Over Etrepilly an Archie battery hurled aloft a smashing, plane-staggering burst of black puff b.a.l.l.s. A jagged piece of steel tore through his left wing. Too close, that!

He dived steeply. More sh.e.l.ls burst above him. Above, but still uncomfortably close. Those gunners were real marksmen.

Suddenly he thought of what he had seen the lone Nieuport do. It might be worth trying. Acting on the impulse he rolled, straightened out, then dipped twice. One more sh.e.l.l came screaming aloft and then the batteries became abruptly silent.

Well, that was that! There could be no question now as to the movement being a prearranged signal. Archie gunners would not ordinarily leave off firing at any such stupid performance--they would chuckle while they locked the breach on another sh.e.l.l, and forthwith blow that fellow into Kingdom Come.

McGee was in high fettle as he streaked across the lines south of Belleau and laid a course for home. He had a great deal to report, and someone, flying a lone Nieuport, was going to have a great deal of explaining to do.

3

When McGee swooped low over his own hangar, preparatory to a landing, he was surprised to see Siddons' Nieuport resting on the tarmac. So he was back so soon!

Larkin was the first to greet McGee when he crawled from his plane.

"Where've you been?" he demanded.

"Oh, just up for a little test," McGee replied, a.s.suming an air of indifference.

Larkin pointed to the jagged hole through the fabric of the left wing.

"Don't kid me!" he said. "Where'd you pick up that little souvenir?"

"I'll tell you later," McGee answered and started toward the Major's headquarters.

Larkin seized his arm and spun him around. "You'll tell me one thing right now, little feller! What's so funny about hiding my uniform so I'll get bawled out again by Old Fuss Budget for wearing this misfit?"

McGee looked at him blankly.

"What do you mean?"

"Mean? I mean you got up so early a respectable milkman wouldn't think of being up, and with your brain a bit foggy you thought what a clever idea it would be to hide my English uniform and give this gang of Indians another day of pleasure. What's the big idea?"

McGee shook his head. "I never touched your uniform, Buzz. Come to think of it, though, I don't remember seeing it this morning while I was dressing. Did you see it last night?"

"See it last night!" Larkin snorted. "How could I? We couldn't find the candle and it was so blasted dark that I hung my shoes on a chair and my pants on the floor. Quit foolin', Red. Where's that uniform?"

"I don't know, I tell you. But if I were you I'd go ask Yancey that question."

Larkin's eyes snapped. "That's the bozo! That Texas longhorn is just before meeting up with a real cyclone."

"Better go easy," Red warned. "He's used to cyclones, and I've always had a sort of feeling that he could take care of himself in heavy weather."

Nothing daunted, Buzz went bowling off in search of Yancey, and McGee crossed the 'drome to Cowan's headquarters.

The excited enthusiasm with which McGee began his report to Cowan was quickly cooled by the Major's expressionless indifference. Throughout McGee's narration of the events of the morning, Cowan continued studying a sheaf of papers lying on the desk before him, now and then penciling thereon some memorandum or brief endors.e.m.e.nt. That part of the report dealing with the actions of the lone Nieuport, which seemed to have a system of signals to insure safe pa.s.sage over the lines, brought from the Major no more than a throaty, "Hum-m." It angered McGee, and brought from him a heated charge which under other conditions he would have hesitated to make.

"And the man who was piloting that plane is a member of this squadron,"

he blurted out.

Cowan casually turned a sheet of paper. "Indeed," he replied, continuing his reading. It was maddening.

"Has Siddons reported to you, sir?" McGee asked, pointedly.

"Yes." Cowan arose and looked straight at the flushed young pilot. His eyes were uncommunicative. "Lieutenant Siddons just left here with Colonel Watts, going back to Wing headquarters," he said. "I may tell you, Lieutenant, that the Colonel came down a short time after Siddons hopped off, and gave me a most uncomfortable half hour for sending him over. We will discuss it no further, and I charge you with absolute silence in the matter. You are to say nothing, to anyone, concerning this entire matter. You understand?"

"I understand that I'm to keep silent, sir--but I don't understand the rest of it."

"It isn't necessary that you do. That is all, Lieutenant."

"But what about that 'drome I located at Fere-en-Tardenois? I think it is Count von Herzmann's Cir--"

"You think wrong, McGee, but whatever you think, don't think out loud.

That is all, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir. And there are no orders for--"

"Orders will be a little more secret--in the future." Cowan's voice was crisp, and carried a note of dismissal.

"Yes, sir." McGee saluted stiffly, turned on his heel and walked from the room, steaming with anger. Outside the door he picked up a small stone from the newly graveled walk and hurled it singing through the top of a nearby poplar. He simply had to throw something.

"You poor prune!" he addressed himself. "You never did have enough sense to know when you were well off."

CHAPTER IX

Lady Luck Deserts

1

There followed three days of maddening inactivity, during which time the squadron fretted and became as edgy as so many caged tigers. McGee made use of the time by securing a trim fitting uniform, the very sight of which threw Larkin into new outbursts of rage concerning the disappearance of his English uniform. A joke was a joke, when not carried too far, he argued, and admitted that he was exceedingly weary with the comments made concerning the fit of the issue uniform that he was compelled to wear. Every man professed innocence, but Larkin did not believe a word of their stout denials. The manner in which he took the joke was evidence of the irritability caused by the days of inaction.

Every member of the squadron was looking for something over which they could quarrel.

Then one night, about nine o'clock, orders came down for a dawn patrol of two flights of five ships each.

Cowan summoned McGee and Larkin to his headquarters and gave them leadership of the flights. McGee protested, pointing out that he did not want to gain the honor at Yancey's expense, and particularly since he considered Yancey worthy of the command. But Cowan was sure of the wisdom of the move, and made his own selection of the men who were to go on this first patrol.

The posting of those names on the bulletin board brought shouts of delight from the lucky ones and growls of disgust from those who were not selected.

Even Nathan Rodd, still wearing bandages on his head and right hand, broke his silence and wolfed loudly over the fact that he had been left out.

"Aw, dry up!" some other unfortunate pilot growled at him. "You're still seein' stars from that last crack you got on the head. What do you want--all the luck?"

It was an expression peculiarly fitting to the situation. Some of the names on that bulletin board might next appear in the casualty reports, yet every man wanted his name on the board, firm in the belief that death would somehow pa.s.s him by.