McGee Makes a Discovery
1
Three nights later, while members of the squadron were engaged in the
usual after mess gab fest, an orderly entered with a summons for McGee
and Larkin to report to Major Cowan. Larkin had just that day secured a
misfitting regulation issue uniform from the Supply Officer, Robinson,
and the group had been having a great deal of fun at his expense. Yancey
now saw another chance.
"Old Fuss Budget is goin' to have you shot for impersonatin' an officer
in that scarecrow riggin'," he taunted. "You should have kept your old
uniform on, like McGee."
"Huh! Robinson didn't have one small enough for McGee," Larkin retorted.
"They only have men's sizes in the American Army. What's wrong with this
uniform?"
"Uniform?" Yancey repeated. "Oh, I thought it was a horse blanket."
Larkin thumbed his nose at Yancey as he passed through the door with
McGee. He knew the Major would have a long wait if he stayed to get
ahead of Yancey.
Major Cowan appeared to be in an unusually happy frame of mind.
"I've good news for you," he announced as they entered the headquarters
hut. "In losing Carpenter, McWilliams and Rodd, we have gained you two.
And instead of the bawling out I expected, I was congratulated for
unusual foresight. The order assigning you to this squadron will be down
to-morrow. I hope you are as well pleased as I am."
"Of course we are," McGee answered for both. "We wouldn't feel so much
at home anywhere else. I'm sorry, of course, to come as a replacement
for any one of those other chaps. They were fine fellows."
"Of course," Cowan responded, heartily. "Their loss demonstrates the
value of experience. There was no reason at all for the collision
between Carpenter and McWilliams. They simply forgot there was anyone
else in the air. A tough break."
"Any break is a tough one when you don't come back," Larkin said.
The Major seemed to see him now for the first time. "Where in creation
did you get that gunny sack you're wearing?" he demanded.
Larkin grinned, foolishly. "From Lieutenant Robinson, sir."
"What's it supposed to be?"
"A uniform, sir."
"Thanks. I didn't know." He turned to McGee, who still wore his British
uniform. "Didn't Robinson have any more masquerade costumes?"
"Not my size, sir."
"Oh, you go in for size? I see Larkin doesn't. Why don't you get
uniforms?"
"We haven't had a chance, sir," Larkin answered. "There is no tailor
around here, so I chinned Robinson out of this enlisted man's issue.
Perhaps," he offered, smiling, "the Major will give us a pass to Paris
to have uniforms made."
"The Major will not! We've some real work ahead. But--"
The door opened and Siddons entered.
"But don't put that thing back on in the morning," Cowan completed.
"Your British uniform is at least presentable."
"You sent for me, sir?" Siddons spoke from the doorway, his voice having
the quality of one who is extremely bored--especially bored with being
sent for.
"I did." Cowan's voice was crisp. The ends of his moustache began
twitching jerkily. "I suppose you wonder why I have said nothing to you
about your failure to rejoin the squadron the other day after you cut
out at Vitry?"
"Why, no sir," Siddons responded, perfectly at ease. "You said that if
any of us developed trouble that delayed us, to come on here at the
earliest possible moment. I was here when you arrived."
"So you were." Cowan was making a stern effort to control his temper.
"And it is true that I gave you orders to come on here should delaying
trouble develop. But," he shot a quick, silencing look at McGee, "I
conducted a little investigation into your landing at Vitry, Lieutenant,
and I discovered that you took off again within an hour."
Siddons started, almost imperceptibly. His face colored, for a moment,
but he quickly assumed his habitual nonchalance. It goaded Cowan to an
inward fury, but he controlled himself well.
"I suppose you can think of some reason why I shouldn't ground you,"
Cowan said.
"Why, no sir. No reason at all."
"Then I can!" the Major snapped. "You like joy-riding, eh? Like to tour
France, eh? Very well, I'm going to give you a bit of it to do."
He turned and walked over to a large wall map. "Take a look at this--all
three of you," he said. "This is a detailed map of our sector. G 2
believes that the Germans are planning to strike north of here, perhaps
just south of Soissons. One of their reasons for this suspicion is that
information has reached G 2 to the effect that Count von Herzmann's
Circus has pulled out from Roncheres. Where is he now? That's the
question! The Intelligence sharks at Great Headquarters believe that if
we can locate his new base we will know something more about the plans
of the enemy. As a result, every squadron along this front has been
ordered to make an effort to locate his new position. Personally, I am
of the opinion that Larkin winged him the other morning, and as a result
his Circus has been withdrawn, pending his recovery."
