2
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 to128watch 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 difference129if 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
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.
130McGee 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
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 heating131engine. 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 reached132the 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.”
133“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–andincreaseit 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 every134move we make, and sometimes learns of it inadvanceof 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.”
135Cowan 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?”
136“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, heisa 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–of137the 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 one138with 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.”
139“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.
1
1
At dawn the following morning, well behind the German lines in the vicinity of Roncheres, Count von Herzmann’s famous Circus was making feverish haste to take the air. Von Herzmann himself was coolly instructing the pilots in the purposes of their coming expedition. His elation was great indeed, and his entire manner, as well as the pleased smile that played over his youthful, handsome face, indicated that he was confident of victory. Confidence, however, was no new trait in von Herzmann. He always possessed it, but it stopped just short of blind egotism. Perhaps therein could be found the reason for his fame and his success. He was no blundering, egobefuddled braggart riding for a fall; he was a splendid pilot, a careful tactician, fearless when fearlessness was needed and cautious when caution would bring greater reward than blind valor. In short, his fame rested securely upon ability. He was one of the idols of his countrymen, and he was a scourge both feared and respected by the allied air141forces. The ships of his Circus were painted in whatever gaudy colors proved appealing to the pilots thereof, but the fuselage of each bore the famous insignia of the Circus–the defiant German eagle with its blood red feet and talons supported on a scroll bearing the legend,Gott Mit Uns. And indeed it did seem that this Circus was providentially watched over.
For more than a year the watchword of the French and English had been, “Get von Herzmann.” It was an easy phrase to coin, but extremely difficult to execute. Many a French and English pilot had gone gunning for him, but most of these were now in their graves. Those who escaped were a little less enthusiastic in their next search for this skilled airman who had run up a total of more than two score victories.
Von Herzmann, in addition to being a skilled pilot, was as elusive as a ghost. He was here, there, everywhere. Wherever there was a heavy drive or a sturdy, sullen defensive, there could be found Count von Herzmann. The Allies, making use of this knowledge, had sent out many bombing expeditions to blast the nest of this troublesome Circus from the face of the earth, but their deadly bombs fell upon deserted, decoy hangars.
As is always the case, those who exhibit a certain degree of excellence find ready help at the hand of admirers who wish them still further success and acclaim.142It was so in von Herzmann’s case. The German army could ill afford to lose one who was so brilliant in his operations and so firmly established as one of the popular national idols. The German Intelligence Department gave him all possible assistance, thereby not only saving his precious neck but furnishing still more glamorous stories for a populace that was daily becoming more disheartened and weary with war.
On this morning at Roncheres, von Herzmann was again preparing to shake another plum into his lap. Military Intelligence had received word late the previous evening that an American Pursuit Squadron would on the following morning leave from a ’drome south of Epernay and proceed to a new base south of La Ferte sous Jouarre. Doubtless they would parallel the line south of la Chapelle. What could be simpler than to send forth von Herzmann with the full strength of his justly famous Circus to intercept these untried Americans? Here was a ripe plum indeed–to be had for the picking!
Von Herzmann was particularly well pleased. He smiled as he climbed jauntily into his gaudy green and gold Fokker tri-plane. So the stupid Americans had thought to lead the German High Command astray by such a clumsy movement? Ha! They forgot that a good spy system is like wheels within wheels. But they would learn–in time.
143Smiling, he examined his twin Spandau machine guns. Then he glanced along the line of ships making up the first flight. Yes, they were ready, awaiting his signal, their idling motors purring like so many contented cats. The smiling, blond von Herzmann lifted his hand in signal. The purring sound changed to the deafening roar of a hundred infuriated jungle cats. The leading plane raced along the green field, and a moment later the first flight of von Herzmann’s great Circus leaped into the air, climbed rapidly, and laid a course for a cloud bank hanging over the lines above Comblizy.
How often the youthful, clever von Herzmann had made use of shielding cloud banks, or lacking clouds had placed himself above his adversary, squarely in the blinding sun. One of the two, or both perhaps, would serve him again this morning.
His smile grew broader as he neared the front. It was thrilling, this hunting business, and it was made decidedly easier when Intelligence cooperated fully, as they had done in this instance. He knew the strength of his quarry, their lack of experience, and the report had included the statement that two of the planes were piloted by instructors fresh from the English front, flying English Camels. Two hated Englanders, eh?Gott strafeEngland! He would single them out and take care of them, one at a time. The rest of his command would scatter the others like144quails, and the survivors, not well acquainted with the terrain, would have a nice problem in finding their way to La Ferte.Himmel!but it was a pleasing prospect.
