There followed three days of maddening inactivity, during which time the squadron fretted and became as edgy as so many caged tigers. McGee made use of the time by securing a trim fitting uniform, the very sight of which threw Larkin into new outbursts of rage concerning the disappearance of his English uniform. A joke was a joke, when not carried too far, he argued, and admitted that he was exceedingly weary with the comments made concerning the fit of the issue uniform that he was compelled to wear. Every man professed innocence, but Larkin did not believe a word of their stout denials. The manner in which he took the joke was evidence of the irritability caused by the days of inaction. Every member of the squadron was looking for something over which they could quarrel.

Then one night, about nine o’clock, orders came down for a dawn patrol of two flights of five ships each.

Cowan summoned McGee and Larkin to his headquarters 186and gave them leadership of the flights. McGee protested, pointing out that he did not want to gain the honor at Yancey’s expense, and particularly since he considered Yancey worthy of the command. But Cowan was sure of the wisdom of the move, and made his own selection of the men who were to go on this first patrol.

The posting of those names on the bulletin board brought shouts of delight from the lucky ones and growls of disgust from those who were not selected.

Even Nathan Rodd, still wearing bandages on his head and right hand, broke his silence and wolfed loudly over the fact that he had been left out.

“Aw, dry up!” some other unfortunate pilot growled at him. “You’re still seein’ stars from that last crack you got on the head. What do you want–all the luck?”

It was an expression peculiarly fitting to the situation. Some of the names on that bulletin board might next appear in the casualty reports, yet every man wanted his name on the board, firm in the belief that death would somehow pass him by.

In McGee’s flight appeared the names of Tex Yancey, Hank Porter, Randolph Hampden, and of all luck–Siddons!

McGee started to make protest, thought better of it, and biting his lips savagely left the group around the board and went to his quarters. Of all the good men 187in the squadron, why should that traitorous scoundrel be included and other loyal deserving pilots be left behind? Someone was being pig-headed indeed!

Along about two o’clock in the morning the eager pilots, tossing on their beds in a sleeplessness induced by the promise of the coming of dawn, were more fully awakened by the deep and sullen thundering of thousands of big guns hammering at the lines. It was no fitful, momentary outburst; it was the constant earth-shaking roar that presages a drive. To the north and east the sky flickered with the light coming from thousands of cannon mouths. It was like the coming of a summer storm when the thunder god growls his wrath and lightning plays constantly over the giant thunderheads.

There could be no sleep now for the anxious pilots. Something had popped loose up there, and in a few more hours they would be on their way up to witness this far-flung duel.

The flickering, flashing light of cannon fire faded at last before the salmon and rose colored morning light that streaked the smoke clouds lying across the pathway of the coming sun. Long before that orb of light arose, red-eyed, over a new scene of carnage, ten planes were out on the line, motors warming, while 188the pilots and mechanics made last minute inspections. Every member of the squadron was present; the unlucky ones to bid good luck to those chosen for the mission and to see the take-off of this first dawn patrol. Their interest was intensified by the throaty rumbling of the distant guns.

It was an hour of high suspense. For this hour every man present had waited with a keen desire that had been his prompter and spur through all the long, wearying months of training. All the schooling in theory was now behind. Experience, that hard teacher, was now at the controls. The school of machine gunnery, where dummies and swift moving targets had served as theoretical enemies, was now to become a real school where the enemy was also armed and where mistakes and misses were likely to hurl the pupil out of the class with never a chance to profit by the mistake.

The dawn patrol! The day! From this hour they would begin to tally their earned victories. On this night, if lucky enough to encounter the enemy, some of them would send in reports that would start them up the ladder toward that coveted rank–an ace! It never entered the mind of any one of them that some enemy pilot, already an ace and rich in experience, might send in a report fattening his record and increasing his fame. No, no! Air battle is made possible only by thoughts of victory.

189McGee walked over to Yancey’s plane. The gangling Texan was testing his rudder controls and flipping his ailerons with jerky movements of evident impatience.

“I want you to know,” McGee said to him, “that I did not ask for this flight. It is yours, by rights.”

Yancey’s grin was genuinely friendly. “Shucks, that’s nothin’. I’m glad to be out. Bein’ a flight leader sorter cramped my style anyhow. This way I can do a little free-lancin’–if I see some cold turkey.”

