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."