The Squadron Takes Wing
1
Only a war pilot can visualize the confusion and excitement incident to
moving a squadron base up to the front. There is work enough for all
even when such a move is foreseen and planned for days in advance, but
when a moving order comes down in the dead of night--as is so frequently
the case--then rank is forgotten. Pilots, Commanders, Supply and
Operations officers, air mechanics, flight leaders, in fact everyone,
from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball, pitches in with a gusto
sufficient to produce a miracle. For it is little short of the
miraculous to carry out an order, received at midnight, calling for a
movement at dawn. In fact, one inexperienced in army ways would declare
that it couldn't be done. But Great Headquarters considers only what
must be done, issues orders accordingly, and such is the magic of
discipline and proper spirit that lo! the thing _is_ done. The
impossible becomes possible--and the ordinary!
And so it was with Major Cowan's squadron. The hour they had so long
awaited had come at last. So great was their zeal that with the first
hint of dawn in the east the planes were all on the field, properly
outfitted, finally checked, and ready to go. Even the planes seemed to
be huddled together, poised like vibrant butterflies, eager to take
wing.
McGee and Larkin well knew, from experience, the varied, conflicting
emotions felt by the members of the squadron. Standing near the barren
spot where the large hangar tent had been, they watched the various
members making their last minute preparations. Occasionally they
gathered in groups, all talking at once, and in hurriedly passing one
another they would slap each other on the back with a force greater than
needed in friendly greeting. It was the fevered reaction of nerves! They
had waited for this hour, yes, and at last they were going up to the
front; but every man of them knew that some of them would never come
back. There was a grim gateman up there where the guns roared, waiting
to take his toll.
"They think they are going right in," Larkin said to Red, as he watched
a pilot by the name of Carpenter make the last of at least a dozen
inspections of his two machine guns. "We haven't the foggiest notion
where we are going, but I'll wager we won't see action for several
days."
"I think you are wrong there," McGee replied. "There's a tremendous push
up on the Marne. My guess would be that we will go somewhere in the
neighborhood of Epernay--probably to take over a sector patrolled by a
French squadron so that they can be used on the more active front around
Chateau-Thierry or up around Rheims. Hullo! There goes the siren and
here comes the Major. We will know soon enough now."
"I'll wager you a dinner it's another soft spot--no action," Larkin
said.
"Done! You are through with soft spots now."
Major Cowan's quick walk spoke volumes. The pilots shouted derisively at
the sound of the siren, a distressingly noisy contrivance designed to
arouse sleepy pilots and turn them out for dawn patrol.
"Fall in! Fall in!" Mullins began shouting. "You act like a bunch of
sheep! Line up there!"
"Call the roll of officers," Cowan ordered.
A staff sergeant, who had kept his wits sufficiently to rescue the roll
from another headquarters non-com who was packing everything in one of
the trucks, came hurrying forward with the roll. The names were droned
off. The "Here!" that responded to each name was a full commentary on
the mental attitude of the respondent. Yancey, for instance, fairly
shouted his, while Rodd hesitated, seeming to search for an even smaller
word. Carpenter's "here," was little more than a whisper, as might come
from one who was making an admission which he wished circumstances had
ordered otherwise. And the rotund little McWilliams answered in a manner
that convinced McGee that Mac was really wishing he were not here.
McGee and Larkin, not yet carried on the roll, stood to one side,
conscious of the fact that they were still wearing uniforms of the Royal
Flying Corps. They felt like two lost sheep.
"Look at their faces," Red whispered to Larkin. "Faces tell a lot.
They're keen to go, all right, but take Carpenter and McWilliams, for
instance. Scared stiff. They're expecting to meet an entire Hun Circus
between here and--and wherever we are going."
The roll call ended.
"Gentlemen," Major Cowan began, his voice crisp and business-like, "we
have been ordered up to La Ferte sous Jouarre, due southwest of the
Chateau-Thierry salient."
The exclamation of surprise forced him to pause. McGee gave Larkin a dig
in the ribs. "I win," he said. "That's no soft spot."