“You leave cold turkey alone and stay in formation,” McGee replied. “Just remember, old man Shakespeare was talking about the air service when he said ‘things are not always what they seem’.”

“I’ll be good unless I spot some of those German observation balloons. I’ve a sneaky feelin’ I could eat up two or three of those sausages before I come back here for breakfast without havin’ my appetite spoiled.”

McGee shook his head in serious warning. “Leave them alone, Yancey. They look easy, but the Archie gunners can fill the air around ’em so full of lead that a bee couldn’t fly through. And as for flaming onions–boy! We are out on combat patrol, remember. This is no joy-ride.”

“Sure. But–”

That moment Major Cowan came running across 190the field and hurried up to McGee. His excitement was evident in every movement.

“Orders just came,” he began, hurriedly, “for every available ship to proceed to the bridges at Dormans and Chateau-Thierry. Bombers are going up, also. The Germans have started a big drive.”

His manner, and the electrifying words, had drawn every man around him in a close circle. “That’s what all the gun fire is about–barrages and counter-barrages. Disregard the patrol orders, Lieutenant, and proceed with these two flights to Dormans–at once! You are to do everything in your power to retard the enemy advance, harass their troops, and especially harass their advanced positions and lines of supply. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Good! Take off at once! I will at once get out all other available ships and lead them against the lines at Chateau-Thierry. You’ve the head start, and must, therefore, take Dormans. Snappy, now!”

A cheer went up from those pilots who a moment before had been cursing the luck that had left them behind. They started running for the hangars.

As McGee climbed into his plane, Yancey “blipped” his motor and shouted, “Who said this wasn’t a joy-ride?”

The revving motors drowned out all other sounds. Helmets were given a last minute tug.

191McGee looked along the line and lifted his hand. The nine others chosen for dawn patrol signaled their readiness.

Out came wheel chocks, motors roared into the smooth sound of ripping silk as one by one they lurched down across the field and took the air.

The heart of every man in the flight, save McGee’s, was racing in tune with his motor. Here was a mission so much more exciting than any dawn patrol.

Harass the advancing enemy! And their line of supplies! Storm down and spew out lead on the bridges where the troops would be crossing! Here was action of the highest order, in which, in all probability, formation flying would be broken up and it would be every fellow for himself.

McGee alone knew the danger and hazard of their mission. In a big push the enemy planes would be out in great number, determined to sweep the air free of resistance. To harass troops, McGee knew, they must fly low. In so doing they would run a constant gauntlet of machine gun and rifle fire, in addition to frequently traversing the line of flight of high angle heavy artillery. It was not pleasant to think of meeting up with one of those big G.I. cans loaded with enough high explosive to demolish a building. Just get in the way of one of them and what would be left could be placed in a small basket. Added to all this was the fact that all altitude was sacrificed, and 192a green pilot, out cutting eye-teeth, needs altitude in case of attack.

To McGee the outlook was gloomy enough. Doubtless the venture would run up a stiff casualty list, but every needed sacrifice must be made here! And now! The French and Americans below must not let the Hun break through. Paris, all too near, was the objective of the drive. If they broke through and reached Paris–well, they must not break through!

McGee saw the planes of another American squadron working up toward the front on his left. High above his flight was a large group of French Spads. He watched them, turning his head aloft from time to time. They seemed to be hovering over him and following his course. Far ahead, and below, he could see enemy observation balloons straining at their cables. Black geysers of earth, sand, and mud, were spouting from the tortured strip along the river. The earth below was an inferno of flashing, thundering shells. The front! And the drive was on!

He glanced up again. The French Spads were still above, a trained, experienced group of war hawks sent up to take care of the “upstairs” fighting while the Americans did the dirty work below. Cowan had not mentioned this. Perhaps he did not know of it. McGee knew that in big operations, and especially in such emergencies as this, orders were issued without disclosing the whole plan to all participants. If 193each unit obeys and carries out the orders received, then all goes well.

So far, all was well, and McGee was extremely grateful for that protecting flight of Spads.

He determined to cross the river west of Dormans, make a thrust well back of the lines, cut out again over Dormans and then, if luck were with them, repeat the performance. No need to lay plans too far in advance. Too much can happen in the tick of a second–things that knock plans and the planner into a cocked hat.

