1

Tex Yancey, called “The Flying Fool” by his comrades in the –th Pursuit Squadron of the American Expeditionary Force, entered the mess hall with lips pressed into a thin, mirthless grin that seemed entirely inappropriate in one who was thirty minutes late to mess and must therefore make out with what was left. The other members of the squadron had finished their meal and were now engaged in the usual after-dinner practice of spinning some tall yarns.

Yancey stalked slowly to his place at the long table, but instead of seating himself stood with hands thrust deep into his pockets and with his long, thin legs spread wide apart. For a full minute he stood there, seeming to be mildly interested in the tale that Hank Porter was telling. But those who knew Tex, as did the members of this squadron, knew that the cynical smile on his thin lips was but the forerunner 14of some mirthless thing from which only “The Flying Fool” would be able to wring a laugh. His was such a grotesque sense of humor; a highly impractical practical joke was his idea of a riotous time. Someone in the squadron, who had once felt the sting of one of his pranks, had called him a fool, and another member had responded, “Yeah, he’s a fool, all right–but a flyin’ fool!” The tribute had become a nickname, and Yancey rather reveled in it.

Just now his smile was masking some grim joke and his eyes held the mild light of pity.

“Well, Hank,” he drawled at last, when Porter had wound up his story, “that yarn, as much as I get of it, would lead the average hombre to pick you out as a sho’ ’nuff flyer. I would myself. Me, I’m easy fooled that way. I reckon all you buckaroos think you know somethin’ about flyin’, eh?”

Standing a full six feet two, he looked down upon them, the look of pity still in his eyes in strange conflict with the mirthless smile still on his lips.

“What’s eatin’ you?” Porter growled. “We can’t help it because you’re late for mess. Where’ve you been?”

Siddons and Hampden, not greatly interested in what they felt was some new strained humor on Yancey’s part, pushed back from the table and started for the door, their objective being the French town of Is Sur Tille.

15Yancey waited until they were near the door before he answered Porter.

“Oh, I’ve just been over to Is Sur Tille havin’ a look-see at this new instructor that’s comin’ down here to teach us how to fly.”

Siddons, with his hand upon the door, wheeled abruptly and studied Yancey’s face, trying to discover the jest hidden behind that baffling, masking smile.

“Are you joking us?” he demanded from the doorway, but sufficiently convinced to turn back.

The “Flying Fool” smiled sweetly. “Why, Siddons, I wouldn’t kid you-all about that sort o’ thing,” he drawled. “I saw him myself, in town, ridin’ in a car with the C.O. [A] Like as not the Major will bring him in here this evenin’ for a little chin-chin.”

A suppressed growl arose from the other pilots.

“What is he coming here for?” young Edouard Fouche demanded, knowing the answer but anxious to have it brought out in the open where it could be attacked and vilified by all.

Yancey seated himself, tilted his chair back from the table and bestowed another sweet smile upon a room filled with scowling faces. It was a delicious moment–for Tex.

“Why, he’s comin’ here to teach you poor worms 16how to fly. It seems that someone back in the States made a mistake in thinkin’ we were pilots. We’re here by accident. Ha! Ha! That’s what we are–just accidents. Did you boys think we were sent over here to get all messed up in this little old war? Tut, tut! We’re here just to add grandeur to the colorless scenery. Now be nice to this fellow when he comes. Maybe after he has labored with us for a while we’ll be turned into ferry pilots and be sent to ferryin’ planes up to the regular guys. I’m so glad I horned in on this scrap; it’s so well planned and–and thrillin’.“

More growls. Tex wasn’t being at all funny. Indeed, if this ridiculous story were true, then it was the last straw on the camel’s back. Had they not already suffered enough?

The squadron had been in France for two weeks, an interminable time to the restless group of young airmen who, booted and belted and ready for the fray, now found themselves suddenly faced with the prospect of still more training and when as yet they had not the haziest notion of the type of ship that was to be given them for mounts. One rumor had it that they were to get American ships powered by a much-talked-of mystery motor. Very well, but where were those ships? Another rumor, equally persistent, was to the effect that they were to draw French Spads. Very well again, but where were the Spads? 17Still other rumors included Camels, Sopwiths, Nieuports and Pups. One rumor, uglier and more maddening than all the others, was to the effect that the entire squadron was to be used in observation work. Fancy that! A pursuit pilot being given a slow-moving observation crate with a one-winged, half-baked observer giving orders from the rear cockpit! It was enough to make a man wish he had joined the Marines. What was the good of all their combat training if they were to poke around over the front in busses that were meat for any enemy plane that chanced to sight them? It was enough to make a sane squadron go crazy, and the –th Pursuit Squadron was known throughout the service as the wildest bunch of thrill chasers ever collected and turned over to a distressed and despairing squadron commander.