"But," Major Cowan continued, "for some reason Brigade has seen fit to
divide the journey into two parts. Possibly to permit our trucks to
reach there ahead of us, but more probably because it lacks faith in our
ability to make the change without scattering our ships all along the
line of flight. For my part, I have no such fear. I think I know the
ability of this pursuit group." He hesitated, to let this sink in. And
it was well that he did. Yancey gasped, and began coughing to cover it
up. Hank Porter stepped on Hampden's boot with great force. Hampden in
turn nudged Siddons, who alone of all the group displayed no emotion.
Never before had these men heard Cowan indulge in compliment. Something
had come over him. His moustache actually looked a little more like a
_man's_ moustache. In fact, Yancey thought, the blasted thing was
almost military.
"However," Cowan continued, "we will fly to a field just south of
Epernay to-day. To-morrow morning we will take off and continue a
course, almost parallel with the present lines, to La Ferte sous
Jouarre. Our destination has been kept confidential until this moment.
From necessity, of course, I have gone over the maps and our course with
the flight leaders. They know the way. In case one of them should be
forced down, that flight will double up with one of the others. You have
little to worry about. Keep your head and remember where you are going.
If forced down, proceed to La Ferte sous Jouarre, on the Paris-Metz
road, at the earliest moment. But," he added, slowly, "as I said before,
I expect to see us arrive there together, and in order. That is all,
gentlemen. Yonder comes the sun. To your ships now, and look sharp as
you take off. Remember, this is no joy-ride. Hold your positions."
The pilots broke into a run for their ships, slapping one another on the
shoulder as they ran.
"Luck, old war horse."
"Same to you, big feller."
"Hey, Yancey! If you're leading B Flight, give her the gun and high-tail
it. The war's waiting!"
"S'long, Hank. Luck, feller."
"Get a waddle on, Mac. The war's lookin' up, eh?"
"I hope to spit in your mess kit."
Laughing, bantering, shouting, they climbed into their planes. The
helpers stood at the wings, ready to take out the chocks when the motors
had warmed; the mechanics took their places at the props. How envious
they were! The little wasps that they had so carefully groomed were
going forward to the battle zone, and every mechanic offered up prayer
that his ship would function perfectly and make good the hope which
Cowan had expressed.
A prop went over, _whish_! The first motor caught and roared.
Another ... another ... bedlam now. No longer any shouting, only a
waving of hands, a few last minute adjustments as the motors warmed and
sent a mighty dust cloud whirling back to obliterate the spot where the
hangar had stood.
Straight ahead, a fiery red ball rose over a slate-colored hedge. A long
flight of ravens crossed directly before the rising sun. Huh! Clumsy
fellows. And slow. Better come over and take some lessons from some real
birds.
Cowan's plane moved forward slowly, roared into life and fairly sprang
into the fiery eye of the sun. Numbers two and three followed, skimming
the dew drenched grass like swallows over a lake. Then four and five. By
George, this was something like! This was worth waiting for!
The falconer of war had unhooded his new brood of hawks and they mounted
up, free of bells and jesses.
2
The flight to the airdrome some six kilometers south of Epernay was made
without incident. That is, it was thought to be without incident until
Yancey, leading B Flight, reported to Cowan that Siddons had been forced
down by some trouble over Vitry. Cowan was evidently displeased. He had
hoped for a perfect score.
"What was the matter?" he demanded, the ends of his moustache twitching
nervously.
"Don't know, sir. He kept droppin' back. I swung alongside but I
couldn't savvy his signals. He kept pointin' back at his tail. I
couldn't see anything wrong, but there's a big 'drome at Vitry and he
signaled me that he was goin' down. I hung around to watch his landin'
and then hustled back to my flight."
"Fuel up, fly back there and see what's wrong," Cowan ordered. "I've a
sneaky suspicion that he wasn't as bad off as he made out."
As Yancey turned toward his ship, McGee came up, smiling with pleasure
over the success of the flight.
"Just a minute, Yancey!" Cowan called. "I've changed my mind. You
needn't go back."
He drew McGee to one side. "Do you remember passing over the French
'drome outside of Vitry?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Your plane is in good order?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Yancey tells me that Siddons was forced down there. I want you to
refuel, go back there and see what the trouble was. I have my own
ideas."