Below them now was a far-flung battle of raging intensity. German troops could be seen moving along toward the river, and a little farther inland McGee spotted a long line of infantrymen along a road paralleling the river. But they were moving westward, in the direction of Chateau-Thierry, instead of toward the bridgehead at Dormans. And in addition to the marching men, the road was choked with artillery, caissons, ammunition wagons, and ambulances.

Here was an opportunity made to order, and just as McGee was preparing to give the signal, he saw Yancey cut out and dive toward an observation balloon that was being rapidly drawn down by excited winchmen. No use to try to signal Yancey; that wild Texan was off on his joy-ride.

Archies and machine gun fire tried vainly to stop Yancey’s wild dive. Flaming onions began surging 194upward in their terrifying circlets, but Yancey was as scornful of them as is a Texas steer of a buzzing deer fly. His guns rattled in a short burst and the balloon exploded with a terrific blast of flame and smoke. Yancey’s plane rocked perilously. His inexperience in “busting balloons” had come near being his own undoing. But he righted his plane, somehow escaped the hail of shot and steel all around him and came plunging back down the road filled with fear-stricken men and plunging horses, his guns rattling joyously.

McGee, followed by Siddons, Porter and Fouche, swooped along the road from the opposite direction, scattering the troops like chaff. With death raining down on them from opposite but converging points, the German infantrymen broke wildly for cover. Their less fortunate comrades, the cannoneers and drivers of caissons and supply wagons, stuck to their posts, trying to calm the rearing, plunging horses and cursing the inexorable wasps that sent stinging death down on them.

Yancey, in particular, seemed to be in his glory. Half a dozen times he swung around, gained a little altitude, and again went plowing down along the road, his guns jumping and smoking in fiendish delight.

Harass the advancing enemy, eh? And the line of supplies? A job exactly suited to Yancey’s heart and spirit.

195But McGee was wise in such matters, and having delivered a blow drew off and sought other fields to conquer. It was not wise to stay long in any one place.

He had expected Yancey to follow, but that worthy was too delighted with his find, and when he tired of it at last it was to discover that he was very much alone. Nothing could have suited him better. Now he was answerable only to himself–and to Luck!

He began climbing, and casting an eye over the sky for balloons within striking distance. After all, strafing infantrymen wasn’t half as much fun as knocking down balloons. They went up with such a glorious bang! And it was delicious to watch the frightened observer tumble over the side of the basket in an effort to escape by parachute. That last one had somehow gotten fouled in the rigging and had been clawing frantically when the bag exploded. As for that, Yancey had been sorry; not for the man, but because he had wanted to see the parachute poof-op! into a suddenly blown white flower at which he might take a few shots by way of testing his aim. Well, maybe he’d have better luck with the next one.

With no thought of danger, and with his heart racing in a new exhilaration which he had never before felt, Yancey started out alone on a career that was to bring him a fame coveted by every man in the squadron, but a fame which they did not care to gain by this most hazardous of war sports–“balloon busting.” 196Only men who cannot, or will not weigh danger, become balloon busters. And of these was Yancey, the “flying fool” of the squadron, concerning whom there was never any agreement among the others as to whether he didn’t know any better or knew better and did it because it was dangerous.

McGee, with Siddons, Porter and Fouche following, swung eastward toward Dormans. Above them, as a protecting layer, flew Larkin with his flight, and still above them, much higher, were the French Spads.

This state of affairs could not last long, McGee knew. It was only a question of time until German planes would come up and accept the gage of battle. It was a situation, therefore, calling for the greatest effort possible in the shortest length of time.

Every movement below offered positive proof that the enemy were concentrating in the direction of Chateau-Thierry, and if they were in fact making a thrust to the eastward it was only to draw attention from the real objective.

For once McGee decided to disregard the Major’s orders and, instead of proceeding to Dormans, swing back and do all he could at the bridgeheads at Chateau-Thierry.

He swung around, and as he banked caught sight of 197seven or eight German planes coming up from the northwest. He looked aloft. The Spads had seen them, too, and were closing in.

McGee began climbing, and noted with satisfaction that Larkin, on the alert, was waggling his wings as a signal that he too had seen them and was prepared.