Larkin shook his head regretfully. "I wish I could think so, Major. I'd
like to boast that I had given von Herzmann a little lead poisoning. But
I don't think so. The tracers showed that my burst was going into his
motor. I winged that, all right, but he didn't fly like a wounded man."
"Modest enough," Cowan approved. "It seems that G 2 thinks the same
thing. They have reason to believe that he is in the neighborhood of
this point here,"--he put a finger on the map--"where the railroad
between Soissons and Chateau-Thierry crosses the Ourcq."
He turned now directly to Siddons, his eyes cold and piercing.
"Lieutenant Siddons, you seem to be a most excellent map flyer. You find
your way here alone, and you tour this part of France with admirable
ease. To-morrow morning, if the visibility is good, you will take off at
dawn, cross the line above Bouresches, push on toward Bonnes and as far
inland as the railroad crossing on the Ourcq--if possible. Is that
clear?"
"Perfectly, sir." Siddons was as unconcerned and unruffled as though he
had received an order to fly to Paris.
"You will get the greatest possible altitude before crossing the line,
and you are to avoid combat. Your mission is to bring us information, if
possible, concerning the location of enemy 'dromes--and especially von
Herzmann's base. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly, sir."
One could not but admire the cool confidence of the fellow. His
complacency was not what Cowan had expected.
"If you think the risk is too great, alone," Cowan said, after watching
his face for any hint of quailing, "I will send two other planes with
you. They might help reduce the odds in case of unavoidable combat."
"Oh, that's not necessary," Siddons replied. "In fact, one plane has a
better chance to escape combat, especially if there are some clouds to
duck into. Anything else, sir?"
Cowan made a clicking sound with his tongue. The fellow wasn't human; he
was an iceberg!
"That is all. And I wish you luck."
"Thank you, Major. And thanks for the mission." He gave McGee and Larkin
the pitying look of one who has just drawn the grand prize in an open
competition, and without another word turned quickly and passed through
the door.
Cowan's face had a baffled look. "Well," he finally said, "he acts like
a gamecock, anyhow."
"Do you realize the danger of the mission?" McGee asked.
"It's not for me to consider that angle," the Major replied. "G 2 wants
information, and I am under orders to help supply it. Danger? Yes.
That's war. If we lose--well, I'd rather not discuss it."
At that moment the door opened. There, framed against the night, stood
Nathan Rodd! In salute he brought a gauze-wrapped hand to his head, a
head so thickly swathed in bandages that only his face was showing and
his service cap sat perched at a ridiculous angle.
"Lieutenant Rodd reports for duty, sir," he said.
Cowan, McGee and Larkin had stood transfixed, as men might who thought
they were seeing a ghost. But Rodd's words, concise and strikingly
characteristic of the taciturn Vermonter, snapped them into action. This
was no ghost!
"Rodd!" Major Cowan exclaimed, and rushed across the room to grip Rodd's
unbandaged left hand. "You here?"
Rodd considered it unnecessary to waste words on so stupid a question.
He merely offered his hand, when the Major released it, to McGee and
Larkin, who were pounding him on the back in great glee.
"We thought you were dead," Cowan said.
"So did I--until I woke up," Rodd answered.
Cowan, noting the pallor of his face, pressed him into a chair. "Tell us
about it," he urged. "Were you badly hurt? What happened? Didn't you
crack up--"
Rodd lifted his good hand in protest. "One question at a time, Major.
That German found my motor and it conked. I regained control just in
time to level off, but not in time to miss a tree. After that I don't
know what happened. Came to, flat on my back, fifty feet away from my
plane. It was burning. That's all there is to it."
"All there is to it!" Cowan snorted. "You're not sending a telegram.
Words won't cost you anything. Where have you been since then?"
"Hospital. Waiting for a chance to skip out."
"You mean--you ran away from the hospital?"
Rodd nodded.
"You are crazy, man! Why did you leave?"
"I don't like hospitals."
"But you are hurt! Is your head badly injured?"
