1

Near noon, the following day, a motor cycle with side car snorted to a sudden stop at the newly erected hangar tents of an American Pursuit Group, and McGee crawled stiffly from the bone-racking, muscle-twisting “bath tub.” He thanked the mud-splashed, goggled driver, adding, by way of left-handed compliment, that he had been given more thrills in the last five kilometers than he had received in all his months in the Allied Air Service.

He turned toward the hangar. There was but one ship on the field, a two-seater. By its side stood Siddons and his air mechanic. They seemed to be in close-headed conference.

McGee clicked his teeth in a little sound of suppressed emotion, slipped through the hangar door and stood face to face with his own old Ack Emma.

“For the luva Pete!” exclaimed the startled air mechanic. “When did you get here, Lieutenant?”

McGee extended his hand in greeting. Williams grasped it, eagerly.

232“Well, for the luva Pete?” he repeated, lacking words in his surprise and pleasure. “Lieutenant Larkin! Oh, Lieutenant Larkin!” he began roaring. “Oh, Bill! Where’s Larkin?”

“Just left a minute ago,” came a voice from under the hood of a new Spad. “Went over to his quarters to wash up. Grease from head to foot.”

“I’ll go show you his quarters,” Williams said, eagerly.

“Never mind, I’ll find him,” McGee said. “Have to check in at headquarters first. I hear Cowan is still C.O.”

“Yes, sir. He sure is. And he’s a darb, Lieutenant.”

“So I hear. Piling up quite a record. How many of the old gang still here, Williams?”

“Not many. If the Hun doesn’t get ’em, nerves and the smell of castor-oil does. Half a dozen of ’em gone flooey in the stomach. Couldn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive and couldn’t keep that down. It’s a tough game, Lieutenant. Next war that comes yours truly is going to join the infantry.”

“Don’t do it,” McGee warned, as he turned away. “I’ve just had a little experience with the infantry and it’s not such a bed of roses. See you later, Williams.”

“Well for the luva Pete!” Williams commented to himself, standing arms akimbo as he watched McGee 233cross over toward headquarters. “And they said that bird’s head was busted wide open and his brains scattered all over France. Now there he is, big as life. I’ll bet ten bucks to a lousy centime he lives to fall off a merry-go-round and break his neck. For the luva Pete!”

2

McGee’s return to the squadron would have been fittingly celebrated but for the fact that five o’clock the following morning had been designated as “zero hour” for the greatest drive ever undertaken by Americans on foreign soil. He had arrived just in time to hurl himself into the feverish preparations for the support which all air units must give the massed ground forces that would hurl themselves upon the supposedly impregnable Hindenburg Line. With the coming of dawn the combat squadrons must gain and hold air supremacy. Nothing less than complete and absolute supremacy would satisfy Great Headquarters, who in planning the drive were high in the hope that the fresh divisions of American soldiers could break through the Hindenburg Line and by hammering, hammering, hammering at the enemy force him into peace terms before the coming of winter.

McGee was tickled pink by his timely arrival, but it was not all a matter of rejoicing. For one thing, it 234seemed that almost the entire group was made up of new faces. Of those flight pilots whom he had first met when he came to the squadron as an instructor, only three remained–Yancey, Nathan Rodd and Siddons. Of course Larkin was still on top, and Cowan not only held his command, but had established quite a reputation. Yancey had earned the right to a nickname more appropriately fitting than “the flying fool,” for he was anything but a fool and his mounting victories proved that he had something more than luck.

Nathan Rodd, his nerve unshattered by his first unfortunate encounter with the enemy, was still as taciturn as ever, preferring to let his deeds speak for him.

As for Siddons, McGee could get no information out of Larkin save that everyone thought that Siddons had some pull. A good flyer, yes, Larkin admitted, but forever cutting formation, flying off where he pleased, absenting himself for two or three days, and returning with the thinnest of excuses. But he got by, somehow, and Cowan was the only one who appeared friendly toward him. For the past twenty-four hours, Larkin told McGee, Siddons had been working on a two-seater and had made two test flights. No one seemed to know what was back of it, but rather believed Siddons was to be transferred to Observation, at least during the coming battle.

235To this information McGee made no reply, but secretly hoped that Siddons was in fact being transferred to Observation, where his activities would be more easily accounted for due to the fact that he would be carrying an observer.

3

Late that afternoon rain began falling, and at mess time the mess hall became the stage for exceptionally spirited banter and wild conjecture as to what would happen on the morrow. Confidential battle orders carried the information that artillery preparation would begin at midnight, continuing with great concentration until 5:30 a.m., zero hour, when the attacking forces of nine American divisions would storm over the top in the beginning of a titanic struggle to carry the famous Hindenburg Line and sweep the Germans back through the Argonne and beyond the Meuse.

Every fighting unit had been given comprehensive plans of the objectives and of the ground over which they were to advance. The air units were especially drilled in the battle plans, for Great Headquarters would look to the Observation section and to the pursuit planes for a full measure of information as to how the battle went.

Major Cowan’s pursuit group was only one of the 236many ready to begin operations on this new front, but none could have shown more enthusiasm and eager expectancy than did this group of young men who wolfed down their evening meal and jested in a strained, light-hearted manner that betrayed the nerve tension under which they were laboring. To-morrow morning was the start of the Big Show!

