Covington Clarke

1

Only a war pilot can visualize the confusion and excitement incident to moving a squadron base up to the front. There is work enough for all even when such a move is foreseen and planned for days in advance, but when a moving order comes down in the dead of night–as is so frequently the case–then rank is forgotten. Pilots, Commanders, Supply and Operations officers, air mechanics, flight leaders, in fact everyone, from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball, pitches in with a gusto sufficient to produce a miracle. For it is little short of the miraculous to carry out an order, received at midnight, calling for a movement at dawn. In fact, one inexperienced in army ways would declare that it couldn’t be done. But Great Headquarters considers only what must be done, issues orders accordingly, and such is the magic of discipline and proper spirit that lo! the thing is done. The impossible becomes possible–and the ordinary!

And so it was with Major Cowan’s squadron. The 122hour they had so long awaited had come at last. So great was their zeal that with the first hint of dawn in the east the planes were all on the field, properly outfitted, finally checked, and ready to go. Even the planes seemed to be huddled together, poised like vibrant butterflies, eager to take wing.

McGee and Larkin well knew, from experience, the varied, conflicting emotions felt by the members of the squadron. Standing near the barren spot where the large hangar tent had been, they watched the various members making their last minute preparations. Occasionally they gathered in groups, all talking at once, and in hurriedly passing one another they would slap each other on the back with a force greater than needed in friendly greeting. It was the fevered reaction of nerves! They had waited for this hour, yes, and at last they were going up to the front; but every man of them knew that some of them would never come back. There was a grim gateman up there where the guns roared, waiting to take his toll.

“They think they are going right in,” Larkin said to Red, as he watched a pilot by the name of Carpenter make the last of at least a dozen inspections of his two machine guns. “We haven’t the foggiest notion where we are going, but I’ll wager we won’t see action for several days.”

“I think you are wrong there,” McGee replied. “There’s a tremendous push up on the Marne. My 123guess would be that we will go somewhere in the neighborhood of Epernay–probably to take over a sector patrolled by a French squadron so that they can be used on the more active front around Chateau-Thierry or up around Rheims. Hullo! There goes the siren and here comes the Major. We will know soon enough now.”

“I’ll wager you a dinner it’s another soft spot–no action,” Larkin said.

“Done! You are through with soft spots now.”

Major Cowan’s quick walk spoke volumes. The pilots shouted derisively at the sound of the siren, a distressingly noisy contrivance designed to arouse sleepy pilots and turn them out for dawn patrol.

“Fall in! Fall in!” Mullins began shouting. “You act like a bunch of sheep! Line up there!”

“Call the roll of officers,” Cowan ordered.

A staff sergeant, who had kept his wits sufficiently to rescue the roll from another headquarters non-com who was packing everything in one of the trucks, came hurrying forward with the roll. The names were droned off. The “Here!” that responded to each name was a full commentary on the mental attitude of the respondent. Yancey, for instance, fairly shouted his, while Rodd hesitated, seeming to search for an even smaller word. Carpenter’s “here,” was little more than a whisper, as might come from one who was making an admission which 124he wished circumstances had ordered otherwise. And the rotund little McWilliams answered in a manner that convinced McGee that Mac was really wishing he were not here.

McGee and Larkin, not yet carried on the roll, stood to one side, conscious of the fact that they were still wearing uniforms of the Royal Flying Corps. They felt like two lost sheep.

“Look at their faces,” Red whispered to Larkin. “Faces tell a lot. They’re keen to go, all right, but take Carpenter and McWilliams, for instance. Scared stiff. They’re expecting to meet an entire Hun Circus between here and–and wherever we are going.”

The roll call ended.

“Gentlemen,” Major Cowan began, his voice crisp and business-like, “we have been ordered up to La Ferte sous Jouarre, due southwest of the Chateau-Thierry salient.”

The exclamation of surprise forced him to pause. McGee gave Larkin a dig in the ribs. “I win,” he said. “That’s no soft spot.”

“But,” Major Cowan continued, “for some reason Brigade has seen fit to divide the journey into two parts. Possibly to permit our trucks to reach there ahead of us, but more probably because it lacks faith in our ability to make the change without scattering our ships all along the line of flight. For my part, I have no such fear. I think I know the ability of 125this pursuit group.” He hesitated, to let this sink in. And it was well that he did. Yancey gasped, and began coughing to cover it up. Hank Porter stepped on Hampden’s boot with great force. Hampden in turn nudged Siddons, who alone of all the group displayed no emotion. Never before had these men heard Cowan indulge in compliment. Something had come over him. His moustache actually looked a little more like a man’s moustache. In fact, Yancey thought, the blasted thing was almost military.