"Cut."
"And your hand?"
"Cut."
Cowan could not escape laughing. McGee and Larkin joined in.
"I'm not laughing at your injury, Lieutenant," Cowan explained, "but at
your way of telling it. If that should happen to Yancey he'd write a
book about it. Of course, I'm delighted to see you alive. I had the good
fortune to wipe out the one that shot you down. He went down spinning."
"See him crash?" Rodd asked.
"No. Things were pretty thick. I didn't have time to watch."
"Didn't kill him," Rodd announced.
"What!"
"He made a better landing than I did. He was trying to bring me to when
some Frenchies came running up and nabbed him. Decent fellow. The
Frenchies treated him pretty rough. Put the screws to him, I guess."
"See here," Cowan leaned forward in his chair, "either tell all this
story, or back you go to the hospital. You say the French questioned
him?"
"French Intelligence did. Pretty game fellow, they said."
"But he talked?"
"Had to. That was von Herzmann's Circus."
"We know that. Anything else?"
"Yes. He said they knew all about our plans, and were out gunning for
us."
Cowan's face colored, but with confusion more than anger.
"Anything else?" he asked crisply.
"Well--the Frogs found out something else, but," he cast a quick,
furtive glance at McGee and Larkin, "but I guess I've talked enough.
Someone is talking too much, that's certain."
Cowan had seen the glance, and the inference irritated him. "These
officers have proved their loyalty by service, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir," was Rodd's meatless reply.
McGee felt genuinely hurt, but at the same time he recognized the fact
that Rodd's statement was all too true.
"Rodd is quite right, Major," he said, and arose from his chair. "If he
has any real information, it belongs to you alone--or to G 2. If you've
nothing further, Larkin and I will be going."
"No, nothing further."
"No orders for to-morrow morning?"
"No."
"May I speak to you a moment--privately?"
"Certainly."
They moved over near the door.
"You gave Siddons a mission I would like to have, Major. Any objections
if I take a little joy-ride in the morning?"
Cowan's eyes narrowed. "Where?" he asked.
"Over the lines. I'd like to do a little looking for myself."
"With Larkin?"
"No, sir. Alone. Don't even want Larkin to know I'm going. I think I
know where to locate von Herzmann's Circus."
"What are you driving at, Lieutenant?"
"Major, if I told you half of what I think I know, you'd call me crazy."
"Hm-m! Well, I can't give you permission to go--but I will not be
looking for you before noon." His sly wink told Red all that he wanted
to know.
"Yes, sir. Good night, Major. Good night, Rodd. The gang will be mighty
glad to see you back, old hoss! Come on, Buzz, let's go to bed."
Outside the door Larkin's fuming rage exploded. "Say, what did that
tongue-tied sap Rodd mean by that dirty dig? If his head wasn't already
in a sling, I'd--"
"Calm yourself, brother!" Red laughed. "If you had landed on your head
from as high a point as he did, and then found out it was all brought
about through a leak, you'd be suspicious of everyone too."
"Maybe so," Larkin answered, somewhat mollified. "What were you buzzing
old Fuss Budget about?"
"I'll tell you that to-morrow night--maybe."
"Humph!" Larkin snorted. "I guess Rodd's disease is catching. You're
tongue-tied too!"
Without reply Red led the way across the flying field to their hut.
Entering, he began fumbling around in the dark for a candle stub. Larkin
took up the search, by the aid of flickering matches, but the candle was
nowhere to be found.
"It's a fine war!" Larkin growled, as he began undressing in the dark.
"All the letters from the States bear the postmark, 'Food Will Win The
War.' I guess the Army is trying to save on candles, too."
2
Before sunup the following morning McGee awoke and began quietly
dressing. He did not want to awaken Larkin. When he had finished
dressing he tiptoed cautiously across the floor, opened the creaking
door ever so slowly and closed it with the same care.
Dawn was just streaking the east. A few birds were offering their first
roundelays; the grass and trees were wet with a light rain that had
fallen during the night, and to the northeast the distant guns were
rumbling their morning song of hate--evil dispositioned giants, guttural
in their wrath when dawn awoke them to a new day of devastation. Two or
three sleepy-eyed air mechanics were making their way toward the
hangars.
