1

McGee, holding up the nose of his Camel at an angle that gave the motor every ounce it would stand, was thinking the same alarming thought that had just run through Larkin’s mind. It would be just his luck to be spotted by the searchlight crew and held in its beam. If so, would they recognize him? Would they see the ringed cockades on his wings, or would eager anti-aircraft gunners start blazing away? Even if they recognized the plane, his whole plan would be knocked into a cocked hat should that telltale streamer of light point him out to the enemy planes above who must now be looking sharp. Darkness was both his ally and his foe.

McGee was too experienced to have any mistaken notions about the hazard of his endeavor. He knew what he was up against. In the first place, any bombing plane was a formidable foe, and he could not know how many were coming on this mission. All bombers were heavily armed, and had the advantage of having at least one man free to repel attack 84with twin machine guns. Many of the heavier German bombing planes carried crews of four or five men, though these were used in attack on highly important bases and would hardly be sent on a mission of this nature. Such machines were quite slow and not capable of being manoeuvered quickly, but their very size added to their invulnerability and their heavy armament made them a thing to be avoided by any single fighter mounted in a pursuit plane. Many pursuit pilots had learned the bitter lesson attached to a thoughtless, poorly planned attack upon a bomber or two-seater observation bus. They looked like an appetizing meal–but one must have a strong stomach if he finishes the feast.

McGee knew, also, that the oncoming raiders might be pursuit planes converted into bombers by the simple expedient of attaching bomb releases carrying lighter pellets of destruction which could be released by the pilot. This was not an unusual procedure, especially when the success of the venture might hinge upon speed. Such planes could strike swiftly, more easily avoid Archie fire, and having struck their blow could outdistance any antagonist with the nerve to storm through the night sky in pursuit.

So, as McGee climbed he realized that he was facing the unknown. The prospect of a raid had been his challenge; the size and strength of his enemy was unknown. So be it, he thought, and warmed his guns 85with a short burst as he continued climbing. Their quick chatter served to reassure him and for the moment he quite forgot how useless they would be should he chance to go crashing into one of the bombers. He felt that all would be well if only those saps on the ground would cut that searchlight. Didn’t they know that it would simply serve as a guide to the plane whose mission it would be to dive at the field and release ground flares to mark the target for the bombers? Of course they wouldn’t think of that. Green! And with a lot to learn.

Two or three times the beam of light flashed perilously near him, and once his plane was near enough to the edge of the beam for the glass on his instrument board to reflect the rays. Then, a moment later, the glaring one-eyed monster dimmed, glowed red, and darkness leaped in from all sides. But only for a moment. Other lights, from more distant points, were still combing the sky. These concerned Red not so much as the one near the hangar. Strangely, as is the way with men at war, he cared not so much what wrath might be called down on other places if only his own nest remained unviolated. Indeed, he found himself entertaining the hope that the raiders might become confused and drop their trophies in somebody else’s back yard.

Then, as suddenly as a magician produces an object out of the thin air, one of the distant searchlights 86fixed upon one of the enemy planes. It was a single seater, McGee noted, and though somewhat southeast of the position he had expected, it was already pointing its nose down on a long dive that would undoubtedly carry it to a good position over the ’drome for dropping flares.

McGee knew the tactics. This was the plane whose job it was to spot the target for the bombers and then zoom away. Then the vultures would come droning over the illuminated field and drop their eggs.

Red kicked his left rudder and came around on a sharp climbing bank. By skill, or by luck, the light crew still held their beam on the black-crossed plane and in a twinkling two other lights were centered on it.

McGee made a quick estimate of distance and of the other’s flying speed. Then he nosed over, slightly, on a full throttle, and drove along a line which he thought would intersect the dive of the enemy. He could hardly hope to get him in the ring sights; it was a matter of pointing the plane in what he thought was the correct line of fire and let drive with both guns.

The wind was beginning to scream and tear at the struts of the hard-pushed Camel. Speed was everything now. If that diving German plane once dropped its flares, the others, somewhere in the darkness above, would sow destruction on the field.

87The distance was yet too great for anything like effective fire, but McGee decided to take a chance. After all, the whole thing was chance. He had one chance in a thousand to thwart their plans, very slim chances for bagging one of them, and some excellent chances to get bagged!

“Very well,” he found himself saying in answer to these swift thoughts. “Carry on!”

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Both his guns began their scolding chatter. Too far to the right–and below. He ruddered left and pulled her nose up a trifle. There! Again the guns spewed out their vengeful chorus.