“However,” Cowan continued, “we will fly to a field just south of Epernay to-day. To-morrow morning we will take off and continue a course, almost parallel with the present lines, to La Ferte sous Jouarre. Our destination has been kept confidential until this moment. From necessity, of course, I have gone over the maps and our course with the flight leaders. They know the way. In case one of them should be forced down, that flight will double up with one of the others. You have little to worry about. Keep your head and remember where you are going. If forced down, proceed to La Ferte sous Jouarre, on the Paris-Metz road, at the earliest moment. But,” he added, slowly, “as I said before, I expect to see us arrive there together, and in order. That is all, gentlemen. Yonder comes the sun. To your ships now, and look sharp as you take off. Remember, this is no joy-ride. Hold your positions.”

126The pilots broke into a run for their ships, slapping one another on the shoulder as they ran.

“Luck, old war horse.”

“Same to you, big feller.”

“Hey, Yancey! If you’re leading B Flight, give her the gun and high-tail it. The war’s waiting!”

“S’long, Hank. Luck, feller.”

“Get a waddle on, Mac. The war’s lookin’ up, eh?”

“I hope to spit in your mess kit.”

Laughing, bantering, shouting, they climbed into their planes. The helpers stood at the wings, ready to take out the chocks when the motors had warmed; the mechanics took their places at the props. How envious they were! The little wasps that they had so carefully groomed were going forward to the battle zone, and every mechanic offered up prayer that his ship would function perfectly and make good the hope which Cowan had expressed.

A prop went over, whish! The first motor caught and roared. Another ... another ... bedlam now. No longer any shouting, only a waving of hands, a few last minute adjustments as the motors warmed and sent a mighty dust cloud whirling back to obliterate the spot where the hangar had stood.

Straight ahead, a fiery red ball rose over a slate-colored hedge. A long flight of ravens crossed directly before the rising sun. Huh! Clumsy fellows. 127And slow. Better come over and take some lessons from some real birds.

Cowan’s plane moved forward slowly, roared into life and fairly sprang into the fiery eye of the sun. Numbers two and three followed, skimming the dew drenched grass like swallows over a lake. Then four and five. By George, this was something like! This was worth waiting for!

The falconer of war had unhooded his new brood of hawks and they mounted up, free of bells and jesses.

2

The flight to the airdrome some six kilometers south of Epernay was made without incident. That is, it was thought to be without incident until Yancey, leading B Flight, reported to Cowan that Siddons had been forced down by some trouble over Vitry. Cowan was evidently displeased. He had hoped for a perfect score.

“What was the matter?” he demanded, the ends of his moustache twitching nervously.

“Don’t know, sir. He kept droppin’ back. I swung alongside but I couldn’t savvy his signals. He kept pointin’ back at his tail. I couldn’t see anything wrong, but there’s a big ’drome at Vitry and he signaled me that he was goin’ down. I hung around to 128watch his landin’ and then hustled back to my flight.”

“Fuel up, fly back there and see what’s wrong,” Cowan ordered. “I’ve a sneaky suspicion that he wasn’t as bad off as he made out.”

As Yancey turned toward his ship, McGee came up, smiling with pleasure over the success of the flight.

“Just a minute, Yancey!” Cowan called. “I’ve changed my mind. You needn’t go back.”

He drew McGee to one side. “Do you remember passing over the French ’drome outside of Vitry?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your plane is in good order?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Yancey tells me that Siddons was forced down there. I want you to refuel, go back there and see what the trouble was. I have my own ideas.”

“Yes?” McGee queried.

“That fellow hates formation flying like the devil hates holy water,” Cowan answered. “He’s a joy-rider. He knows how anxious I am to effect this move without a hitch, and he also knows there’ll be no passes into Epernay to-night. I’ve a hunch Vitry looked good to him. I want you to find out.”

“Very well, sir.”

“I’m sending you,” Cowan explained, smiling faintly, “because it doesn’t make so much difference 129if 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.”

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.

Upon McGee’s return to the squadron, Cowan was too busy to see him, nor did he send for him until after mess that night. When McGee arrived at the Major’s temporary quarters he found him in company with Mullins, the Operations officer, and both were bending over a large map spread out on the table.

Cowan looked up with the quick, exasperated nervousness which he always displayed when interrupted.

“Well!” he barked, crisply.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Yes, yes. I had forgotten. What about Siddons?”

McGee had decided to shield Siddons to the extent of not reporting the fact that the mechanics at Vitry had found nothing wrong with the plane. A squealer gains no friends in the Army.