"Yes?" McGee queried.
"That fellow hates formation flying like the devil hates holy water,"
Cowan answered. "He's a joy-rider. He knows how anxious I am to effect
this move without a hitch, and he also knows there'll be no passes into
Epernay to-night. I've a hunch Vitry looked good to him. I want you to
find out."
"Very well, sir."
"I'm sending you," Cowan explained, smiling faintly, "because it doesn't
make so much difference if you get lost, since you are merely 'also
along', and also because I don't expect you to get lost. Report to me
upon your return."
"Yes, sir."
3
The mission was not particularly pleasing to McGee. Chasing around after
Siddons was not his idea of a riotous time.
It was some fifty-five kilometers back to Vitry, but with a good tail
wind he made it in quick time. The French major in command of the
squadron stationed there was exceedingly gracious. Yes, the American had
landed, he told McGee, but he had taken off again within the hour. The
trouble? Well, he complained that his rudder was jamming, but the
mechanics could not find anything wrong. He had said, also, that his
motor was running too hot. Perhaps, the major suggested, with an
understanding smile, this one had rather fly alone, _hein_? So many
of them would--and especially by way of Paris, or other good towns. Yes,
he had given his destination--La Ferte sous Jouarre, but is not that on
a direct line for Paris, Monsieur? These youthful ones, would they never
learn that this was a serious business? But no, Monsieur, they are
young, and how can you make one fear discipline who daily faces death?
Poof! It was the grave problem.
McGee left Vitry with his own conclusions. So Siddons had pulled a
forced landing in order to go for a joy-ride. Now he was off having a
fine time and would claim that his delay at Vitry was so long that he
thought it best to head for La Ferte. Well, they would have him there.
He had not reckoned that Cowan would send someone back.
4
Upon McGee's return to the squadron, Cowan was too busy to see him, nor
did he send for him until after mess that night. When McGee arrived at
the Major's temporary quarters he found him in company with Mullins, the
Operations officer, and both were bending over a large map spread out on
the table.
Cowan looked up with the quick, exasperated nervousness which he always
displayed when interrupted.
"Well!" he barked, crisply.
"You sent for me, sir?"
"Yes, yes. I had forgotten. What about Siddons?"
McGee had decided to shield Siddons to the extent of not reporting the
fact that the mechanics at Vitry had found nothing wrong with the plane.
A squealer gains no friends in the Army.
"I don't know where he is, Major. He landed at Vitry, complaining of a
jamming rudder and heating engine. He took off again in an hour. He
hasn't showed up yet. Perhaps he thought it best to go on to La Ferte."
"Humph!" Cowan retorted, the pointed ends of his moustache twitching.
"Maybe he did! He needs grounding. I'd send him to Observation if the
Chief of Air hadn't ordered us to quit using observation work for
punishment. They crack up those crates too fast. And Siddons is just the
kind to do that sort of trick. He's a good flyer, certainly, but--what
would you do with him, McGee?"
"Oh, I say now--"
"Rats! Mullins, how would you handle him? He's a cold fish, you know."
Mullins gulped. He was not accustomed to having Cowan ask his opinion
about anything. However, here was a golden opportunity.
"Cold or hot, I'd let that bird cool off a little more on the ground.
He's been joy-riding ever since we drew ships. We'll go into action
soon, don't you think?"
"Doubtless."
"Keep him out of the first patrol. He'll come whining to you and he'll
sit up and be nice from then on."
"Hum-m!" Cowan again bent over the maps.
"Anything else, Major?" McGee asked.
"No ... Yes, wait!" he called as McGee reached the door. "You have had a
lot of combat experience, Lieutenant. I don't mind telling you that the
load of responsibility gets heavier as we approach action." He turned
away from the table, walked to the window, and stood gazing out into the
utter blackness of the night. "I wonder," he mused, his voice subdued,
"if any of you truly appreciate the weight of the responsibility."
