"Lieutenant Red McGee, U.S.A., I believe. How do you like that--you little shrimp?"

"Maybe we'll be buck privates, for all you know."

"No, same rank," Larkin answered. "But believe me, I'm free to confess now that I'd rather be a buck in Uncle Sam's little old army than a bra.s.s hat in any other. Boy, shake!"

4

Sometime after midnight, at least an hour after sleep had at last overcome McGee's and Larkin's joyous excitement, a sleep-shattering motor cycle again came pop-popping to their door. The dispatch bearer hammered l.u.s.tily on the barred front door until admitted by the sleepy-eyed, white robed, grumbling Madame Beauchamp, and then clattered up the stairs, two steps at a time. He pounded heavily on the door of the sleeping pilots.

McGee fumbled around on the table at the side of the bed, found the candle stub, and as the flaring match dispelled the shadows, called, "Come in! Don't beat the door down!"

Rawlins fairly burst into the room. "Major Cowan's compliments, sir, and he directs you to report to the squadron at once."

"Good heavens! At this hour? What's up, Rawlins?"

Rawlins smiled expansively. "Orders for the front, sir. They're taking down the hangar tents now, and trucks will be here in the next hour for baggage and equipment. All the ships are to be on the line, checked and inspected an hour before dawn. The C.O. said to make it snappy. He said a truck would come after your luggage. It's a madhouse over at headquarters, sir."

Both pilots sprang from the bed.

"Do you know where my orderly sleeps, Rawlins?" McGee asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Go bounce him out and send him up here, _tout suite_! Tell Major Cowan we'll be over on the double quick. By the way, Rawlins, do you know where we're going?"

"No, sir. Secret orders, I understand. But I don't care a whoop just so long as it's to the front."

"Right you are. Toddle along, Rawlins. Buzz, light that other candle over there. I can't even find my shoe by this light."

An hour later, with all personal equipment packed and ready for the baggage truck, McGee and Larkin reported to Cowan, who was standing outside headquarters, issuing orders with the rapidity of a machine gun.

"All set, sir," McGee said, "and thanks for the note of congratulations.

In the nick of time, wasn't it? Otherwise we would have been left behind."

"I suppose so," the Major replied. "Fact is, I don't know your status now, and I don't know how to dispose of your case. I called Wing and was told that your a.s.signment hadn't come down. The personnel of this squadron is complete. Here's a pretty pickle! Guess I'd better pa.s.s the buck and send you back to Wing."

McGee's face fell. For once words failed him. He turned his eyes on Larkin, appealingly.

Larkin entered the breach manfully. "Major Cowan," he began, "when we made application to get back under our own flag, we did it hoping we'd go to the front--not to the rear. This sudden order comes because pilots are needed. The better trained they are, the better our chances for victory. I'm not boasting, sir, but McGee and I have been in action. We can be a help."

"Yes, yes. Of course. I'd like to have you in my squadron, well enough, but what about the red tape?"

"Wait until it catches up with us. Don't go looking for red tape to fetter us," Larkin replied.

"Hum-m!" Cowan mused. He knew, none better, that here before him stood two excellent pilots with a wealth of combat experience. If he sent them back, doubtless some other squadron would draw them, and that squadron commander would be the gainer, he the loser. Still, he had no authority for taking them along. An a.s.signment order would doubtless reach them within twenty-four or forty-eight hours. Still and all, he considered, much can happen in that time--especially to an untried squadron going into action. Such pilots as these were scarce, and many were the commanders who would seek them. "Well," he said at last, "just what would you do in my place?"

It was a fair question, and one seldom heard from the lips of a commanding officer. Coming from Cowan, it was doubly surprising, and effectively blocked all pleas founded on sentiment and sympathy.

Now Larkin was stumped, but McGee was ready to take up the gage.

"Major Cowan, I have been in the service long enough to know that the wise army man always gets out from under. Pa.s.s the buck. It's the grand old game. But I see a way out. If I were in your position I would direct the issue of an order sending us back. But," he added as Cowan evidenced surprise, "I'd manage to have that order mislaid in the excitement."

Cowan nervously paced back and forth. Suddenly he wheeled in decision.

