot south of Epernay. "We are here," he said. "The lines are here." He moved the pencil to the northwest of Epernay, where the heavy black lines indicating the front crossed the Marne. "Notice that the lines swing southwest through Comblizy and la Chapelle, then northwest again, back to the Marne, and on to Chateau-Thierry. To-morrow we are to go here." He circled a spot just south of La Ferte sous Jouarre. "See anything peculiar in this situation?" He studied closely the faces of the two junior officers. Mullins offered no reply.

"I think it peculiar that we have come up here, miles out of our way to the north, when our destin