Some swivel-chair expert must have been dozing when the order went through sending them to France. In wash-out records they were the grand champions. They had left behind them a long train of cracked props, broken wings, stripped landing gears–and a few wrecks so complete that the drivers thereof had been sent home in six foot boxes draped with flags. But whatever may be said against them, one thing was certain in their minds and in the minds of all who knew them: They could fly! To them, any old crate that could be influenced to leave the ground was 18a ship, and they were willing to take it up at any time, at any place, and regardless of air conditions. Perhaps their record had been less black had they been given better ships.

A student, seeking a perfect cross-section of American youth, would have found this squadron an interesting specimen. War drums, beating throughout the land, had summoned them from the four points of the compass. How they had ever been assembled at one field is a problem known only to the white-collared dignitaries who sat in swivel chairs and shuffled their service cards. The result of the shuffle caused many a commander to tear his hair and declare that the cards had been stacked against him.

No two members of the squadron came from the same town or city; no two of them had the same outlook on life; no two members thoroughly understood one another. A Texan, such as Yancey, from the wind-swept Panhandle, may bunk with a world-travelled, well educated linguist, such as Siddons, and may even learn to call him Wart, but he never thoroughly understands him. A tide-water Virginian, such as Randolph Hampden, of the bluest of blue blood, may sit at mess by the side of a Californian, such as Hank Porter, but he will show no real interest in California climate and will never be able to make the westerner understand that Virginia is American history and not just a state. A nasal-voiced Vermonter, 19such as Nathan Rodd, brought up among stern hills and by sterner parents, will never fully understand a soft-voiced Louisianian, such as Edouard Fouche, who has found the world a very pleasant place with but few restrictions.

Leaving out the question of patriotism, the members had but three common attributes: They had scornful disregard for any officer in the air service who knew less of flying than they had learned through the medium of hard knocks; they were determined from the very beginning to get to France; and they were the most care-free, reckless, adventurous, devil-may-care bunch of stem-winders that had ever plagued and embarrassed the service by the simple procedure of being gathered into one group.

It may be that the War Department, in despair, at last thought to be rid of them by sending them overseas where their ability and proclivity for stirring up trouble could be turned to good account against the enemy. In any case, they were at last in France and from the moment of their landing had been exceedingly voluble in their demands for planes. They wanted action, not delay. And now that Yancey had brought word of this last crushing indignity, they opened wide the spigots of wrath, all talked at once, and the sum total of their comments contained no single word that could be considered as complimentary to management of the war. More instruction in 20flying! It was unthinkable. But then, perhaps this grim joker, Yancey, was spoofing a bit.

“Come on, Wart,” Hampden called to Siddons from the doorway. “Tex has just been listening to old General Rumor. I’d like right much to see this instructor before I get excited about it. Come on, let’s go into town. The night’s young–and so am I.”

“You’ll get excited when you see him,” Tex responded, sagely.

“Who is he?” Nathan Rodd asked, which was about as long a sentence as Rodd ever spoke. He saved words as though they were so much gold.

“He’s an English lieutenant,” Tex answered. “Red-headed, freckle-faced, and so runty that he’d have to set on a stepladder to see out of a cockpit.”

“A Limey!” chorused half a dozen incredulous, angry voices. “Whatdya know about that!”

Tex nodded solemnly. He was enjoying the situation. Inwardly, he was as furious as any of the others, but he had the happy faculty of being able to enjoy mob distress. “Yeah, a Limey! Some gink in town told me he was a famous ace. I forget his name. Never could remember names. But you boys’ll love him. Like as not he’ll let some of us solo after a month or so. Ain’t the air service wonderful?”

More growls, and a half dozen muttered threats.

21“Now boys, you-all be good, or Uncle Samuel’ll send you back home and let you work in the shipyards at twenty per day. I’m surprised and hurt that you take this good news in this fashion. I should think you’d be delighted to have a Limey show you how he shot down a few of–”

“Attention!” Hampden called from the doorway, a warning quality in his voice.

