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."