At this second burst the German plane seemed to yaw off, then righted itself, leveled off and flew straight at McGee.

Red felt a momentary elation that the enemy had at least been made conscious of the attack and was, for the moment, forced to abandon his objective. Two beams of light still held him mercilessly. Doubtless they served to blind him and this advantaged McGee who, unseen in the darkness, kept his Vickers going. Some of the bullets must have gone home for the German swerved suddenly and began a series of acrobatics in an effort to escape the lights. But disturbed as he was, he evidently kept his mission in mind for he continued to lose altitude and thus draw nearer the field where he could drop his flares.

88McGee decided to nose over and then zoom up under his belly–by far the most vulnerable point of attack but one in which the moment of fire is brief indeed, for Camels will not long hang by their “props.”

Just as McGee dived the enemy swerved quickly and also began a dive. His diving angle was sharp; his speed tremendous. Doubtless he had determined to carry out his mission and get away from an exceedingly hot spot as quickly as possible. By the fortunes of war his diving angle cut directly across McGee’s path. Close–almost too close! A brief burst spat from McGee’s Vickers in that heart-chilling moment when collision seemed inevitable, but McGee pulled sharply back on his stick and zoomed. Whew! It was no cinch, this fighting a light-blinded enemy.

McGee glanced back. The lights had lost the plane as suddenly as they had found it. Night had swallowed it. Now there was an unseen enemy that might–

Ah! McGee sucked in his breath sharply. A tiny tongue of flame was shooting through the sky. For a second it was little more than the flame of a match, but in a few seconds it developed into greedy, licking flames that turned the German plane into a flaming rocket. The pilot, manfully seeking escape from such a death, began side slipping in a vain effort to create an upward draft that would keep the flames 89from incinerating him in his seat. For the briefest moment he did a first class job of it, and McGee, who a minute before had been hungry for victory, felt first a wave of admiration for a skillful job of flying and next a surge of pity that it must be of no avail. Even now the plane was wobbling out of control ... then it nosed over and plunged earthward, a flaming meteor.

Fascinated, McGee watched the plunge, climbing a little as he circled. He was three times an ace with two for good measure, seventeen victories in the air, but this was his first night flamer. It was far more spectacular than he could have imagined ... and somehow a little more unnerving. A moment ago that doomed creature had been a man courageous enough to undertake any hazard his country demanded. Enemy or no, he was a man of courage and in his own country was a patriot.

McGee felt very weak, and not at all elated. After all, he knew there were no national boundaries to valor or patriotism, and however sweet the victory it must always carry the wormwood of regret that the vanquished will see no more red dawnings and go out on no more dawn patrols. That plunging, flaming plane was as a lighted match dropped into a deep well–the deep well of oblivion.

The plane struck the earth some three or four hundred yards to the west of the ’drome. The flames, 90leaping afresh, lighted up the entire vicinity. McGee, looking down, could see the dim outline of the hangar tent and the running figures that were racing toward the burning plane. He smiled, rather grimly, and his eyes searched the heavens above him. The vultures had their target now!

At that moment one of the restless searchlights singled out one of the bombers, high above him, and two other streams of light leaped to the same spot. Another plane was caught in the beam. The anti-aircraft now had their target, and they lost no time. There came two or three of the sharp barks so characteristic of anti-aircraft guns, and coincident with the sound the bursting shells bloomed into great white roses perilously near the leading plane. It rocked, noticeably, and shifted its course. Then, seemingly, all the Archies in the countryside, within range and out of range, began filling that section of the sky with magically appearing roses that in their blooming sent steel balls and flying fragments searching the sky.

The upper air was quickly converted into an inferno of bursting shells and whining missiles of jagged steel. The enemy bombers, due to the delay caused by McGee’s unexpected attack upon the plane whose mission it had been to drop the ground flares, had now worked themselves into a rather awkward formation and were faced with the responsibility of making instant decision whether they should now 91release their bombs in a somewhat hit or miss fashion or run for it and individually select some other spot for depositing their T.N.T. hate as they made their way homeward.

The embarrassment of their position was but little greater than that of McGee’s. The burning plane offered sufficient light for landing, but it was also lighting up the hangars and the field, and he momentarily expected the enemy to let go with their bombs. It would not be pleasant down there when those whistling messengers began to arrive. His present position was equally unhealthy, even though he had considerably reduced his altitude. Any minute–yes, any second–some searchlight crew might pick him up, and there is never any telling what an excited anti-aircraft battery crew might do.