“I don’t know where he is, Major. He landed at Vitry, complaining of a jamming rudder and heating 131engine. He took off again in an hour. He hasn’t showed up yet. Perhaps he thought it best to go on to La Ferte.”

“Humph!” Cowan retorted, the pointed ends of his moustache twitching. “Maybe he did! He needs grounding. I’d send him to Observation if the Chief of Air hadn’t ordered us to quit using observation work for punishment. They crack up those crates too fast. And Siddons is just the kind to do that sort of trick. He’s a good flyer, certainly, but–what would you do with him, McGee?”

“Oh, I say now–”

“Rats! Mullins, how would you handle him? He’s a cold fish, you know.”

Mullins gulped. He was not accustomed to having Cowan ask his opinion about anything. However, here was a golden opportunity.

“Cold or hot, I’d let that bird cool off a little more on the ground. He’s been joy-riding ever since we drew ships. We’ll go into action soon, don’t you think?”

“Doubtless.”

“Keep him out of the first patrol. He’ll come whining to you and he’ll sit up and be nice from then on.”

“Hum-m!” Cowan again bent over the maps.

“Anything else, Major?” McGee asked.

“No ... Yes, wait!” he called as McGee reached 132the 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–and increase it among the enemy! Here, take a look at this map, McGee.”

He stepped to the table and with a pencil drew a circle around a spot south of Epernay. “We are here,” he said. “The lines are here.” He moved the pencil to the northwest of Epernay, where the heavy black lines indicating the front crossed the Marne. “Notice that the lines swing southwest through Comblizy and la Chapelle, then northwest again, back to the Marne, and on to Chateau-Thierry. To-morrow we are to go here.” He circled a spot just south of La Ferte sous Jouarre. “See anything peculiar in this situation?” He studied closely the faces of the two junior officers. Mullins offered no reply.

“I think it peculiar that we have come up here, miles out of our way to the north, when our destination is considerably southwest of us,” McGee offered.

“Exactly!” Cowan replied, approvingly. “But there is a reason for it–to mislead the enemy. Their Intelligence Department seems to learn of every 134move we make, and sometimes learns of it in advance of that move. That’s the real reason we are here.”

“I don’t get it,” Mullins said, shaking his head.

“The order sending us here came down in the regular way,” Cowan explained, “but the order that takes us to La Ferte, to-morrow morning, was highly confidential. I did not disclose it until the moment of our departure, and only then so that anyone forced down would know our destination. There is to be a considerable concentration of air forces on the apex of the salient between la Chapelle, this side of Chateau-Thierry, and Villers-Cotterets, on the other side. It is the beginning of a movement of concentration to drive the enemy back beyond the Vesle. Hence the secrecy, and the effort to mislead the enemy as to our movements.”

McGee smiled, somewhat skeptically.

“What’s wrong with that?” Cowan challenged.

“The enemy isn’t so easily misled, Major,” McGee answered. “We learned that lesson on the English front, and learned it through bitter experience. If the Hun doesn’t know right now where we are going, he will know of our arrival twenty-four hours after we get there. If he fails to foresee our concentration at this point, he is thick-headed and slow-witted indeed. I, for one, do not consider him slow-witted. About the only secret we keep from him is the order that is never issued.”

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, he is a fool. When I said to McGee, ‘no flattery’ I meant just that. Furthermore, I don’t mind telling both of you that I know the regard in which I am held by some–perhaps all–of 137 the members of this squadron. I even know my nickname, ‘Old Fuss-Budget’. Humph! A hard master always wins the name of ‘old’ something or other. I don’t care a hoot about that. I don’t care a hoot about the opinions of any man in this group if only the result of their training shows a balance in favor of our country. Am I right or wrong?”

McGee and Mullins were too surprised to offer reply. This was quite the longest speech Cowan had ever made in their presence; certainly it was the most frank.

“Well,” Cowan continued, “I have applied the goad whenever and wherever I thought it needed. I have been goaded in turn, and took it without whimpering. I wonder, Lieutenant,” he turned to McGee, “if you remember the report you made on that Hun you shot down over our ’drome?”

“Why–yes, sir, I do.”

“And the recommendation you tacked on to it?”

“Yes, sir.” Pretty warm, this, McGee thought.

“Then you will recall that it did not reflect any too much credit on me, as the man responsible for any failure on the part of any member of this command. But I did not ask you to change the dotting of an I or the crossing of a T. Nor did you hear a word out of me when I received my bawling out. The army is like that. From enlisted man to Commanding General, every fellow thinks he is the only one 138with 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.