McGee stood for a moment outside the hut, studying the sky, which was a
patchwork of clouds scattered across grey splotches that would turn to
blue with the coming of the sun. Evidently the sky had been quite
overcast during the night, but the clouds were broken now, though by no
means dispersed.
It was an ideal morning for crossing the lines. Convenient cloud banks
were excellent havens in case of surprise, and Archie fire was less
accurate when the gunners had to contend with a ship that plunged into
concealing clouds and out again at the most unexpected places. Of
course, those same clouds offered concealment for enemy planes, but a
pilot crossing the lines alone is considerably advantaged by such a sky
as McGee was now studying approvingly.
As McGee started toward the hangars he saw that some of the ground crew
were wheeling out Siddons' Nieuport. Well, the Major had stuck to his
resolution and the order had gone through.
"Where's Lieutenant Siddons going?" McGee asked the Ack Emma who was
making a careful check of the plane.
"Don't know, sir. Got orders last night to have her ready."
"Did Sergeant Williams get orders for my plane?"
"Yes, sir. Are you and Siddons goin' over on patrol, Lieutenant?"
"I can't answer for Siddons," McGee evaded. "You'd better ask him."
"Huh! A lot of good it would do. Honest, Lieutenant, that fellow talks
less to us than a cigar store Indian talks to the customers--and that's
less than nothin'. He thinks we're worms!"
McGee was about to offer his sympathies when another crew, under
Sergeant Williams, came rolling the Camel out to the line. McGee began
checking it over with the same minute care which had doubtless gone a
long way toward making him an ace. He left inspection to no man. His air
mechanic, knowing this, was equally careful in his work. This diminutive
lieutenant was as mild as an April morning so long as all was well, but
when something went wrong he could say more than a six foot
Major-General.
"All set, Sergeant?" McGee asked, finishing his inspection.
"All set, sir. I just put a new valve in that wind driven gas pump. The
guy that invented that trick should have been tapped for the simples.
Why don't you hang this thing on a church steeple, Lieutenant, and get
one of those Spads?"
"Well, I rather dislike entering a church from the steeple, and I'm sort
of partial to this old crate. She's tricky on the ground, but I'm used
to her ways and she's a Lulu upstairs."
He swung into the cockpit and the Sergeant stood at the prop.
"Switch off?"
"Switch off!"
The sergeant pulled over the propeller two times.
"Contact, sir."
"Contact."
The motor caught, and after it had idled a few minutes McGee began
revving it up.
Just then he noticed Siddons come from around the corner of the hangar,
carrying what appeared to be a canvas covered pillow. Seeing McGee's
plane on the line he stopped in surprise, then proceeded to his plane,
where he fitted the pillow into the seat, patting it in place as a woman
pats a divan pillow. Then he came across to the side of McGee's plane.
"Did you get orders, too?" he shouted.
McGee cut the gun. "No," he answered truthfully. Satisfied that this
would not end the questioning, he added, "The Ack Emma has made some
repairs. I'm going to give her a test."
"Oh, I see. Thought maybe I was going to have the pleasure of your
company--and your help. Nice morning for my little jaunt, isn't it?"
"Bully!" McGee looked at him closely to discover any hint of fear. It
simply wasn't there, and Red was forced to the mental admission that he
had never seen such a cool, confident manner displayed by any pilot
going over for the first time. "Good luck!" he called, and again began
revving his motor.
Siddons turned back to his own plane, and with the most casual
inspection, and with no comment to the mechanic, crawled into his
cushion padded seat.
McGee, satisfied with the sound of his own motor, nodded to the wing
boys to remove the chocks, and taxied to a quick take-off. At two or
three hundred feet he turned, came back across the 'drome and headed in
the general direction of Paris, climbing steadily and maintaining the
direction until to the watching ground crew he became lost to view.
Then McGee swung north and began working back eastward. He passed to the
west of La Ferte, and having gained an altitude of fifteen thousand
feet, headed directly for the front, intending to cross the line to the
north of Belleau and proceed toward Fere-en-Tardenois. Then, if fortune
favored him, he could decide upon a deeper thrust into enemy territory.
The cloud strata was exceptionally deep and yet ragged enough to provide
frequent glimpses at the world below. The one great danger lay in the
fact that he might any minute come unexpectedly upon a German pursuit
group. It was probable, however, that on such a morning they would be
operating at a lesser altitude.
