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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.]