Mullins glanced at McGee, wonderingly. Both were thinking the same
thoughts. Here was a man, who, until the last forty-eight hours, had
always been quite sufficient unto himself. Now a sudden change had come
over him. One of two things was certain: either he was breaking, and
would soon be taken from command for inefficiency; or he was a strong
man indeed, strong enough to admit weaknesses, unblushingly seek aid,
and make use of all available knowledge.
Mullins, in his own mind, decided it was the former; McGee, in his mind,
was confident that it was the latter, and he warmed to him.
"No matter," Cowan himself made reply to his unanswered question as he
turned from the window with much of his old self-confidence.
"Responsibility is a thing which command imposes--and which I accept.
However, that does not prevent me from profiting by the experience of
others, as I expect to do in your case, McGee."
"If I can help--"
"You can. A recent report from General Mitchell declares that casualties
from all causes have been as high as eighty per cent per month in
squadrons at the front. That's pretty stiff! Fortunately, the General
points out, the enemy losses have been as great, or even greater. I
don't want to leave a stone unturned that may help us to decrease that
percentage in this pursuit group--and _increase_ it among the
enemy! Here, take a look at this map, McGee."
He stepped to the table and with a pencil drew a circle around a spot
south of Epernay. "We are here," he said. "The lines are here." He moved
the pencil to the northwest of Epernay, where the heavy black lines
indicating the front crossed the Marne. "Notice that the lines swing
southwest through Comblizy and la Chapelle, then northwest again, back
to the Marne, and on to Chateau-Thierry. To-morrow we are to go here."
He circled a spot just south of La Ferte sous Jouarre. "See anything
peculiar in this situation?" He studied closely the faces of the two
junior officers. Mullins offered no reply.
"I think it peculiar that we have come up here, miles out of our way to
the north, when our destination is considerably southwest of us," McGee
offered.
"Exactly!" Cowan replied, approvingly. "But there is a reason for it--to
mislead the enemy. Their Intelligence Department seems to learn of every
move we make, and sometimes learns of it in _advance_ of that move.
That's the real reason we are here."
"I don't get it," Mullins said, shaking his head.
"The order sending us here came down in the regular way," Cowan
explained, "but the order that takes us to La Ferte, to-morrow morning,
was highly confidential. I did not disclose it until the moment of our
departure, and only then so that anyone forced down would know our
destination. There is to be a considerable concentration of air forces
on the apex of the salient between la Chapelle, this side of
Chateau-Thierry, and Villers-Cotterets, on the other side. It is the
beginning of a movement of concentration to drive the enemy back beyond
the Vesle. Hence the secrecy, and the effort to mislead the enemy as to
our movements."
McGee smiled, somewhat skeptically.
"What's wrong with that?" Cowan challenged.
"The enemy isn't so easily misled, Major," McGee answered. "We learned
that lesson on the English front, and learned it through bitter
experience. If the Hun doesn't know right now where we are going, he
will know of our arrival twenty-four hours after we get there. If he
fails to foresee our concentration at this point, he is thick-headed and
slow-witted indeed. I, for one, do not consider him slow-witted. About
the only secret we keep from him is the order that is never issued."
Cowan frowned. "I suppose you are right. But how does all this
information leak through?"
"If I knew that, Major, I'd be too valuable to be a pursuit pilot. If we
knew where the leaks were we could plug them by making use of several
good firing squads."
"You are right," Cowan agreed, and again bent over the map, studying it
with minutest care. "See here," he said at last. "If we flew a true
course from here to La Ferte we would parallel the front for several
miles. Here, just south of la Chapelle, we'd be within three miles of
the line. That's pretty close for a green squadron, don't you think?"
"We'll be closer than that in the next few days--by exactly three
miles!" Mullins answered. "Personally, I'd like to have a look-see at
the jolly old Hun."
"I don't think you need worry, Major," McGee offered. "It isn't likely
that we will run into any of them, and if we should we would so
outnumber them that they would establish some new records in
high-tailing it home."
"You think so?" Cowan seemed so unduly disturbed over so remote a
prospect that McGee found himself again doubting the Major's courage.
"I do. Why, look at our strength! The Boche prefers to have the
numerical superiority on his side."
"But you'd take up combat formation, of course?"
