"_Ach! Himmel!_"

"_Das ist ziemlich gescheit!_"

Count von Herzmann shrugged his shoulders at the exclamatory surprise and compliment. "Clever? No. Merely an old custom borrowed from old wars. Operative Number Eighty-one will be held at the headquarters at Montfaucon--pending my return. If I do not return in five days, then he too will hold the stage a brief minute before a firing wall. Then, perhaps we will meet beyond the Great Line--where there are no wars or rumors of wars. Is there anything else you have to take up with me now, _Herr Hauptmann?_"

"Ach, yes! If you are successful, and return within your scheduled time, how will this operative, held at Montfaucon, make a satisfactory explanation to the Americans regarding his long absence?"

Count von Herzmann snapped his fingers. "Poof! That is secondary, and a problem which I leave to the superior mind of _Herr Hauptmann_--and the High Command."

CHAPTER XII

Wheels Within Wheels

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.

"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 cross 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 ma.s.sed 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 seemed 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.

To 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 t.i.tanic 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 many 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 himself. "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 bra.s.sards 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, they 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.