The trenches, as he crossed the line, were only faintly discernible, the
detail obscured by the blue ground haze so common to the eyes of the
pilot operating at high altitudes. But the strip of barren land on each
side of the trenches gave visible evidence of the grimness of the
struggle far below, and here and there along the line, miniature geysers
spouted fan-shaped eruptions of earth with a grotesque, unexpected
suddenness. Then a second later a new pock-mark on the face of an
already over-tortured earth showed where the shell had exploded.
It was fascinating to watch. Nerve-racking and ear-splitting as it must
be to the mud-splashed creatures in the trenches below, from on high the
land within the neighborhood of the zig-zag trenches took on the
appearance of a pot of boiling mush--here a crater, there a crater,
springing into being with an amazing suddenness that lured the observer
into the game of guessing when the next crater would appear.
McGee was engaged in exactly such mental speculation when he was brought
to the realization of his own nearness to war by the plane-rocking
explosion of a well-placed Archie. Then two other giant black roses
bloomed directly in his path. Now he was presented with his own guessing
game. Where would the next one be?
He swerved sharply left and dived toward a neighboring cloud. A cloud,
while seeming from below to have both form and substance, is in reality
but little different from a dense ground fog. It is enveloping, misty,
eerie, and cuts off all visible contact with the world. If it covers a
large air area, then the pilot may face some nice problems in correct
and stable navigation, but if it is only a patch, he drives straight
along his course, knowing that he will plunge out into the sunlight with
the same suddenness with which he left it. Clouds are particularly
welcome when Archie gunners begin to plaster the air with high explosive
shells.
As McGee came out of this cloud, his attention was drawn to a number of
black bursts some three thousand feet below, but which clustered around
a lone Nieuport flying at a forty-five degree angle to the line of
flight which McGee was pursuing. That Archie crew knew their business,
and McGee thought they appeared uncomfortably near the Nieuport. Then,
as he watched, the Nieuport did a strange thing. Instead of making a
sudden change in direction or a quick dive, either of which would compel
the gunner to make another quick calculation in his range, it merely
rolled once, then dipped twice, and proceeded on its way. The Archie
fire ceased as suddenly as it had commenced.
McGee streaked across another open patch of sky and entered another
cloud. Coming out of this one he again spotted the lone Nieuport and
corrected his own line to correspond with that of the lone flyer below.
Now, studying it more closely, and with more time, he felt sure that it
was Siddons' plane. One thing certain, the red, white and blue cockades
established it as an American manned plane, and who, save a novice,
McGee reasoned, would roll and make a slight dip to escape Archie fire.
That particular battery must have been too convulsed by laughter to
continue their fire. Had that stupid pilot, whoever he was, forgotten
what he had been told concerning Archie fire?
With the same surprising suddenness with which Archies always proclaim
their presence, three more black puff balls inked the air directly ahead
of the Nieuport. They were off the mark, but they furnished data for
other guns which began filling the air. Evidently the gunners had not
yet seen McGee, who was much higher and considerably behind the
Nieuport, for they were concentrating on that plane.
To McGee's surprise the Nieuport again rolled, then dipped twice, and
the guns below immediately ceased firing. McGee decided it was time to
seek the seclusion of a nearby cloud and while driving through it, do a
little thinking.
What he had just witnessed was enough to make any experienced pilot
think. Someone, flying a Nieuport, had a most novel way of treating with
anti-aircraft gunners. He merely rolled over, straightened out, dipped
twice, and the guns promptly left off their quarreling. No one could be
stupid enough to reason that such manoeuver would discomfit the gunners,
and yet in this case the effect was more efficacious than any manoeuver
yet invented.
McGee smiled at the stupidity of the thought. It was effective only
because it was a signal, prearranged and understood by the anti-aircraft
gunners. The pilot of that Nieuport was in communication with the enemy,
and McGee believed that man to be Siddons!