The men looked up. There in the doorway stood Major Cowan, and by his side was a neatly uniformed, diminutive member of the Royal Flying Corps. The men scrambled hastily to their feet. Yancey upset his chair with a clatter as he unwound his long, thin legs from around the rungs.

Major Cowan, always maddeningly correct in military courtesies, turned upon Hampden with a withering look.

“Lieutenant,” his voice had the edge of a razor but its cut was not so smooth, “do you not know that attention is not called when at mess?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do, or you do not?”

“Double negatives bother me right much,” Hampden replied, his eyes on the English pilot and caring not a whit for court-martial now that he saw in the flesh the proof of Yancey’s report, “but I do know the rule.”

“Then observe it,” Major Cowan responded, testily. 22“Gentlemen, this is Lieutenant McGee, of the British Royal Flying Corps, who has been assigned to us as flying instructor.”

Lieutenant McGee felt that the room was surcharged with hostility, and he found himself in the position of one who is ashamed of the acts of another. Major Cowan, altogether too brusque, failed utterly to impress McGee, whose service in the Royal Flying Corps had been with a class of men who thought more of deeds than of rank and who could enjoy a care-free camaraderie without becoming careless of discipline. Discipline, after all, is never deeper than love and respect, and McGee felt somehow that Cowan was not a man to command either. McGee felt his face coloring, and tried to dispel it with a smile.

“I am glad to meet you, gentlemen,” he said, “and I want to correct the Major’s statement. I am not here as a flying instructor, in the strict sense of the word, but to give you, first hand, some of our experiences in formation flying, combat, and patrol work. I dare say you are all well trained. In fact, I have heard some rather flattering reports concerning you.”

Yancey cast a sidelong glance at his neighbor; Siddons nudged Hank Porter. Porter pressed his foot against Fouche’s boot. Not a bad fellow, this. Something like, eh?

Major Cowan was not one who could permit others 23to roll the sweets of flattery under their tongues. He must qualify it with a touch of vinegar.

“Lieutenant McGee is modest concerning his duties,” he said. “In fact, you will find all English officers becomingly modest.”

“But I am not English!” McGee corrected. “I am an American–born in America, and that’s why I have been so happy about this assignment.”

Several members of the squadron began edging nearer. Perhaps things were not going to be so dreadful after all.

“Indeed?” Major Cowan lifted his eyebrows in surprise. The points of his nicely trimmed moustache twitched nervously as he began to wonder just how he should treat an American who happened to be wearing the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant in the R.F.C.

“My parents were English,” McGee decided to explain, “but I was born in the States. When the war broke out, my brother, who was older by a few years, came over and joined the balloon corps. I was too young to enlist, but my parents were both dead and I came along with my brother, remaining in London until–” he hesitated and cleared his voice of a sudden huskiness, “until word came that my brother had been killed. His balloon was shot down while he was up spotting artillery fire. Naturally, I began to try to get in. I had to put over a fast one on the examining 24board, but I made it. And here I am at last, with my own countrymen. Top hole, isn’t it?” His smile was so genuine and compelling that none could doubt the sincerity of his pleasure. All barriers of restraint were broken down. This chap actually courted conversation.

“Why don’t you get repatriated, Lieutenant?” Yancey asked.

“The tactless fool!” Hampden thought, but dared not say. Of course the Texas clown would rush in where angels feared to tread. Didn’t the fathead have any conception of pride of uniform and pride in a nation’s accomplishments? Hampden felt that he would like to hit Yancey with one of the water carafes.

“What’s that? Repatriated?” McGee repeated. “How can that be done?”

“Haven’t you seen the General Order providing for it?” Tex continued, despite Major Cowan’s silencing frown.

“I’m afraid not,” McGee replied. “I’ve been pretty busy–and I don’t get a great thrill out of G.O.’s. Tell me about it.”