2
2
Major Cowan’s squadron had been slightly delayed in starting by two malfunctioning Nieuports. A precious half hour was spent in correcting the difficulty and the sun had changed from a dull red ball to a blinding white disk racing up the eastern sky wall by the time the flights had gained proper altitude and laid a true course for La Ferte sous Jouarre.
The top flight, with Cowan leading, had climbed to twelve thousand feet. B Flight, under Yancey, was some three thousand feet under him and somewhat in advance. This gave the top flight a greater protective power and insured the bottom flight against any surprise attack. Not only were the flights in echelon, but the planes of each unit were also echeloned, each plane being slightly above the one directly ahead. It was a formidable formation, capable of being readily manoeuvered and with each pilot insured the best possible vision.
A few white, vapory clouds hung high over the trenches toward Comblizy, and still heavier banks were to be seen to the south of la Chapelle, hanging145over the Surmelin Valley. In all other directions the sky presented that fathomless blue so well known to all pilots who ascend above ten thousand feet. The open space between these apparently unmoving cloud banks was some three or four miles in width.
Larkin, in the top flight with Major Cowan, had taken up position as the hindermost plane in the group and had, therefore, the greatest altitude. As a rule, he never was satisfied with his altitude until he had pushed his plane somewhere near the limit of its climbing ability. He was a splendid pilot at great altitude, and he had learned from experience that many pilots capable of doing good work at the lower levels flounder around like fish out of water when above twelve thousand feet. This being equally true of friend and foe, Larkin always felt better when he was high enough not to have any worry about someone coming down on him. He preferred having his enemies below rather than above.
This morning, however, he took no thought of the matter. Before taking off Major Cowan had said no more than, “Look sharp when we get south of la Chapelle; head on a pivot, you know.” Shucks! Slim chance for any excitement with a group like this. Even if they sighted a small enemy patrol they would have to go merrily on their way and leave the game to someone else. However, a war pilot with skill enough to become such an ace as Larkin needs146little caution about “looking sharp.” It is habit with him, and those who fail to develop the habit are only a few hours or days removed from sudden disaster.
There was little enough to see. They were flying westward. Again and again Larkin turned his head around, closed one eye and placing a thumb close to his open eye squinted into the blinding sun. Many times, by the employment of that little trick, he had been able to momentarily diffuse the sun’s rays sufficiently to catch the faintest blurred outline of enemy planes sitting in the sun and waiting for the proper moment to dive.
This morning the sun seemed unusually bright and blinding. Somewhat ahead, and to the south, three large French observation planes were coming up toward the lines at la Chapelle. They were just about even, vertically, with the cloud bank over the Surmelin Valley. They would pass almost directly under the bottom flight, led by Yancey.
Larkin watched them, somewhat idly. Photographic mission, probably. Then, with little or no interest in them, his eye ran along the two converging lines of planes that made up Yancey’s flight. That moment he noticed McGee’s plane cut out of position and zoom up at an angle too steep to be maintained. Then McGee’s plane levelled off and was hurled through a series of quick acrobatics. It meant but one thing–manoeuver!
147Larkin jerked his head around and squinted into the sun. Not a thing there–at least nothing he could see–and as soon as the stabbing streaks of light left his eyes he glanced toward the cloud bank over the Marne. Nothing there. The three French observation busses, far below, were going gaily on their way. But McGee was still climbing and stunting. Larkin knew that this was no idle exhibition. McGee didn’t fly that way. He was trying to draw their attention to something.
Larkin looked ahead at Cowan’s plane. That moment the Major dipped his plane twice. Now what in the world did he mean by that? Larkin wondered. Merely that he had noticed McGee and was on the alert? Or did he mean that he too had seen the enemy? Enemy! Where was the enemy?
Again Larkin turned his head to try the sun. Nothing there ... yes, by George! there was a blur of black spots. But it was such a fleeting view that he could not be sure, and tried again. Blast the sun! It made him blind as a bat!
He closed his eyes to cut out the dancing sparks and pin wheels. He opened them again, and on turning for one more trial at the sun his eye fell upon the cloud bank to the north. Talk about being blind! Blind as a bat was right!
There, dark, dim and shadowy against the cloud were more German planes than he had ever before148seen in one group, and their angle of direction left no question as to their purpose.
Again he tried the sun. Yes, there they were! No question about it now. They were coming down, and in so doing were no longer completely within the eye of the sun. Pretty slick! A group behind to cut off retreat and another group coming out of the clouds at an angle that would intercept the line of flight. And that cloud was fairly raining German planes!
