McGee’s victory had a most salutary effect upon the personnel of the squadron. They lost sight of the fact that he had been highly favored by luck in the encounter and that but for luck, coupled with skill, the balance might well have been in the enemy’s favor. They began to look upon victory as a luscious fruit that would always be served to their table–defeats were the bitterberries that the enemy must eat.

This attitude was greatly strengthened by another fortunate victory of a squadron stationed at Toul. This squadron, while it boasted some splendid flyers, was quite green and had much to learn. But, despite this, they too had been victors in their first encounter with the enemy, and in a manner quite as dramatic as had been McGee’s victory. And it was more widely heralded because the victor was wearing an American uniform and the victory could be properly called the first score for the Americans. It came about in this fashion:

105A Spring day dawned, cold and foggy, and three members of the squadron at Toul had gone on patrol. Their ardor was soon dampened by the chill fog and they returned to their base. Shortly after their return the alert was sounded and the report came that German planes were coming over, concealed by the ceiling of fog. In a few moments their motors could be heard above the town. That minute two Americans left the ground, climbing rapidly toward the ceiling of fog. Just as they neared it, two German planes came nosing down. They were barely clear of the blinding fog cloud when they were attacked by the American pilots. So swift was the attack, and so accurate the fire, that both German planes were forced down and the two American pilots were back on the ground in less than five minutes from the time of their take-off.

Luck? Yes, Luck and Skill–the two things that must walk hand in hand with every war pilot. But there was no one to be found in all of Toul who even hinted of luck. Had not the fight taken place in full view of the townspeople? Had they not witnessed the daring and skill of these Americans? Luck? Ask the citizens of Toul. Ah, mais non, Messieurs! they would tell you. The German planes dived–so. Whoosh! Out of the cloud they came. And there were those precious Americans, waiting for them–and in just the right place. Is not that skill, Monsieur? 106 Then, taka-taka-taka-taka went their guns. Only a minute so. Voila! The Boche are both out of control. Ah, that is not luck, Monsieur.

All along the front American squadrons accepted the verdict as evidence of superior flying ability, but McGee and Larkin, with the knowledge bought by bitter experience, knew that perhaps in the very next encounter the balance would be in favor of the other fellow. They knew, too, that over-confidence is an ally singing a siren song. They worked hard to dispel this over-confidence that had laid hold of the group, but their words of warning fell on deaf ears.

This spirit of eager confidence was not peculiar to the air groups near the front; it was a part of the entire American Expeditionary Force. Where was this bloomin’ war that seemed so difficult to win? asked the American doughboy. Bring it on! Trot it out! Let’s get it over and get out of this Parlez vous land. Just give them a crack at Fritz! Say! In no time at all they’d have Old Bill himself trussed up in chains and carried back to the little old U.S.A., and exhibited around the country at two-bits a peek. Guess that wouldn’t be a nifty way to help pay for the war! And as for the Crown Prince–well, over a hundred thousand American doughboys had promised to bring his ears back to a hundred thousand sweet-hearts–just a little souvenir to show what an American could do when he got going.

This same boastful confidence was present among the pilots with whom McGee and Larkin were daily associated, but fortunately it was somewhat counterbalanced by the long-delayed orders sending the squadron to the front. April slipped away and May came. Still no orders. It was maddening! Yancey, Fouche, Hampden, Hank Porter, Rodd–in fact all members of the command, save Siddons, fretted and fumed and voiced their opinions of a stupid G.H.Q., that failed to appreciate just what a whale of a squadron this was.

Siddons accepted the delay in the same cool, indifferent manner with which he met all the vexations of the army. It was as water on a duck’s back; he seemed not to care a hoot whether he ever engaged an enemy. Then in May, with alarming suddenness and force, the German Crown Prince began his great drive at Paris. His ears, it seemed, were yet intact, and those Americans who had so earnestly hoped to get them were soon to discover that the possessor thereof was all too safely ensconced behind an advancing horde of German infantrymen who were driving forward in a relentless, unhalting advance that struck terror to the very heart of war-weary France. In three days the enemy forces swept from the Aisne southward across the Vesle and the Ourcq. Their 108most advanced position came to rest on the Marne.

