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."