"Yes, and in echelon, one flight above another by a margin of three
thousand feet. Then, if the beggar wants to jump on that sort of buzz
saw, let him come--and welcome."
"There will be time enough to welcome him when we reach our new
base--all present or accounted for," Cowan replied. "You have no
objection to flying in the top flight with me to-morrow?"
"Why, no sir. Of course not. I'll be honored."
"Bosh! No flattery, Lieutenant. I don't expect it--especially from you."
Seemingly quite exasperated, Cowan turned away, walked quickly to the
window and again stood looking out into the night. Mullins winked at
McGee and made a quivering motion with his hand, indicating that he
thought Cowan was suffering from a case of nerves.
The Major turned from the window and stared at Mullins with a cold, but
studious eye. It made the Operations officer exceedingly uncomfortable.
"You forget, Lieutenant Mullins, that a window facing a dark courtyard
provides a most excellent mirror. Nerves, eh? Well, we shall see. If a
commander seeks counsel, some are likely to think him a fool. If he does
not, he _is_ a fool. When I said to McGee, 'no flattery' I meant
just that. Furthermore, I don't mind telling both of you that I know the
regard in which I am held by some--perhaps all--of the members of this
squadron. I even know my nickname, 'Old Fuss-Budget'. Humph! A hard
master always wins the name of 'old' something or other. I don't care a
hoot about that. I don't care a hoot about the opinions of any man in
this group if only the result of their training shows a balance in favor
of our country. Am I right or wrong?"
McGee and Mullins were too surprised to offer reply. This was quite the
longest speech Cowan had ever made in their presence; certainly it was
the most frank.
"Well," Cowan continued, "I have applied the goad whenever and wherever
I thought it needed. I have been goaded in turn, and took it without
whimpering. I wonder, Lieutenant," he turned to McGee, "if you remember
the report you made on that Hun you shot down over our 'drome?"
"Why--yes, sir, I do."
"And the recommendation you tacked on to it?"
"Yes, sir." Pretty warm, this, McGee thought.
"Then you will recall that it did not reflect any too much credit on me,
as the man responsible for any failure on the part of any member of this
command. But I did not ask you to change the dotting of an I or the
crossing of a T. Nor did you hear a word out of me when I received my
bawling out. The army is like that. From enlisted man to Commanding
General, every fellow thinks he is the only one with a prod in his side.
The truth is, the greater the rank, the higher the responsibility, and
the sharper the gaff. I often wish for the quiet, untroubled mind of a
buck private--and I thank Heaven that I am only a Major. Which reminds
me that I am one, and had better cut out conversation and fall to work."
His expression changed instantly; he became again the nervous,
irascible, driving commander.
"As for wanting you in the top flight," he plunged into his quick manner
of speaking, "it is because I want someone there whose eyes are trained
at picking up enemy planes. Doubtless I will get severely reprimanded
for bringing you along, so I had as well get the greatest possible good
out of your experience. You will inform Lieutenant Larkin that he is to
go in B Flight, with Yancey."
"Very well, sir. But if you really fear any trouble, Larkin will be more
effective in the top flight. Altitude means a lot--and I always feel
safer when he is sticking around close to me."
"No, I want him with Yancey. We might get separated, and if I draw an
ace for myself, I should give Yancey as good a card."
McGee smiled at the pun. "Very well, sir, but while speaking of aces,
it's always best to have 'em up. And the higher up the better. Larkin is
a great pilot when he has plenty of altitude--right where a lot of the
others fall down. Take him with you and let me go with Yancey."
"Oh, very well. I started in to ask for advice and I had as well take
it. That will be all to-night, Lieutenant. No, wait! One other thing:
Say nothing to anyone about Siddons going off joy-riding. Let them think
he is still at Vitry. I want to handle him my own way, without stirring
up any comment. If they find out he cut formation on a trumped up
hokus-pokus, they would think I should ground him."
Mullins' jaw dropped in surprise and astonishment. "Aren't you going to
ground him?" he asked.
"I am not! I'm going to see that he draws some hot stuff. I've a nice
little mission all figured out for him."
A glint in Cowan's eyes testified that he was again the self-sufficient
commander, confident of his decisions and determined upon his course of
action.