For the second time the German army was on the banks of the Marne. “Papa” Joffre had hurled them back from this river in the first year of the war; now Marshal Foch must do as well–or France was doomed.

But Foch was handicapped. He had an army bled white by four years of dreadful warfare. The French soldiers, no less valiant than when the war began, found themselves too weak in numbers to stem the tide of an advance conducted by an ambition crazed Crown Prince determined to reach Paris regardless of the cost to him in human sacrifice.

Sullenly the French fell back, fighting like demons, contesting every inch of the way, but none the less retreating. In this hour of peril France turned her eyes upon the newly arrived and partially trained Americans, and in those eyes, now almost hopeless, was a look of mute, desperate appeal. It must be now or never!

All the roads leading back from the front were choked with refugees too weary, too heartbroken, too barren of hope to do anything but hurry their children before them and strain at their hand drawn, heavy carts piled high with the household belongings which they hoped to save. Old men, old women, the lame, the halt, the blind; dogs, cats, goats, with here and there a dogcart, all struggling to the rear. 109Many came empty-handed, facing they knew not what, and looking with pity upon the French troops who were moving forward to battle the enemy unto death.

“Ah,” said the refugees, shrugging their shoulders, “finis la guerre!These poor Poilus of ours, they cannot stop the Boche. They are too tired, too worn with war. If only we had new blood. If only the Americans would come now. But no, perhaps it is now too late.”

Behind them, all too close, rumbled and roared the angry guns–guns of the enemy furrowing fields and leveling houses and villages; guns of the French in savage defiance protesting every inch of advance and holding on with a rapidly failing strength. Help must come now, quickly.

And help came. Two American divisions, ready for action, were summoned by Foch to move forward with all possible speed. The 2nd Division came hurrying from their rest billets near Chaumont-en-Vexin, northwest of Paris; the 3rd Division came thundering by train and camion from Chateau-Villain, southeast of Paris. Two converging lines of fresh, eager warriors came marching, marching, the light of battle in their eyes and with rollicking, boisterous songs on their lips. At quick rout step they came. This was no parade; this was a new giant coming up to test its strength. And all up and 110down the brown columns the giant was singing as it came....

Slush, slog! Slush, slog! went the heavy hobnailed shoes slithering through the mud and water of the roads. Mile after mile, hour after hour. At the end of each weary hour a short rest, an easing of the shoulders from the cutting pack straps. Ten minutes only did they rest. Then down the long columns rang the sharp commands, “Fall in. Fall in! ... Com-pan-ee ... Atten-shun! Forward, March!” A few minutes in cadenced marching and then the command, “Rout step–March!” Again the confident, boisterous giant took up its song:

111Marching, singing, jesting, they pressed on until their advance guard met the plodding, cheerless, downcast refugees. The French peasants halted in their tracks, staring, unable to believe their eyes. Here, in the flesh, by thousands upon thousands, was the answer to their prayers. Perhaps it was not too late, after all. Here was new strength, new courage.

Old men danced with joy, embracing their wives and children, embracing one another, and tears of joy coursed down their wan, lined faces.

“Les Americains!” they shouted. “Vive l’ Amerique! Nous sauveurs sont arrivee!” (The Americans! Long live America! Our saviors have arrived.)

The cry spread; it ran up and down the roads and bypaths; it became a magic sentence restoring courage throughout all France.

As for the resolute Americans, they merely plodded on, questioning one another as to what all the shouting was about. Oh, so that was it? Sure they were here, but why get excited about it? ... The Boche is breaking through, eh? As you were, Papa, and keep your shirt on! And as for that old lady over there by that cart, crying so softly–say! somebody who can parley this language go over there and tell that old lady not to cry any more. Tell her we’ll fix it up, toot sweet. O-o-o! La, la! Pipe the pretty mademoiselle over there driving that dogcart. Ain’t she the pippin though! Say–

112“Fall in! Fall in!... Com-pan-ee, At-ten-shun! Forward, March!”

A new giant was going in, a giant that did not yet know its own strength, a somewhat clownish giant, singing as it came.