It all came to him in a flash. Who, better than Siddons, could have
supplied the enemy with the information that brought them over to bomb
the green squadron when they were stationed near Is-Sur-Tille? Someone
supplied it, for Cowan had found in the pocket of the German flyer whom
he, McGee, had brought down, an order disclosing the very fact that the
raid had been planned on Intelligence reports. And where had Siddons
gone that day after landing at Vitry on the slenderest excuse? The
French Major said he had taken off within an hour. And the very next
morning the squadron stumbled into a net spread by von Herzmann, and but
for the timely and unexpected arrival of a large group of French Spads
the harvest would have been great indeed. Could it be that Siddons had
crossed the lines the previous afternoon, escaping Archie fire by a
simple code of air signals, and disclosed the entire plan to the enemy?
McGee felt a hot wave of ungovernable anger sweep over him. He no longer
had any doubts whatsoever. Two and two make four. Siddons was a traitor
to his country. To his country? No, doubtless he was one of the many who
had been trained for years against this very hour of need. On false
records he had gained admission to the American Air Force, and now--
McGee came out of the cloud into the clear sunlight, and began searching
the sky for the Nieuport. It was not to be seen. He flew on, encountered
other clouds, came out again, but the Nieuport had miraculously
disappeared.
McGee flew steadily northeast until he spotted an exceptionally large
group of enemy planes, working up from the direction in which he was
headed.
It was time to turn around. He was quite too far into enemy territory to
feel comfortable, and that swarm of planes made him unusually homesick,
even though they were far below him.
But just as he banked into a left turn he noticed that they were nosing
down, sharply. He flew along the misty edge of a cloud, watching
closely. Down, down, they went, becoming mere specks against the
blue-grey ground haze.
They were about to make a landing! There could be no doubt of it, though
at this distance and altitude he could not make out their hangars. On
down they dropped, until at last they seemed to be engulfed by a greyish
sea that shut out all definite form.
McGee had come for information, and here it was within his grasp if he
were only willing to take a chance.
The strata of clouds against which he was flying stretched in the
general direction of the place where he had lost sight of the large
flight of planes.
He ducked into the clouds and drove along until he estimated that he was
somewhere in the right neighborhood.
Coming out into an open sky he located a considerable forest far to his
right and another one several kilometers directly ahead. Directly
between these a ribbon of white marked its twisting course. That would
be the Ourcq, and the forest beyond would be the Forest de Nesles.
And--yes, there just beyond the river was a town--which McGee concluded
must be Fere-en-Tardenois--and a little way from its outskirts a group
of drab square blocks that caught and held his eyes.
Too much ground haze to make them out. Well, a chance is a chance, he
reasoned, as over went the Camel's nose in a long dive.
Twice he checked the dive, only to dive again. He hated to give up
altitude, but he was determined to get a look.
After the third dive, and the loss of several thousand feet, he made out
the drab-colored canvas hangars of a German 'drome, and poised on the
open field was a veritable swarm of little moths appearing to be drying
their wings in the sun. Three of them began racing along the ground and
bounded into the air. At the same minute an Archie battery opened from
the town. The burst was wide of McGee's plane, but there was no
mistaking their sincerity nor the fact that those three harmless
appearing moths below were climbing to the attack.
Red gave his Camel all he thought it could stand as he climbed for the
protecting clouds. Information was of no value if sealed by a dead man's
lips. He had learned far too much this morning to chance any fight with
anyone that could possibly be avoided.
The Archie fire continued until he had regained the clouds, and even
then two or three more shells burst harmlessly somewhere ahead in the
grey mist wall. He changed his direction sharply and roared along on a
full throttle.
His heart was racing with his motor. He felt convinced that the 'drome
he had located was a new base for the squadron he had just seen, for
were they not coming up from the interior? Doubtless he had stumbled on
to a movement of some importance. Just how important he could not know,
but G 2 would be delighted with such information. Could that squadron, he
wondered, by rare good fortune be the Circus of the famed von Herzmann?
Over Etrepilly an Archie battery hurled aloft a smashing,
plane-staggering burst of black puff balls. A jagged piece of steel tore
through his left wing. Too close, that!
He dived steeply. More shells burst above him. Above, but still
uncomfortably close. Those gunners were real marksmen.
Suddenly he thought of what he had seen the lone Nieuport do. It might
be worth trying. Acting on the impulse he rolled, straightened out, then
dipped twice. One more shell came screaming aloft and then the batteries
became abruptly silent.