"No," he said, "I won't pa.s.s the buck; I won't shift the responsibility.

Pa.s.sing the buck in training may be all very well, but a commander who does so in action is not fitted for command. We are on the eve of action. Report to Lieutenant Mullins, gentlemen, and tell him I said you were to go along. See that your ships are ready at four a.m." He turned and walked rapidly toward a group of ground men who were loading a truck.

Larkin's eyes became wide with astonishment. "Well what do you know about that! Say, that bird is going to make a real C.O."

"I think he is one now," McGee answered. "Action does that to men--sometimes."

CHAPTER VI

The Squadron Takes Wing

1

Only a war pilot can visualize the confusion and excitement incident to moving a squadron base up to the front. There is work enough for all even when such a move is foreseen and planned for days in advance, but when a moving order comes down in the dead of night--as is so frequently the case--then rank is forgotten. Pilots, Commanders, Supply and Operations officers, air mechanics, flight leaders, in fact everyone, from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball, pitches in with a gusto sufficient to produce a miracle. For it is little short of the miraculous to carry out an order, received at midnight, calling for a movement at dawn. In fact, one inexperienced in army ways would declare that it couldn't be done. But Great Headquarters considers only what must be done, issues orders accordingly, and such is the magic of discipline and proper spirit that lo! the thing _is_ done. The impossible becomes possible--and the ordinary!

And so it was with Major Cowan's squadron. The hour they had so long awaited had come at last. So great was their zeal that with the first hint of dawn in the east the planes were all on the field, properly outfitted, finally checked, and ready to go. Even the planes seemed to be huddled together, poised like vibrant b.u.t.terflies, eager to take wing.

McGee and Larkin well knew, from experience, the varied, conflicting emotions felt by the members of the squadron. Standing near the barren spot where the large hangar tent had been, they watched the various members making their last minute preparations. Occasionally they gathered in groups, all talking at once, and in hurriedly pa.s.sing one another they would slap each other on the back with a force greater than needed in friendly greeting. It was the fevered reaction of nerves! They had waited for this hour, yes, and at last they were going up to the front; but every man of them knew that some of them would never come back. There was a grim gateman up there where the guns roared, waiting to take his toll.

"They think they are going right in," Larkin said to Red, as he watched a pilot by the name of Carpenter make the last of at least a dozen inspections of his two machine guns. "We haven't the foggiest notion where we are going, but I'll wager we won't see action for several days."

"I think you are wrong there," McGee replied. "There's a tremendous push up on the Marne. My guess would be that we will go somewhere in the neighborhood of Epernay--probably to take over a sector patrolled by a French squadron so that they can be used on the more active front around Chateau-Thierry or up around Rheims. Hullo! There goes the siren and here comes the Major. We will know soon enough now."

"I'll wager you a dinner it's another soft spot--no action," Larkin said.

"Done! You are through with soft spots now."

Major Cowan's quick walk spoke volumes. The pilots shouted derisively at the sound of the siren, a distressingly noisy contrivance designed to arouse sleepy pilots and turn them out for dawn patrol.

"Fall in! Fall in!" Mullins began shouting. "You act like a bunch of sheep! Line up there!"

"Call the roll of officers," Cowan ordered.

A staff sergeant, who had kept his wits sufficiently to rescue the roll from another headquarters non-com who was packing everything in one of the trucks, came hurrying forward with the roll. The names were droned off. The "Here!" that responded to each name was a full commentary on the mental att.i.tude of the respondent. Yancey, for instance, fairly shouted his, while Rodd hesitated, seeming to search for an even smaller word. Carpenter's "here," was little more than a whisper, as might come from one who was making an admission which he wished circ.u.mstances had ordered otherwise. And the rotund little McWilliams answered in a manner that convinced McGee that Mac was really wishing he were not here.

McGee and Larkin, not yet carried on the roll, stood to one side, conscious of the fact that they were still wearing uniforms of the Royal Flying Corps. They felt like two lost sheep.

"Look at their faces," Red whispered to Larkin. "Faces tell a lot.

They're keen to go, all right, but take Carpenter and McWilliams, for instance. Scared stiff. They're expecting to meet an entire Hun Circus between here and--and wherever we are going."

The roll call ended.