McGee made the decision which is always reached by an airman who finds himself in unhealthy surroundings: he would simply high-tail it away from there until “the shouting and the tumult” subsided. He swung into the dark sky to the north and then dived down until he felt that any less altitude would be extremely likely to bring him afoul of some church steeple or factory smokestack.

One of the German pilots decided to take a chance and release his bombs. Their reverberating detonations were terrifying enough, but aside from the ugly holes they made in the open field, some five hundred 92yards away from the ’drome, they accomplished nothing in the balance of warfare. The other planes, finding the welcome a bit too warm, took up a zig-zag course toward the Fatherland, but in a general course that would take them back over Nancy, where they could find a larger target for their bombs.

McGee, looking back, could see the searchlights sweeping eastward in their efforts to keep the fleeing planes spotted. But their luck had already been great indeed, and now they were again feverishly searching the black and seemingly empty sky.

“Good time to tool this baby home,” McGee thought as he swung around and headed for the ’drome, its location still well marked for him by the flickering flames of the fallen ship.

“Poor old Nancy!” he said aloud as he realized that the thwarted bombers would likely spew out their hate on that sorely tried city. “I’m sorry to wish this off on you, but you are used to it and these lads are not. Talk about luck! I wonder what good angel is perched on my shoulder.”

Back over the ’drome he signaled with his Very light pistol for landing lights, his take-off having been too sudden to permit of thinking of ground flares. He circled the field, waiting for the lights. No response. He signaled again. Still no response.

“Too much excitement, I guess,” he mused. Then he flew low over the remains of the burning plane, 93around which had gathered a large group–large enough, McGee thought, to include every man of the squadron from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball.

“Humph! A fine target you’d make!” Red snorted, and felt like throwing his Very pistol into the group. “Well, here goes! I’ve made darker landings than this. And if I crack up–” he smiled as a grim Irish bull flashed through his mind–“it will be a good lesson to the ground crew. Nothing like Irish humor at a time like this.”

2

If one who stands less than five feet six and is freckled of face and red of hair can command hauteur and dignity, then it can be said that a few minutes later McGee, with hauteur and dignity, strode into the excited, gabbling group that surrounded the burning German plane. For a moment none of them recognized him. With hands on hips, arms akimbo, he stood watching them. He was still just a little too mad to trust his tongue.

Major Cowan was the first to notice him. “Ah! Lieutenant McGee! I am–”

“No sir, I am Lieutenant McGee’s ghost. McGee got his neck broken over there just now–trying to make a landing in the dark. Your ground crew were 94exceedingly helpful to him, Major. So nice of them to obey his signals so promptly.”

For once Cowan was at a disadvantage. “Gad, man! Did you signal?”

“Oh, yes. I waved my hand. Rather original idea, don’t you think? Perhaps you weren’t expecting me to come back.”

“Frankly, Lieutenant, I wasn’t.” The look on Cowan’s face was one of genuine admiration. “You have done a courageous thing, Lieutenant–and I thought it foolhardy. I said as much to Lieutenant Larkin, and I apologize to you, here, in the presence of all these men who witnessed your courage.”

All the others thereupon surged around McGee, pumping his hand vigorously and clapping him on the back.

McGee’s anger faded. It was a thing that never stayed long with him.

“Is Larkin here?” he asked.

“He was,” Cowan answered. “Came a few minutes after you took off, but when I refused him a ship he got mad as a hornet, bawled out the light crew and–and me, and then jumped back in his car and rode off. Rather tempestuous fellow.”

“If he had stayed here,” McGee said, regretfully, “my Camel wouldn’t now be standing over yonder on its nose with its undercarriage wiped off. He’d at least think of landing lights.” He pushed his way 95through the crowd toward the burning embers of the twisted, broken and charred plane. “Pilot burned to a crisp, I suppose,” he mused half aloud.

Hampden, who was standing nearest, answered:

“No, the poor devil jumped. Landed over there by the road. They carried him over to the hospital tent. Not a–a whole bone in his body.” His voice seemed choked. “It’s a–a fearful way to go.”

“A sporting way, I would say,” Siddons spoke up. “Even in the last moment he rather cheated you, McGee. He escaped the flames, anyhow.”

McGee looked at Siddons searchingly. In those cold grey eyes and in the half-taunting smile there was none of the sympathy or natural, normal emotion that had so choked Hampden’s voice.