“Well–” Yancey began slowly, enjoying to the fullest the opportunity to provide information uninterrupted, “as you know, a lot of Americans joined the English and French air forces before we came in. Some of ’em, just like you, maybe, had a sort of 25score to settle. But I reckon most of ’em went in because it offered something unusual and a lot of thrills. Huh! You tell ’em! Then when Uncle Sam got warm under the saddle and came hornin’ in, a lot of the boys who’d come over and joined up began castin’ homesick glances back in a westerly direction. Natural-like, Uncle Samuel is willin’ to welcome home all his prodigal sons, if he can get ’em back, and he’s specially forgivin’ considerin’ that his army at the beginnin’ of hostilities is just about one day’s bait on a real war-like front. As for flyers, he hasn’t got enough of ’em, trained, to do observation work for an energetic battery of heavies. So he makes medicine talk with Johnny Bull and with France, and for once he comes out with all the buttons on his trousers. They agree to release all the Americans servin’ under their colors who express a desire to get into O.D. under the Stars and Stripes. ‘Repatriation’ was the flossy name they gave it, but I call it homesickness. A lot of the wayward sons jumped at it quick, and we’re ’way ahead on the game, any way you look at it. Now take some of those boys in the Lafayette Escadrille. Why, if they–”

Yancey’s voice droned on, but McGee no longer heard what he was saying, though to all appearances he was paying courteous attention. But as a matter of fact his eyes were resting upon Lieutenant Siddons, and he was cudgelling his brain in an effort to 26remember where he had seen him before. The blond, curly hair; the rather square face and brow; the thin lips, the calm, cold grey eyes; and the air of self-satisfied assurance, all were part of a memory which was vivid enough but which refused to come out of the back of the mind and associate itself with identifying surroundings. Where had he seen that face? New York? No, not there. He knew very few people in New York. Well, after all, perhaps it was only a strong resemblance. But resembling whom? Surely no one of his acquaintances looked like Siddons, at least none that he could remember.

McGee’s gaze must have been a little too steady, at least enough to prove discomfiting, for Siddons half turned away and began speaking in whispers to Hampden. He talked out of the corner of his mouth, as one who is ashamed of the words he utters, and McGee felt the stirrings of a faint dislike for him.

Yancey reached the end of his monologue. The moment of silence that followed brought McGee sharply back to the present. He smiled graciously at the Texan.

“That’s quite interesting,” he said. “Strange I missed that order, and stranger still that no one mentioned it to me. But we’ve been pretty busy up in the Ypres salient–too busy to think much about what flag we were fighting under. I’ve enjoyed being with the English, but of course ‘there’s no place like 27home’. I’m very happy to be assigned here, and I am glad Major Cowan gave me this chance to meet you. The Major tells me that you are to get several new Spads in the next two or three days. Until that time, I won’t disturb you. I’m driving back into town. Anyone want a lift?”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Hampden spoke up, “Siddons and I are going in. Have you room?”

“Certainly. Glad to have you along. Major Cowan, how about you?”

“Sorry,” the Major replied, dourly, “but I have to pay the price of command by poring over a lot of detail work which would be spared me if I had a more efficient staff.”

Mullins, the peppery little Operations Officer, felt the full force of the sting but he passed it off by winking wisely at Yancey. Why worry? Cowan was always looking for work and for trouble. He was never so happy as when bawling someone out.

McGee felt sorry for Mullins and sorrier still for Cowan. One with half an eye could see that Cowan was about as popular with his command as would be a case of smallpox. McGee had been trained in an atmosphere where discipline was a matter of example rather than a matter of fear, and as a result had always known a sort of good-fellowship which he felt instinctively would be impossible with such a commander as Cowan.

28“I’m sorry you can’t come with us, Major,” McGee said in a voice that carried no conviction. “However, I must toddle along.” He turned to Siddons and Hampden. “Ready? Right-O!”

During the short motor trip into Is Sur Tille, McGee’s curiosity finally got the better of his natural dislike for admitting that his memory had failed him. “I think I have met you somewhere before, Lieutenant,” he said to Siddons.

“Yes? I do not remember it,” Siddons replied, with the air of one who is making no great draft upon his own memory. He himself evidently sensed the lack of courtesy, for he added, “New York, perhaps. Have you been around New York much?”

“No, I haven’t. Somewhere else–”

Lieutenant Hampden’s mellow laugh interrupted.

“Siddons has the idea that one never meets anyone outside of New York,” he said. “He’s terribly provincial, Lieutenant. He thinks there are only two places in the world–New York and everywhere else.”

Siddons displayed no resentment at the taunt; he seemed quite well satisfied with the opinion expressed. In fact, he appeared quite satisfied with everything–especially with himself.

McGee wondered how a likeable chap, such as Hampden, could choose as companion one so utterly different in manner, in ideas, and in speech. But 29then, war brings together strange bedfellows and establishes new standards. McGee dismissed the matter from his mind as the car swung into the narrow streets of the darkened town.