Those three days of the Crown Prince’s drive on the Marne were dark days for France. The French people listened eagerly for word from the front–and prayed as they had never prayed before, while every American unit, wherever billeted in France, waited impatiently for orders that would send them in for their first baptism of fire.

McGee and Larkin, though supposed to be instructors and therefore unmoved by the battle lust that had laid heavy hands on every pilot in France, found themselves itching for action. They could smell battle afar off; they knew the need of air supremacy at such a time. On the flying field, and at squadron headquarters, they tried to cheer up the depressed and sullen pilots who were chafing under the restraint of inaction. But alone, in the home of Madame Beauchamp, they freely expressed their feelings.

113“I can’t see why this squadron is not ordered up,” McGee said to Larkin one night as they sat alone in their room. “They are better trained than we were when we hopped across the channel. Remember that day, Buzz?”

“Yes indeed! That was our big day; it’s exactly the same big day these chaps are waiting for. There must be a great need of planes. I understand the German Army has crashed through to the Marne. If they pass there–” he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

They sat for a moment in silence, thinking the same gloomy thoughts that were so staggering to all the people of the allied nations.

“What if the squadron should be sent up?” Larkin asked at last. “Just where would we get off?”

McGee shook his head. “Don’t know, I’m sure. It’s strange how we’ve received no word on our applications for repatriation. I guess we are stuck for the rest of the war. Instructors! Bah! I’m developing an itch for action.”

“So am I,” Larkin agreed. “When we were first sent back from the front, I’ll admit I was glad enough to come. I was fed up. But I’m fed up here now. And what can we do about it?”

“Well, for one thing I can go to bed,” McGee replied yawning. “To-morrow is another day.” He began unwinding one of his wrapped puttees. “Ever 114notice how much longer these blasted things are when you are sleepy?” he asked.

Just as he had finished with one, and had rolled it into a neat ball, a motor cycle came popping into the yard. Buzz looked at Red inquiringly.

“Wonder what that is?” he asked.

The downstairs front door opened; heavy hobnail shoes sounded on the stairs.

“Dunno,” McGee answered, looking at the puttee roll in his hand. “But I’ll wager it’s something that will force me to put this thing on again. I never got an order from headquarters in my life when I hadn’t just finished taking off my putts.”

A heavy knock on the door.

“Come in.”

An orderly entered, saluted smartly, and handed McGee a folded paper. “A note from Major Cowan, sir. He said there would be no answer.”

“Very well. Thank you, Rawlins. For a moment I thought it might be orders for the front.”

“No chance, sir. We’re the goats of the air service. The war will be over before we get a chance. I say they’d as well kept us at home where we could get real food and sleep in real beds instead of these blasted hay mows us enlisted men sleep in.”

“Right you are, Rawlins. I’ll speak to the Commanding General about it to-morrow. In the meantime, carry on, Rawlins.”

115“Yes, sir.” A smart salute, a stiff about face, and he was gone. They could hear him grumbling as he went down the stairs.

McGee looked at the folded paper. On it, in Cowan’s hand, was written; To Lieutenants McGee and Larkin.

“What is it?” Larkin asked, impatiently.

McGee unfolded the sheet. Scrawled across it were these electrifying words:

“Just finished talking over the phone to Wing. They inform me that orders have been received approving your application for repatriation. The order will come down in the morning. Congratulations. Cowan.”

Red slapped Larkin on the back with sufficient force to start him coughing and then began tousling his hair.

“There, you old killjoy!” he was shouting. “Now stop your worrying. What do you think of that?”

Larkin began a clownish Highland fling that eloquently spoke his thoughts. At last he came to rest, snapped his heels together, saluted smartly and said:

“Lieutenant Red McGee, U.S.A., I believe. How do you like that–you little shrimp?”

“Maybe we’ll be buck privates, for all you know.”

“No, same rank,” Larkin answered. “But believe me, I’m free to confess now that I’d rather be a buck 116in Uncle Sam’s little old army than a brass hat in any other. Boy, shake!”

Sometime after midnight, at least an hour after sleep had at last overcome McGee’s and Larkin’s joyous excitement, a sleep-shattering motor cycle again came pop-popping to their door. The dispatch bearer hammered lustily on the barred front door until admitted by the sleepy-eyed, white robed, grumbling Madame Beauchamp, and then clattered up the stairs, two steps at a time. He pounded heavily on the door of the sleeping pilots.