“Well!” Larkin exclaimed aloud. “Here’s a howdy-do!”
The planes to the eastward were looming up with surprising speed, and no one could say when the ones behind and above would open up their murderous guns. What would Cowan do? What would any of these green pilots do in such a dog fight? Larkin looked down at McGee. He was still climbing for all he was worth. Cowan, if he saw anything, was too paralyzed for action. But perhaps he had not seen. Air eyes come through experience, Larkin knew, and something must be done right now.
In the moment that he determined upon a course of action he saw another group of planes come streaming out of the cloud to the south. Curtains! The whole sky was full of planes. Then, as they swerved sharply, he saw the sunlight play on the allied cockade. And how they came! Spads, French Spads! Going up to the front, perhaps, as a covering flight for the149observation crates far below. But now they were swinging into this grand and unexpected melee.
Larkin grinned. “Hereisa howdy-do–sure ’nuff!” he repeated and went into a tight, climbing turn that brought him squarely around, facing the planes streaming down out of the sun. Taps for Mr. Larkin, he thought, but he would at least give them pause, and by so doing not only provide Cowan with a chance to wake up and manoeuver, but it would give the oncoming Spads the one thing they needed–time!
The lightning-like movements and happenings of an aerial dog fight cannot be followed or seen by any one man. Fortunate indeed is that pilot who can keep track of what is going on around him. One moment he may have a single adversary; the next he is the target for two or more planes. If he shakes them off, or by marksmanship reduces the odds, he may check in for mess that evening; failing to do so, a squadron commander will that night requisition a new pilot.
As Larkin came around on the quickly executed turn he was only faintly conscious of the fact that a considerable group of Fokker tri-planes were sweeping down on him. He gave no thought to the number. His eye was fixed upon a bright green and gold plane in the lead. As he pulled up the nose of his Camel and thumbed the trigger release for his first150burst, he sensed the strange exultation that comes to that man who, facing death in a forlorn hope and knowing there is no escape, accepts all chances and sells his life as dearly as possible.
The diving green and gold plane flashed across his ring sights as the Lewis gun poured forth its first burst. Square into the oncoming plane the tracers poured. Larkin, seeing that he was on, held his nose up until he knew he was about to stall.
The green plane dipped, dived under him, and Larkin noticed another plane flash past him, bent on other game. Then splinters flew from one of his struts and a bullet smacked against the instrument board.
He had lost flying speed on his zoom to get at the green plane. To regain speed, and give life to his laboring motor, he dived sharply.
At the beginning of this dive a glance told him that the green plane had suffered an injury vital enough to cause it to lose all interest in any return to the attack.
During the first flashing seconds of the attack Larkin’s mind had been occupied only with the thought of hurling himself at the oncoming planes in the forlorn hope of diverting their course of action for a few brief but precious minutes. Suddenly, now, the fleeing green and gold plane awakened memory. Green and gold! Could that be the plane of the renowned von151Herzmann, who from the beginning of his fame had advertised himself as the man who always flew a brightly painted green and gold plane?
Another Fokker dived at Larkin, his Spandaus rattling. His aim was wild and he overshot Larkin’s steep dive. But in that dive, which brought him all too close, Larkin caught sight of the insignia on the plane–a German eagle perched on a lettered scroll. It was von Herzmann’s Circus!
Larkin’s heart leaped. He kicked his left rudder savagely and wheeled left, thundering after the green and gold plane that was streaking homeward. Get that plane, get that plane! ran through his mind. All else faded. The presence of other planes, and his original plan, all were lost sight of in the pulse-quickening realization that he had crippled the plane of the famous ace in that first burst. Now to get him and bring him down! Von Herzmann was not one to cut and run unless there was an urgent reason for it. He was trying to tool a crippled plane back across the lines. Larkin, determined to make the most of this golden opportunity, forthwith lost sight of all else.
Ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! Crash! Splinters flew from Larkin’s cowling and two gashes suddenly appeared in the fabric of his left wing. So! The crippled eagle had loyal kingbirds for protectors, and they had plunged, pecking, at the Camel pursuing their leader.
152Larkin dived clear of the streaming bullets, zoomed upward into a half loop and rolled into position to fire at the leading attacker. The German was slow and Larkin poured a stream of lead into the cockpit. He saw the pilot stiffen, as one who has received a sudden shock or surprise, and then slump down. The plane thundered on for a moment, then nosed down, out of control.
Ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! Larkin saw tracers zipping past the nose of the plane. He side-slipped, out of the line of fire, and glanced back. Two more kingbirds coming to the relief of the fleeing eagle.