“Where can I drop you?” he asked.

“Going by the café down on the main drag?” Hampden asked.

“Right.”

“That will be fine. I hope to see you again soon, Lieutenant.”

“Thanks. The Spads are due to arrive on Monday. That’s three days. See you then. Well, here we are,” as the car swung in to the curb in front of the café. The shutters were closed, no light came from any of the stores or houses along the street, but from behind the closed door of the café came the sound of voices and laughter mixed with the metallic banging of a very old piano beating out tuneless accompaniment to a bull-voiced singer roaring through the many verses of “Hinkey Dinkey Parlez Vous”.

“The Yank Marine went over the top,
  Parlez Vous,
The Yank Marine went over the top,
  Parlez Vous,
The Yank Marine went over the top
And gave old Fritz a whale of a pop,
  Hinkey Dinkey, Parlez Vous.”

McGee smiled as he sat for a moment listening to 30the words. All his service had been with the English, who of course had composed many songs highly complimentary to themselves, and only in the last few days had he come in contact with the forerunners of the mighty American army now pouring into French harbors from every arriving boat.

“Quite a fellow–this Yank Marine,” he said to Siddons.

Siddons nodded, rather stiffly. “So it seems. Though he hasn’t been over the top yet. Prophecy, I suppose.” He stepped from the car to the curb with the bearing of one accustomed to being delivered in a chauffeur-driven car.

McGee was on the point of calling out, “When shall I call, sir?” but at that moment noticed young Hampden’s genuine smile and heard him voicing words of appreciation for the lift.

“Don’t mention it,” McGee said. “It was a pleasure. Cheerio! old man!”

“There,” he thought, sinking back in the tonneau. “I said ‘old man’. Singular case, and that lets Siddons out rather neatly. Hum. I’ll bet a cookie he knows more about flying than I do–or anyone else, for that matter. Well, we’ll see. I wonder what sort of outfit Buzz drew.”

Lieutenant “Buzz” Larkin was closer to McGee than any person in the world. Close bonds of friendship had been formed while they were in training in 31Cadet Brigade Headquarters, at Hastings, England. During their months of service together in the Royal Air Force, on exceedingly hot fronts, those bonds of friendship had become bands of steel, holding them together almost as firmly as blood ties. Both were Americans, but the motives back of their entrance into the R.F.C. were as widely divergent as possible. Larkin, the son of a wealthy manufacturer, had never disclosed the real reason for his entrance into a foreign service. Perhaps he sought adventure. McGee, however, made no secret of the motives back of his entrance. When word reached him that his brother had been killed while doing observation work in a captive balloon, young McGee, not yet eighteen, employed a trick (which he thought justified) to gain entrance to the Air Force. He felt that he must carry on an unfinished work, and few will find fault with him if his actions were motivated by a slight spirit of revenge. After all, blood is thicker than water.

Whatever the motives of the two youths, once in the uniform of cadet flyers, the spirit of service seized them. Side by side, encouraging, entreating, helping and driving one another they plugged through their training with their eyes fixed upon the coveted reward of every air service cadet–a pair of silvered wings!

Together they had won their wings; together they 32had gone to the front; together they had gone out on patrol, high above the lines, and met the enemy. Thereafter, the fortune of one was the fortune of both. Each had saved the other’s life, the culminating tie in their friendship, if indeed their friendship needed any further tie.

Both had become aces, though in combat work McGee was easily the superior. This, however, he constantly denied and was forever admiring Larkin’s work. Larkin, if inferior to McGee in a dog fight, was better disciplined. He could go up in formation, keep his eye on his flight commander, obey orders, and keep his head when he saw an enemy plane. McGee, on the contrary, went as wild as a berserker the moment he laid eyes on a plane bearing the black cross. Orders were forgotten and he dived, throttle wide open, stick far forward, every thought gone from his mind but the one compelling urge to get that other plane on the inside of his ring sight. McGee had his personal faults, but he was a faultless flyer. The same may be said of Larkin, for men in aerial combat never make but one vital mistake. Those who become aces have no great faults; those with great faults become mere tallies for the aces. Now and then, of course, the grim scorer nods during the game and a fault goes unpenalized, but as a rule it can be said that a man who can become an ace may well be called a faultless flyer, for an ace is one 33who has rolled up a score of five victories against those whose skill was less than his own. Of course, there is the element of luck to be considered, for luck and skill must go hand in hand when youths go jousting in the clouds. But luck can only attend the skillful. With skill wanting, luck soon deserts.

