"Let's see it," Hampden urged.

McGee handed him the report. Hampden read it, whistled softly and pa.s.sed 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, "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 ma.s.s 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!"

McGee 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?"

"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. Cowan 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."

CHAPTER V

Orders for the Front

1

McGee's victory had a most salutary effect upon the personnel of the squadron. They lost sight of the fact that he had been highly favored by luck in the encounter and that but for luck, coupled with skill, the balance might well have been in the enemy's favor. They began to look upon victory as a luscious fruit that would always be served to their table--defeats were the bitterberries that the enemy must eat.

This att.i.tude was greatly strengthened by another fortunate victory of a squadron stationed at Toul. This squadron, while it boasted some splendid flyers, was quite green and had much to learn. But, despite this, they too had been victors in their first encounter with the enemy, and in a manner quite as dramatic as had been McGee's victory. And it was more widely heralded because the victor was wearing an American uniform and the victory could be properly called the first score for the Americans. It came about in this fashion:

A Spring day dawned, cold and foggy, and three members of the squadron at Toul had gone on patrol. Their ardor was soon dampened by the chill fog and they returned to their base. Shortly after their return the alert was sounded and the report came that German planes were coming over, concealed by the ceiling of fog. In a few moments their motors could be heard above the town. That minute two Americans left the ground, climbing rapidly toward the ceiling of fog. Just as they neared it, two German planes came nosing down. They were barely clear of the blinding fog cloud when they were attacked by the American pilots. So swift was the attack, and so accurate the fire, that both German planes were forced down and the two American pilots were back on the ground in less than five minutes from the time of their take-off.

Luck? Yes, Luck and Skill--the two things that must walk hand in hand with every war pilot. But there was no one to be found in all of Toul who even hinted of luck. Had not the fight taken place in full view of the townspeople? Had they not witnessed the daring and skill of these Americans? Luck? Ask the citizens of Toul. Ah, _mais non, Messieurs!_ they would tell you. The German planes dived--so. Whoosh!

Out of the cloud they came. And there were those precious Americans, waiting for them--and in just the right place. Is not that skill, Monsieur? Then, _taka-taka-taka-taka_ went their guns. Only a minute so. _Voila!_ The Boche are both out of control. Ah, that is not luck, Monsieur.

All along the front American squadrons accepted the verdict as evidence of superior flying ability, but McGee and Larkin, with the knowledge bought by bitter experience, knew that perhaps in the very next encounter the balance would be in favor of the other fellow. They knew, too, that over-confidence is an ally singing a siren song. They worked hard to dispel this over-confidence that had laid hold of the group, but their words of warning fell on deaf ears.

This spirit of eager confidence was not peculiar to the air groups near the front; it was a part of the entire American Expeditionary Force.

Where was this bloomin' war that seemed so difficult to win? asked the American doughboy. Bring it on! Trot it out! Let's get it over and get out of this _Parlez vous_ land. Just give them a crack at Fritz!

Say! In no time at all they'd have Old Bill himself trussed up in chains and carried back to the little old U.S.A., and exhibited around the country at two-bits a peek. Guess that wouldn't be a nifty way to help pay for the war! And as for the Crown Prince--well, over a hundred thousand American doughboys had promised to bring his ears back to a hundred thousand sweet-hearts--just a little souvenir to show what an American could do when he got going.

2

This same boastful confidence was present among the pilots with whom McGee and Larkin were daily a.s.sociated, but fortunately it was somewhat counterbalanced by the long-delayed orders sending the squadron to the front. April slipped away and May came. Still no orders. It was maddening! Yancey, Fouche, Hampden, Hank Porter, Rodd--in fact all members of the command, save Siddons, fretted and fumed and voiced their opinions of a stupid G.H.Q., that failed to appreciate just what a whale of a squadron this was.

Siddons accepted the delay in the same cool, indifferent manner with which he met all the vexations of the army. It was as water on a duck's back; he seemed not to care a hoot whether he ever engaged an enemy.

Then in May, with alarming suddenness and force, the German Crown Prince began his great drive at Paris. His ears, it seemed, were yet intact, and those Americans who had so earnestly hoped to get them were soon to discover that the possessor thereof was all too safely ensconced behind an advancing horde of German infantrymen who were driving forward in a relentless, unhalting advance that struck terror to the very heart of war-weary France. In three days the enemy forces swept from the Aisne southward across the Vesle and the Ourcq. Their most advanced position came to rest on the Marne.

For the second time the German army was on the banks of the Marne.

"Papa" Joffre had hurled them back from this river in the first year of the war; now Marshal Foch must do as well--or France was doomed.