All the pilots were present at this meal save Siddons, who had taken off alone, in a two-seater, a few minutes before sundown. He had let it be known that he was reporting to Observation for special duty, and no one seemed sorry to see him go.

The evening meal was scarcely finished when McGee and Larkin were forced to withdraw from the good-natured kidding match by a summons to report to Major Cowan. They obeyed, grumbling, and with heated, spirited contention that they were beyond doubt the most command-ridden lieutenants in the entire A.E.F.

“He wants to spend half the night with those maps all of us have been getting goggle-eyed over for the last two days,” Larkin complained as they approached Cowan’s hut. “He’s a map hound, if there ever was one! I think that bird knows every trench line, strong point, pill box and artillery P.C., between here and Sedan. And so do I! He’s pounded it into my head.”

“I wish I knew as much,” McGee quickly resigned 237himself. “This drive is all so sudden and unexpected, to me, that I hardly know where I am right now. I’ve an idea the Old Man is going to tell me I can’t go along.”

“Don’t worry, fellow,” Larkin told him, pausing at the Major’s door. “Every guy with two arms, two legs and two eyes will be along on this little fracas. Believe me, this is to be some show!”

As they entered they noticed that Cowan stood with his back to the door, bending over a large map spread out on the table.

“What did I tell you?” Larkin whispered to McGee. “We’re in for a session of night map flying.”

McGee did not hear him. His interest was upon a sergeant and four privates who were seated on a bench against the wall just to the right of the door. He noted that they wore side arms only, and that on their sleeves were the blue and white brassards of the Military Police. M.P., eh? Then something was up!

Cowan turned from his map. “Ah, you are here. Sergeant,” he addressed the non-com in charge of the detail, “post your detail just outside the door and wait. If anyone approaches with a–ah–prisoner, admit them.”

“Yes, sir.” The detail filed out.

Cowan saw the look of question on the faces of the two pilots.

“You are wondering why they are here, eh? Well, 238they have been sent down from Corps Headquarters to take charge of a prisoner. We hope to hold a little reception here within a short time–possibly any minute now.”

“Who is to be honored, Major?” Larkin asked.

“A rather well known gentleman,” Cowan replied, tantalizingly. “Both of you are quite well acquainted with Lieutenant Siddons, I believe?”

Larkin looked at McGee in astonishment.

“No, sir,” McGee replied to Cowan, “no one in this outfit knows that fellow very well.”

“Quite right,” Cowan agreed. “Lieutenant Larkin, I recall that you lost your old R.F.C. uniform a good while back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And in the pocket was your old identification fold, and certain other papers? An old pass to Paris, for one thing?”

“Why–yes, sir. The identification card was there, but I don’t recall what I did with that old pass.”

“It was there,” Cowan told him, “and it grieves me to inform you that the uniform, and all that the pockets contained, was stolen by Lieutenant Siddons.”

“What! Are you sure?”

“There is no doubt about it. Furthermore, he delivered them into the hands of the enemy.” 239Larkin was too dumbfounded for words, but McGee displayed little surprise.

“So you have at last found out what I knew all along, Major?” Red asked.

“Not at last,” Cowan replied, with meaning emphasis. “Your uniform, Lieutenant Larkin, will be returned to you soon–we hope.”

“Oh!” McGee jerked his head toward the door. “So that’s the reason for the M.P.’s. You are going to nab him?”

“Not exactly that.” Cowan was enjoying the curiosity provoked by the suspense he was creating. “I believe both of you have heard of a certain German ace, Count von Herzmann?”

“Have we!” Larkin replied.

McGee ran his fingers along a white scar still showing through the hair which had not yet grown out long enough to be the flaming red mop of old.

“Seems I’ve heard of him,” he said. “And I seem to recall that one of his flyers left me this little souvenir on the top of my head. I’d like to pay the Count back–in person.”

“You’ll never get the chance!” Cowan replied. “But if all our plans work out, you will meet him in person soon–in this very room!”

“What!” It was a duet of surprise.

“Yes, here. Count von Herzmann in person–and in Lieutenant Larkin’s long lost uniform.”

240Both McGee and Larkin sank weakly into two convenient chairs, the expression on their faces disclosing that they were trying to select the proper order of the first of a thousand questions.

“Well–what’s that to do with–with Siddons?” McGee at last found stammering tongue. “Where does he come in?”

“He comes in a few minutes after the Count. He will land the Count in a field near here, let him alight, and then take off again and proceed to this ’drome. The Count, left alone, will doubtless make his way into the woods bordering the field, where he will promptly be nabbed. That little drama should be taking place now. For your information, the credit for this coup goes to Lieutenant Siddons.”

McGee and Larkin stared at each other, scarce believing their ears.

“Well what do you know about that!” McGee’s half audible remark was the trite expression so commonly used by those who are staggered by a sudden revelation.

“I know all about it,” Cowan said, actually laughing–the first time either of the others had ever heard him even so much as chuckle. “I know all about it, and I’ve called you here for two reasons: I think you, McGee, are entitled to see the next to the last act in this little–ah–tragedy, I suppose it should be called; and I want Larkin to be present when his 241 uniform reappears. I might need him for purposes of identification.”

“But–”

Cowan lifted a protesting hand. &ldq............