Beyond doubt both McGee and Larkin had enjoyed a full measure of luck, and were still enjoying it. For example, wasn’t it luck that had sent them both down here on the French front to act as instructors to newly arriving American squadrons? Wasn’t it luck that they were still billeted together in the lovely old chateau at the edge of town, and could look forward to many, many more days together?

These latter thoughts were running through McGee’s mind as his car swung under the trees lining the drive that led up to the chateau. Why, but for luck both of them might now be pushing up the daisies instead of being happily, and comparatively safely ensconced in such comfortable quarters. No more dawn patrols–for a while at least; no more soggy breakfasts–with comrades missing who banteringly breakfasted with you twenty-four short hours ago.

McGee’s thoughts took unconscious vocal form as he stepped from the car. “Lucky? I’ll say we are!”

“What did you say, sir?” asked the driver.

The question snapped McGee back to earth.

“I was complimenting myself upon some very narrow 34escapes, Martins, but I’ll repeat–for your benefit. You are a very lucky boy.”

Martins blinked. He held opposite views. “You think so, sir? I’ve gotta different idea. I wanted to be a pilot, like you, sir, and here I am toolin’ this old bus around France with never a chance to get off the ground unless I run off an embankment. And this old wreck is no bird.”

“So you really wanted to be a pilot, Martins?”

“I sure did, sir.”

“Um-m. That’s why I said you were a very lucky young man. I know the names of a lot of young fellows who wanted to become pilots–and did. But they’ve gone West now and their names are on wooden crosses. Hoe your own row, Martins, and thank the Lord for small favors.”

“Yes, sir,” aloud, and under his breath, “It’s easy enough for them that has wings.”

“How’s that, Martins?” McGee asked, rather enjoying himself.

Martins fidgeted with the gear shift. “I said I had always wanted a pair of wings, sir.”

“Well, be a good boy and maybe you’ll get them–in the next world. Good night, Martins.”

“’Night–sir.” Gurrr! went the clashing gears as the car got under way with a lurch that spoke volumes for the driver. It was tough to be held to the ground by a wingless motor.

35McGee caught a gleam of light through the shutters of the upstairs windows. So Larkin was back already? He took the front steps in a jump and raced up the stairs in a manner most unbecoming to a First Lieutenant with a score of victories to his credit.

“What kind of an outfit did you draw, Buzz?” he demanded as he burst into the room.

Larkin was buried behind a Paris edition of the Tribune, his legs sprawled out into the middle of the floor where the heel of one boot balanced precariously on the toe of the other.

“Oh, so-so,” never bothering to look from behind his paper. Phlegmatic old Buzz, McGee thought, what was the use of getting excited over an instructor’s job?

“Are they good?” McGee asked.

“Um. Dunno.” Still reading.

“Mine are great!” McGee enthused. “Stiff, crusty young C.O., who needs a couple of crashes–one fatal, maybe–but the rest of them are fine. Great bunch of pilots.”

“Yeah?” Still reading, but doubtful. “See any of ’em fly?”

“No-o,” slowly, “of course not.”

“Um-m. Well, wait until they begin sticking the noses of those new Spads in the ground, and then tell me about ’em. They’ve been trained on settin’ hens. Wait until they mount a hawk.”

36McGee jerked a pillow from the bed and sent it crashing through the concealing paper. “Old killjoy! If a man gave you a diamond you’d try it on glass to see if it was real.”

Larkin began rearranging his crumpled paper. “Well, why not? If it wasn’t real I wouldn’t want it. And I wish you’d keep your pillows out of my theatrical news. I was just reading about a play at the Folies Bergeres, called ‘Zig Zag’. They say it’s a scream. By the way, Shrimp, how’d you like to fly to Paris to-morrow morning and give it the once over?”

“Fine, but–”

“But nothing! We can see it to-morrow night and be back the next day. That fine bunch of pilots of yours can’t get off the ground until the Spads get here–and maybe not then.”

“See here!” McGee challenged stoutly. “I’ll bet you anything you like that those boys–”

“Will all be aces in a month,” Larkin completed, knowing the extent and warmth of McGee’s habitual enthusiasm. “All right, Shrimp, so be it. But what has that to do with the show? Want to go?”

“Sure. But what about passes? I don’t know just who we are answerable to down here, in the matter of privileges and so forth. I’ve been sort of lost for the last few days.”

