1
When McGee next opened his eyes, it was upon a world in which white seemed to be the shockingly outstanding scheme of things. White walls, a white painted fence, which he at last concluded must be the end of an iron bed, and just beyond this, near at hand yet seemingly miles and miles away, a woman in spotless white. He couldn’t quite make out her face, in fact all detail was lost in a dim haze that refused to be cleared up by a blinking of the eyes. And there was such a roaring sound, as of a mighty waterfall thundering down into an echoing canyon.
Oh, yes! His head. He tried to lift his left hand to feel of his head, but the muscles failed to respond. Indeed, the arm seemed not only lifeless, but to be clamped firmly across his chest by tight bonds. He tried the right arm. It responded, and the hand came up to touch and wonder at the large bundle of cloth that should be his head.
The woman in white moved toward him, quickly, and he was about to form a question when she faded 202before his very eyes, and the thundering waterfall left off its roaring as he floated out of the world of white into a black, obliterating nothingness.
Hours later he again opened his eyes. Again he saw a woman in white at the foot of what he now knew to be a bed. She smiled, a sort of cheery, wordless greeting. He could see distinctly now, and the thunder of the rushing torrent had subsided until it was little more than a wind whispering among the tree tops. But the left arm was still lifeless and numb, and his head felt as large as a tub.
“Where am I?” he asked, and was startled by the feebleness of the voice which seemed in no way related to him.
The woman in white bent over him, smoothing the pillow and pressing him back upon it.
“You must be quiet,” she said, “and not talk, or try to move.”
Funny thing to say. Why shouldn’t he talk–especially when he had so much to learn about this strange place?
“But where am–”
The figure in white began fading away again, a most distressing habit, and darkness again rushed at him from the white walls.
Hours later he again opened his eyes, realizing at once that it was night, though objects could be dimly seen by the glow of the one light at the far end of the 203room. He could hear voices, and with a slight turn of the head saw a man in uniform talking with the white-clad woman who could so suddenly and miraculously disappear. At the movement the man turned quickly.
It was Larkin, and the worried lines in his face were swept away by a quick, cheery smile as he bent over the bed and pressed McGee’s right hand in a manner that spoke more than words.
“What happened, Buzz?” McGee asked, and was again surprised at the thin quality of his voice.
“You’re all right, old hoss,” Larkin evaded, “but you mustn’t talk yet. Be quiet now. To-morrow night I’ll be back and tell you all about it.”
“But–”
“Quiet now! See you to-morrow,” and with another squeeze of the hand he was gone.
Well, McGee thought, it was rather tiring to try to think. Sleep was so easy–and so soft.
2
The following evening Larkin came back again, just as the nurse had finished giving McGee a light, liquid meal.
“Hello, you little shrimp!” he sang out cheerily. “Eyes bright and everything! Old Saw Bones just told me I could see you for five minutes–but to do 204all the talking. You can have three questions only.”
A thin, tired smile came to McGee’s freckled face, a face almost hidden under the bandages that completely covered his head.
“All right,” he said. “First question–will I fly again?”
“Of course! In four or five weeks you’ll be good as new.”
“Four or five weeks! What–”
“Careful now, or you’ll use up all your questions. When you set that Camel down in a shell hole she flipped over and your head was slightly softer than a big rock that happened to be handy. I would have bet on the rock being softest, but it seems I’d lost. You went blotto. A bunch of soldiers dragged you out from under what was left of that Camel–which wasn’t much. Then an ambulance brought you back here. This hospital is about five kilos from squadron headquarters, and I’ve been back here twice a day for the past five days, worrying my head off for fear you’d never come to.”
“Five days?” Red responded, his voice indicating his disbelief.
“Yep, five days. Three days passed before you even opened your eyes. Try and land on your feet, next time.”
“The nurse tells me my left arm is broken,” McGee said. “Wonder how I got that?”
205“You’ve used up all your questions,” Larkin told him, laughing, “and I’ve used up all my time. I want to be good so that Old Saw Bones will let me see you to-morrow night.”
“Wait,” McGee began, but the nurse interposed herself.
“No more to-night,” she said. “In a day or two you can talk as much as you like.”
The next two or three days passed slowly for McGee. Each night Larkin came back from squadron headquarters in a motor cycle side car, but his stays were so brief that Red had no chance to get any but the most fragmentary news.
As for news from the front, he could drag nothing from the nurses or from Larkin, and when he inquired after members of the squadron Buzz would reply with an evasive, “Oh, they’re all right,” and shift the conversation into the most commonplace channels.
Ten days of this, and the surgeon gave his O.K. to the use of a wheel chair, which was pushed around the grounds by one of the hospital orderlies. The grounds were extremely beautiful, the hospital having been a famous resort hotel before the exigencies of warfare required its conversion into one of the thousands of hospitals scattered throughout France.
Great beech and chestnut trees covered the lawn, and to one side was a miniature lake, centered by a 206sparkling fountain, on whose wind-dimpled surface graceful, proud swans moved with a stately ease that scorned haste or show of effort.
On the second day of exploration in the wheel chair, Larkin came in the afternoon and, relieving the orderly, pushed Red’s chair down to a deep shaded spot by the side of the pond.
“I can’t see why they won’t let me walk around,” McGee complained. “There’s nothing wrong with my legs.”
“No, but they’re not so sure about that head, yet. Another few days and you’ll be running foot races,” Larkin assured him.
“How long does it take a broken arm to heal, Buzz?”
“Two or three weeks–maybe four. You had a bad break. Maybe a little longer. You’re lucky, after all–maybe.”
“What do you mean, lucky?” Red looked at him quizzically.
“Well, some of the boys haven’t gotten off so easy.”
“See here, Buzz, I’m tired of snatches of news. Tell me all you know about–about everything. Back here the war seems so far away–and unreal. Except for all these wounded men, and the uniforms, I’d never think of it. No guns, no action, no–no dawn patrols. I feel like a fish out of water. But there 207must be some little old war going on up there. I’ve heard about Chateau-Thierry, by piecemeal. Boy! It was the big show starting the very morning I got it, and we didn’t even know it. Just my luck to get forced down at a time like that!”
“Maybe not so tough,” Buzz answered. “A Blighty, if it doesn’t cripple, is not so bad. Our casualties have been nearly forty per cent, from one cause or another.”
“No!” Red exclaimed in surprise.
Larkin nodded, dourly. “They sure have! We’ve been up against von Herzmann’s Circus most of the time, and that fellow hasn’t any slouches on his roster. That was one of his outfit that cracked your engine.”
“Really? Did you get him?” Red asked, his face alight with interest.
Larkin shook his head. “No luck. I ducked to follow you. But Fouche got him–his first that morning.”
“That morning? You mean he–”
“Got another one, a flamer, just back of Chateau-Thierry. That boy is some flyer! He’s an ace already.”
McGee’s delight was genuine. “That’s great! Never can tell, can you? I didn’t think much of his work.” He hesitated, wanting to inquire about the others but held back by that statement of Larkin’s 208to the effect that casualties were above forty per cent. He feared he would ask about someone whose name was now enrolled in that sickening total.
“What about–Yancey?” he tried.
Larkin laughed. ............