Ta-ka-ta-ka–the Spandaus again began their monotonous, metallic stutter. Into the cockpit of Larkin’s plane streamed a half dozen deadly pellets. Two of them pinged against the instrument board, another passed completely through the cockpit, just in front of his stomach. He felt suddenly cold at the nearness of death as he zoomed steeply into a quivering stall and slipped off into a spin.
He was conscious of the fact that both the Fokkers were thundering after him. Then a Camel, with the speed of a thunderbolt, flashed across his line of vision. He could see the Lewis gun quivering with little excited jumps as it poured out lead. Good old McGee! He always turned up when needed most.
Larkin neutralized the stick, then ruddered hard left against the spin, and thus stopped the tail spin.153Then, gaining speed by a quick dive, he looped with a suddenness that brought the Camel squarely on the tail of the remaining pursuer who was diving steeply. Both guns began jumping with delight as Larkin thumbed the releases. What luck! Square in the ring sight! The telltale tracers poked their white fingers into the vitals of the Fokker tri-plane. A serpent-like tongue of red licked out, fluttering for a moment like a wind blown candle flame, and then leaped afresh in an enveloping burst of flame and smoke.
Two!
He glanced around. McGee was in a merry game with the other kingbird. Round and round they plunged in steep spirals, each trying to get a glimpse of the other across the sights. A tight, breath-taking game, but one which cannot last long. The circle becomes too small, the pace too swift. It was a game in which, Larkin knew, the tri-plane Fokker could excel the Camel, granting that the pilots were of equal skill.
Larkin jockeyed for position, but in that moment when his eye was taken from the mad game of ring-around-the-rosy, McGee demonstrated that the skill was not equally placed. The Fokker was now spinning down, obviously out of control, and McGee was following, filling it with enough lead to sink it. It spun earthward, sickening in its erratic gyrations.
McGee pulled up on his stick, banked sharply,154bringing himself alongside Larkin. They waved to each other, exultantly. Larkin, who a few minutes ago had decided that his luck had played out its string, swallowed his heart, murmured “Whew!” and surveyed the field.
The green and gold plane of von Herzmann was now a rapidly diminishing speck against the cloud bank toward la Chapelle, streaking for the Fatherland. The others, lacking a leader, and facing unequal chances with the timely and unexpected appearance of the French Spads, were withdrawing from the action with all the speed they could get out of their wonderful motors. And that was speed enough.
The French Spads had come out of a cloud bank just in time to upset the well laid plans of the German ace, and that worthy, never expecting such a dare-devil, self-sacrificing move as made by Larkin, had for once been taken by surprise. He had been damaged enough to force immediate retirement. The celerity with which his group abandoned the project and followed in his wake gave glowing tribute to the true value and leadership of that youth who flew the green and gold plane. With him as leader, they would have taken a toll, despite the unexpected arrival of the Spads. But with von Herzmann, their idol and their pride, forced from the fight by a hated Englander flying a dinky little Camel–well, the Fatherland could be served some other day.
155But von Herzmann had been right in his boast that he would scatter the Americans like quails. As the French Spads pursued the fleeing Fokkers, which were numerically strong enough to make a too vigorous pursuit unwise and unhealthy, Major Cowan took up the task of gathering his brood. He flew around, bringing them together, signaling instructions to take up positions, and pointing westward along the line of flight. Three of his brood, however, were crushed and crumpled fledglings on the ground far below. Carpenter, and fat, jolly little McWilliams, had collided while engaging an enemy. Their crumpled wings had locked fast in an embrace that spun them down dizzily to a crashing, splintering death. And Nathan Rodd, he who spared his words, had also been a bit too provident or tardy with his fire and had been sent down out of control. Cowan had avenged Rodd a second later, sending his attacker down spinning and thereby gaining his first victory.
The score, in that far flung encounter, stood one in favor of Cowan’s squadron, but it was a heavy-hearted group of pilots who at last took up formation and headed westward. Their faces had a new, grim look. Flying was not all a matter of shooting the other fellow down. Those who had witnessed the sickening crash of Carpenter and McWilliams learned at a tragic cost that one must be all eyes. The gateman, who controls the airways of the skies, was156taking his toll, and every one of the group that flew westward toward La Ferte, leaving three comrades behind, now more soberly considered the alarming casualty figures of eighty per cent per month–and wondered!
A month! It is such a little while.
1
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 Major158would 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.”
159“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?”
160“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. G2 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 G2 to the effect that Count von Herzmann’s Circus has161pulled 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 G2 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 inland162as 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,163and 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. “G2 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,164who 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.
165“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.
166“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 G2. 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.”
167“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 flying168field 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.”