Well, that was that! There could be no question now as to the movement
being a prearranged signal. Archie gunners would not ordinarily leave
off firing at any such stupid performance--they would chuckle while they
locked the breach on another shell, and forthwith blow that fellow into
Kingdom Come.
McGee was in high fettle as he streaked across the lines south of
Belleau and laid a course for home. He had a great deal to report, and
someone, flying a lone Nieuport, was going to have a great deal of
explaining to do.
3
When McGee swooped low over his own hangar, preparatory to a landing, he
was surprised to see Siddons' Nieuport resting on the tarmac. So he was
back so soon!
Larkin was the first to greet McGee when he crawled from his plane.
"Where've you been?" he demanded.
"Oh, just up for a little test," McGee replied, assuming an air of
indifference.
Larkin pointed to the jagged hole through the fabric of the left wing.
"Don't kid me!" he said. "Where'd you pick up that little souvenir?"
"I'll tell you later," McGee answered and started toward the Major's
headquarters.
Larkin seized his arm and spun him around. "You'll tell me one thing
right now, little feller! What's so funny about hiding my uniform so
I'll get bawled out again by Old Fuss Budget for wearing this misfit?"
McGee looked at him blankly.
"What do you mean?"
"Mean? I mean you got up so early a respectable milkman wouldn't think
of being up, and with your brain a bit foggy you thought what a clever
idea it would be to hide my English uniform and give this gang of
Indians another day of pleasure. What's the big idea?"
McGee shook his head. "I never touched your uniform, Buzz. Come to think
of it, though, I don't remember seeing it this morning while I was
dressing. Did you see it last night?"
"See it last night!" Larkin snorted. "How could I? We couldn't find the
candle and it was so blasted dark that I hung my shoes on a chair and my
pants on the floor. Quit foolin', Red. Where's that uniform?"
"I don't know, I tell you. But if I were you I'd go ask Yancey that
question."
Larkin's eyes snapped. "That's the bozo! That Texas longhorn is just
before meeting up with a real cyclone."
"Better go easy," Red warned. "He's used to cyclones, and I've always
had a sort of feeling that he could take care of himself in heavy
weather."
Nothing daunted, Buzz went bowling off in search of Yancey, and McGee
crossed the 'drome to Cowan's headquarters.
The excited enthusiasm with which McGee began his report to Cowan was
quickly cooled by the Major's expressionless indifference. Throughout
McGee's narration of the events of the morning, Cowan continued studying
a sheaf of papers lying on the desk before him, now and then penciling
thereon some memorandum or brief endorsement. That part of the report
dealing with the actions of the lone Nieuport, which seemed to have a
system of signals to insure safe passage over the lines, brought from
the Major no more than a throaty, "Hum-m." It angered McGee, and brought
from him a heated charge which under other conditions he would have
hesitated to make.
"And the man who was piloting that plane is a member of this squadron,"
he blurted out.
Cowan casually turned a sheet of paper. "Indeed," he replied, continuing
his reading. It was maddening.
"Has Siddons reported to you, sir?" McGee asked, pointedly.
"Yes." Cowan arose and looked straight at the flushed young pilot. His
eyes were uncommunicative. "Lieutenant Siddons just left here with
Colonel Watts, going back to Wing headquarters," he said. "I may tell
you, Lieutenant, that the Colonel came down a short time after Siddons
hopped off, and gave me a most uncomfortable half hour for sending him
over. We will discuss it no further, and I charge you with absolute
silence in the matter. You are to say nothing, to anyone, concerning
this entire matter. You understand?"
"I understand that I'm to keep silent, sir--but I don't understand the
rest of it."
"It isn't necessary that you do. That is all, Lieutenant."
"But what about that 'drome I located at Fere-en-Tardenois? I think it
is Count von Herzmann's Cir--"
"You think wrong, McGee, but whatever you think, don't think out loud.
That is all, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir. And there are no orders for--"
"Orders will be a little more secret--in the future." Cowan's voice was
crisp, and carried a note of dismissal.
"Yes, sir." McGee saluted stiffly, turned on his heel and walked from
the room, steaming with anger. Outside the door he picked up a small
stone from the newly graveled walk and hurled it singing through the top
of a nearby poplar. He simply had to throw something.
"You poor prune!" he addressed himself. "You never did have enough sense
to know when you were well off."