“He did not cheat me, Lieutenant Siddons,” McGee said, his voice edged by his dislike of the man. “I am only one of the small factors in this unfortunate game. Duty may be pursued without wanting to see others suffer. He was a brave man. I salute him.” He turned to Cowan. “Major Cowan, if your crew had attempted to extinguish these flames we might have added a great deal to our knowledge of the progress the enemy is making. I could not recognize this plane in the air. I think it is a new type.”

“By Jove! I never thought of it.”

McGee turned away to conceal an expression which 96he could not control, and as he did so he heard Yancey growl to Hampden:

“What a first-rate kitchen police in a Home Guard outfit that bimbo would make!”

As McGee walked back toward the hangar, Hampden and Siddons joined him. He felt Hampden give his elbow a congratulatory squeeze. Then Siddons said:

“Are you going over to have a look at your fallen adversary, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, I say, Siddons!” Hampden exclaimed, pained and surprised.

“I am going to make out my report,” McGee answered, simply. “I wonder if you would like to give me a confirmation, Lieutenant Siddons?”

The question took Siddons off his feet. “Why–er–do you really want me to?”

“Not especially; I just had a feeling that you would be pleased to have your name brought in it somehow.”

Several of the pilots followed McGee into the hut used for headquarters, but Siddons was not among them. Whatever his feelings, following the little instructor’s pointed rebuke, he concealed them behind the cool indifference which marked all of his actions. At the door to headquarters he turned down the gravel walk that ran in front of the row of huts used as quarters and was soon lost to sight in the darkness.
97

3

McGee’s report of his victory was characteristically laconic. Not a word did he employ that was not necessary to the report. No fuss, no feathers, no mock heroics. He had engaged an E.A. (enemy aircraft) and had sent it down in flames. Reading the report, one would find little enough to lift it out of the usual run of reports. Another meeting; another victory. No more, no less. Only in the last paragraph did he depart from his usual method of reporting. He wrote:

“My Camel carried no ground flares. Twice signaled for landing lights with no response. Circled field. Entire personnel was gathered around burning E.A. and making no effort to extinguish fire, which by this time had nearly consumed plane. Forced to land in dark. Wiped out landing gear and shattered prop.

“Recommendation: That all commands advise ground crews that a live pilot is of more importance than a dead enemy.”

Having finished, he looked up at those who had followed him into headquarters. They were gathered in little groups, excitedly discussing the victory, which had actually been the first encounter they had witnessed. Fortunately, the victory had been on their side and they were considerably bucked. It seemed 98dead easy. Why, one man had gone aloft, bagged a plane, thwarted the plans of the enemy and was back on the ground before you could tell about it. The war was looking up! And this instructor was no slouch. What this squadron wouldn’t do to the enemy when an over-cautious Chief of Air Service said “Let’s go!”

Hearing their comments, McGee smiled. He knew, better than they, the great element of luck in his victory.

The enemy, whose aim it had been to thoroughly frighten and subdue this green squadron, had succeeded instead in greatly increasing their confidence in themselves. The enemy had come to sow destruction; they had actually planted a seed that sprang instantly from the ground, bearing the bold and sturdy flower of self-confidence. Old dogs of war had been unleashed, and now a new pack was yelping on the trail.

“Where is Major Cowan?” McGee asked.

“Over at the hospital tent,” someone answered.

“Oh, I see. Perhaps it’s just as well. He might not care to sign a confirmation after reading my recommendation. Which one of you will give me a confirmation?”

As one man they surged forward.

“Just a minute!” Red laughed. “I said which one. On second thought I guess I’d better leave that 99to the C.O. First victory from his squadron, you know.”

“His squadron nothing!” Yancey growled. “You don’t belong to us–yet.”

“No, but I’m here by assignment; I wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.” He chuckled. “I’m afraid, though, that the last paragraph in this report has a sort of stinger in it.”

“Let’s see it,” Hampden urged.

McGee handed him the report. Hampden read it, whistled softly and passed it to Yancey, who read quite as slowly as he talked. A look of disappointment spread over his face.

“It’s a report, I reckon,” he said slowly, “but it’s about as satisfyin’ as a mess of potato chips would be to a hungry cowhand. It’s as thin as skimmed milk. Say, who won this fight? You or the other fellow?”

“I believe that report will give me the credit,” McGee answered.