McGee fumbled around on the table at the side of the bed, found the candle stub, and as the flaring match dispelled the shadows, called, “Come in! Don’t beat the door down!”

Rawlins fairly burst into the room. “Major Cowan’s compliments, sir, and he directs you to report to the squadron at once.”

“Good heavens! At this hour? What’s up, Rawlins?”

Rawlins smiled expansively. “Orders for the front, sir. They’re taking down the hangar tents now, and trucks will be here in the next hour for baggage and equipment. All the ships are to be on the line, checked and inspected an hour before dawn. 117The C.O. said to make it snappy. He said a truck would come after your luggage. It’s a madhouse over at headquarters, sir.”

Both pilots sprang from the bed.

“Do you know where my orderly sleeps, Rawlins?” McGee asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go bounce him out and send him up here, tout suite! Tell Major Cowan we’ll be over on the double quick. By the way, Rawlins, do you know where we’re going?”

“No, sir. Secret orders, I understand. But I don’t care a whoop just so long as it’s to the front.”

“Right you are. Toddle along, Rawlins. Buzz, light that other candle over there. I can’t even find my shoe by this light.”

An hour later, with all personal equipment packed and ready for the baggage truck, McGee and Larkin reported to Cowan, who was standing outside headquarters, issuing orders with the rapidity of a machine gun.

“All set, sir,” McGee said, “and thanks for the note of congratulations. In the nick of time, wasn’t it? Otherwise we would have been left behind.”

“I suppose so,” the Major replied. “Fact is, I don’t know your status now, and I don’t know how to dispose of your case. I called Wing and was told that your assignment hadn’t come down. The personnel 118of this squadron is complete. Here’s a pretty pickle! Guess I’d better pass the buck and send you back to Wing.”

McGee’s face fell. For once words failed him. He turned his eyes on Larkin, appealingly.

Larkin entered the breach manfully. “Major Cowan,” he began, “when we made application to get back under our own flag, we did it hoping we’d go to the front–not to the rear. This sudden order comes because pilots are needed. The better trained they are, the better our chances for victory. I’m not boasting, sir, but McGee and I have been in action. We can be a help.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’d like to have you in my squadron, well enough, but what about the red tape?”

“Wait until it catches up with us. Don’t go looking for red tape to fetter us,” Larkin replied.

“Hum-m!” Cowan mused. He knew, none better, that here before him stood two excellent pilots with a wealth of combat experience. If he sent them back, doubtless some other squadron would draw them, and that squadron commander would be the gainer, he the loser. Still, he had no authority for taking them along. An assignment order would doubtless reach them within twenty-four or forty-eight hours. Still and all, he considered, much can happen in that time–especially to an untried squadron going into action. Such pilots as these were scarce, and many 119were the commanders who would seek them. “Well,” he said at last, “just what would you do in my place?”

It was a fair question, and one seldom heard from the lips of a commanding officer. Coming from Cowan, it was doubly surprising, and effectively blocked all pleas founded on sentiment and sympathy.

Now Larkin was stumped, but McGee was ready to take up the gage.

“Major Cowan, I have been in the service long enough to know that the wise army man always gets out from under. Pass the buck. It’s the grand old game. But I see a way out. If I were in your position I would direct the issue of an order sending us back. But,” he added as Cowan evidenced surprise, “I’d manage to have that order mislaid in the excitement.”

Cowan nervously paced back and forth. Suddenly he wheeled in decision. “No,” he said, “I won’t pass the buck; I won’t shift the responsibility. Passing the buck in training may be all very well, but a commander who does so in action is not fitted for command. We are on the eve of action. Report to Lieutenant Mullins, gentlemen, and tell him I said you were to go along. See that your ships are ready at four a.m.” He turned and walked rapidly toward a group of ground men who were loading a truck.

120Larkin’s eyes became wide with astonishment. “Well what do you know about that! Say, that bird is going to make a real C.O.”

“I think he is one now,” McGee answered. “Action does that to men–sometimes.”