Larkin shoved his hand into his inside blouse 37pocket and brought forth two folded papers which he displayed proudly.

“Here are the passes–all jake! Marked official business and authorizing fuel and supplies, if needed. I’m a great little fixer. And about that question of not knowing who you are answerable to, don’t forget that it’s little Johnny Bull–capital J and B. You’re liable to get jerked off this detail so quick you’ll leave toothbrush and pajamas behind. Every morning now when I wake up and remember that I don’t have to go out on dawn patrol I start pinching myself to see if I’m awake. Boy, in this game it’s here to-day and gone to-morrow. Wasn’t it old Omar who handed out that gag, ‘Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend’?... Yeah? Well, he must have written that for war pilots. The minute J.B. finds out how comfortable we are down here we’ll be recalled and sent to chasing Huns back across the line. In fact, I think we’re both asleep and having nice dreams.”

“That reminds me,” McGee said, drawing up a chair and sitting gingerly on the edge after the manner of one about to indulge in confidential disclosures. “Have you heard anything of this repatriation business?”

“Sure. Haven’t you?”

“Not a word.”

“Where have you been? It came down in a G.O.”

38McGee scratched his head. “So I’ve just learned, but it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Funny you didn’t mention it to me.”

Larkin eyed him curiously. “Well,” slowly, “I knew you were English and–”

“But I’m not, and you know it!” McGee flared.

“Calm, brother, calm! I mean, I knew your father and mother were English, and so was your brother.”

“But I was born in America. I’m just as much of an American as you are!”

“Calm, brother, calm! No one says you are not. But because of your family nationality, I supposed you would want to finish out the string with the R.F.C. and,” he reached over and tousled McGee’s mop of flaming red hair, “I’m just fool enough to want to stick around where you are–you little shrimp! So I thought I wouldn’t bring up the subject.”

McGee gave him a look of deep understanding and appreciation.

“Fact is,” Larkin went on, “I just got a letter from Dad the other day and he seems to be pretty hot under the collar because I haven’t made any move to get repatriated.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“You poor nut! I’ve just told you.”

“No you haven’t, Buzz. There is some reason deeper than that.”

39Larkin fingered his newspaper nervously and tried to simulate an interest in some news note. He hated to display sentiment, yet the fates had given him a double burden of it. As a matter of honest fact, he was as sentimental as a woman, and was forever trying to hide the fact behind a thin veneer of nonchalance and bluster.

“Did you see this communique from our old front?” he asked, trying to shift the subject. “They’re having some hot fighting up there.”

“Yes, I know. Things look pretty dark for the English. But answer my question: What is the real reason why you haven’t thought of getting transferred into the United States forces?”

“I didn’t say I hadn’t thought of it,” Larkin avoided. “Maybe I didn’t want to trade horses in the middle of the stream.”

“Any other reason?”

“Well, hang it all! a fellow builds up some pride in the uniform he wears. A good many of our buddies have gone out for their last ride in this uniform and–and it stands for a lot. Of course I am proud of my own country, and sometimes I feel a little strange in this uniform now that my own country is in the war, but it isn’t a thing you can put on or take off just as the spirit moves you. It becomes a part of you. Say! What’s eatin’ you, anyway? Are you anxious to change uniforms?”

40“Um-m. I’m not so sure. I like that bunch I met over there to-night.”

“Yes, and they are all afoot. The truth is, our own country hasn’t enough combat planes to send out a patrol. They are developing some mystery motor, I hear, but I’m not very keen about trying out any mystery motors. Our Camels are mystery enough to suit me. When I’m up against the ceiling with a fast flying Albatross or tri-plane Fokker on my tail, I don’t want any mysteries to handle. No, Red, for the time being I guess I’m satisfied. Besides, they might chuck me in the infantry, and I have a horror of having things drop on me from overhead. Let’s to bed, old topper, so we can hop off early in the morning. The sooner we start the sooner we get to ‘Gay Paree’. Besides, early to bed and early to rise makes a man ready to challenge the skies. How’s that for impromptu poetry?”

“Rotten! Omar and Ben Franklin both in one evening!” McGee yawned as he began pulling at a boot. “But it makes me sleepy. Go on, say me some more pretty pieces. Or maybe you’d like to sing me to sleep.”
[A]

For definitions of military and aeronautical terms, as well as certain slang peculiar to army life, see glossary at the back of the book.