Then, for apparently no reason at all, Siddons cut out of the flight and started streaking it for the lines.

For a brief moment McGee felt a burning desire to take after him and turn his guns loose on him.

“Traitorous hound!” he muttered to himself. “I wondered how you could follow when we were strafing those troops. I’ll bet anything he never warmed his guns. Of course he wouldn’t!”

But just now there was business at hand more urgent than chasing after a man whom he felt sure was both a traitor and a coward.

Above him the Spads were engaged in a merry dog fight with the German Albatrosses. But two of the Germans had somehow eluded them and were diving down on Larkin’s flight.

The action of the next moment was too swift for words. The two Albatrosses came bravely on, scorning the odds against them. Larkin’s plane engaged the first one, but the second one got in a lucky burst that sent one of the Nieuports nosing down in a disabled effort to make a safe landing. And perhaps the luckless pilot could have saved his life to spend 198the rest of the war in a German prison camp but for the fact that the German who had crippled him, tasting blood, wanted a more complete victory. Down, down, he followed the plane, spitting lead at the poor pilot who seemed unable to think of anything except getting to the earth.

As the planes came down to a level with McGee’s flight, Red whipped around and closed in on the pursuer. Too late! Flame came curling, licking from the motor of the Nieuport. That second, for the first time, McGee recognized it as Randolph Hampden’s ship. Poor Hampden! The only man in the squadron who ever had a good word for Siddons, and now he was going down in flames while Siddons, supposedly his friend, was high-tailing it for home.

With bitterest venom McGee thumbed his trigger releases as he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Albatross in the ring sight. But that German was not only courageous–he was a consummate flyer. He whipped around with surprising speed and came streaming at McGee with both guns going. Head on he came, and there was something about the desperation of the move that told McGee that the battle-crazed fellow would actually ram him in mid-air.

McGee dived. So close was the other upon him that he imagined he could feel the wheels of the undercarriage on his own wings.

He Immelmanned, only to discover that by some 199brilliantly rapid manoeuver the German had rolled into position and was rattling bullets into the Camel’s motor. Crack! One of the bullets struck a vital part and the motor started limping. McGee’s heart came into his mouth. He was disabled and–

That moment Hank Porter and Fouche closed in on the German and Larkin came diving down from above. Three against one! McGee, despite his own predicament, felt like saluting the fellow’s dare-devil courage. Larkin could take care of him alone, even should Porter and Fouche fail.

Certain of the outcome of the now unequal struggle, McGee turned the nose of his pounding plane in the direction of the lines near Mezy, and prayed fervently that the failing motor would not conk completely before he reached and crossed the river. He had no desire whatsoever to spend the remainder of the war in a German prison. Even that, however, was preferable to being sent down in flames, and he kept a sharp lookout for any attack that might come from some keen-eyed German looking for “cold meat.”

Presently he noticed a shadow sweep across his plane. He glanced up fearfully, and then smiled with delight. It was Larkin, following along to give battle to any or all who might pounce upon his friend. McGee felt a new surge of hope. Why had he even thought he would have to make the trial alone? Larkin, who never deserted, who never failed in a pinch, 200had disposed of that German in great haste and was ready for whatever the next few minutes might bring.

For McGee those next minutes were filled with a thousand misgivings. The ship was losing altitude rapidly, and the motor was pounding furiously, but if it would only hold up he could make it.

When he flashed across the river at Mezy, with some eight hundred feet to spare, he turned and waved a light-hearted O.K. to Larkin, and began to look for some landing place free of shell craters.

It was not unlike looking for land in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Barrage after barrage had marked the earth with the deep scarred pocks of war. He must push on toward the rear with the last inch that could be wrung from that motor and then land straight ahead, leaving the outcome to Lady Luck. She had never deserted him completely–

That moment she deserted. The motor conked with a non-stuttering finality. Now for a dead stick landing, straight ahead! If he could only pancake her down just beyond that big hole, maybe she would stop rolling–

He pancaked, but in doing so struck too hard. The undercarriage was wiped out completely. He felt the bound, followed by a terrific up-fling of the tail, and then a thousand stars went shooting before his eyes and it seemed that a lightning bolt rived his brain. Then darkness–and an infinite peace....