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 air 141 forces. 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 like 144 quails, 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.

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, hanging 145over 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 needs 146little 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 before 148seen 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 the 149observation crates far below. But now they were swinging into this grand and unexpected melee.

Larkin grinned. “Here is a 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 first 150burst, 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 von 151Herzmann, 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, was 156taking 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.