“Maybe. And that last paragraph will win somebody a bawlin’ out. Cowan will ask you to change that. Looks like inefficiency on somebody’s part.”

“Perhaps it is. It goes as it stands. After all, it goes through channels to the Royal Flying Corps, you know. I’m flying their ship and still under their orders.”

“Well, when I get my first one,” Yancey replied, 100“believe me, they’ll get the full details, and when they get through readin’ it they’ll think I’m the bimbo what invented flyin’. Those white-collared babies at Headquarters have to get all their thrills secondhand, and this thing of yours is about as thrillin’ as the minutes of a Sunday School Meeting.”

At that moment Mullins, the peppery little Operations Officer, entered the room, his face a mass of wrinkling smiles. He walked over to the desk where McGee was seated and from his pockets dumped out a double handful of articles, such as army men had learned to list under the broad heading–“Souvenirs.” There was a wrist watch, a German automatic pistol, a silver match box, a leather cigarette case, a belt buckle bearing the famous “Gott Mit Uns” and a number of German paper marks.

For a moment McGee sat staring at them, then slowly pushed his chair back from the table as he looked up at the smiling Mullins.

“What’s this–stuff?” he asked.

“Souvenirs, of course! From your latest victory. Cowan and I decided to go over to the hospital and run through the chap’s pockets to see if we could find anything that should be sent back to Intelligence. Darned if Siddons wasn’t there ahead of us, getting ready to fill his pockets with your souvenirs. I told him to wait until he bagged his own game. So there you are–cups, belts and badges!”

101McGee gathered up the articles, one by one, and handed them back to Mullins.

“Take them back,” he ordered, somewhat firmly.

“What!” Mullins’ jaw dropped. “You don’t want ’em?”

“No.”

“Not even one–for luck?”

“No. I’ve never carried anything that belonged to the other fellow, for luck. Take them back.”

Yancey stepped forward, but he was still behind the soft-voiced Edouard Fouche, who said:

“I’ll take them, then. I’m not so high-minded about it.”

Tex Yancey pawed Fouche aside as a bear might sweep aside an annoying puppy. “Out of the way, little fellow. We’ll divide these spoils of war–or we’ll draw for ’em. Everyone to draw straws.”

“Wait!” McGee interposed himself between Mullins, Yancey, and the indignant Fouche. “If you boys want souvenirs, go out and get them for yourself. Mullins told Siddons to wait until he bagged his own game. That goes here, too. Take ’em back, Mullins. A man of courage has a right to his personal belongings–even after he is dead. Take them back and let them be buried with him. By the way,” he turned back to the desk and picked up his report, “I want a confirmation from Major Cowan. Where is he?”

102“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Mullins replied. “He just jumped in a side car and went streaking off to Wing, looking like he thought the war had been won. And he took with him a nice little plum for Intelligence. We found an order in that pilot’s pocket that should have been left behind.”

“Indeed? What was it?” McGee asked.

“It was in German, of course,” Mullins continued, “and Cowan is as rotten in German as I am. But Siddons is a shark at it. Speaks half a dozen languages, you know, and–”

“No, I didn’t know,” McGee answered, cryptically.

“Yeah, reads it like English. That order was to the effect that their high command had received information that several air units were located in this sector, and ours, in particular, was placed to a T. It was an order for a bombing group to come over and give us an initiation. ‘Highly important! Highly important!’ Cowan said, and busted off for Wing. To watch him you’d think he had brought down the plane. It’s strange, though, how those square-heads find out every move that is made on this side of the line.”

“They have a wonderful spy system,” McGee said. “We learned that well enough up on the English front, where we had reason to feel sure of the loyalty of every soldier. But the leaks get through. 103Cowan was right, the order was highly important. The Intelligence Department do some clever work with the bits of information gathered from first one place and another. It’s somewhat like piecing an old-fashioned pattern quilt. A piece here, a piece there, all seemingly unrelated but in the end presenting a distinct pattern. Yes, it’s important, I dare say.”

Mullins sighed, heavily. “Well then, I suppose Cowan will come back here with a chest on him like a Brigadier!”

Yancey laughed, picked up McGee’s report and handed it to Mullins. “Read that–especially the last paragraph. When Cowan reads that I can see his chest droppin’ like a toy balloon that meets up with a pin. I sure want to be hangin’ around when it is presented to him. This war has its compensations. Boys, make yourselves comfortable and await the comin’ of the mighty. It’s worth stayin’ up all night to see.”