And I want to get into the uniform he is wearing. Understand, Buzz? Oh, I'm proud enough of the one I'm wearing, but when he started the national anthem, and they all came in on that chorus, 'Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,'--well, I felt cold shivers running up and down my backbone. None of the other songs did that to me. Do you get me, Buzz?"

"Sure. I felt it, too." He put both his hands on Red's shoulders, holding him off at arm's length. "You want back under the old Stars and Stripes, don't you? ... you little shrimp!"

"Yes," slowly, "and--yet--"

"I know how you feel. I'm with you, fellow, when you get ready to make the change."

McGee's eyes lighted with surprise and joy. "Really, Buzz?"

"Surest thing you know!"

"And you don't think we'd feel like--like--"

"We'd feel like two Americans, _going home_. Shake, little feller!

There, I feel better already. Come on, let's go in; that's the curtain bell."

CHAPTER III

Night Raiders

1

On the following Tuesday morning a group of two Spads and several Nieuports were delivered to Major Cowan's pursuit squadron at Is Sur Tille. A Lieutenant Smoot, one of the ferry pilots who had flown up one of the Nieuports, sought to ease the pain caused by his own lowly calling by taunting Tex Yancey--an extremely dangerous pastime, for Tex had a ready tongue.

"When you buckoes have washed out these planes," he said, "the Old Man will see the error of his way and send us up to do the real flying.

What's left of this gang will then be put to ferrying. Did any of you ever see a Spad or Nieuport before?"

Yancey, standing well over six feet, looked down on him pityingly. "Did you say your name was Smoot, or Snoot? Smoot, eh. Well, transportation _to the rear_ is waitin' for you at headquarters. Don't let me keep you waitin'. I'm surprised you're not pushin' a wheelbarrow in a labor battalion, the way you set that Nieuport down a few minutes ago. Clear out, soldier! This squadron is gettin' ready to do some plain and fancy flyin'. I don't want you to have heart trouble."

"Humph! You'll have heart trouble the first time you try to land one of those Spads. You'll think you have been trained on a peanut roaster.

Who's the Britisher over there snooping around with Cowan?"

"Name's McGee. But he's not a Limey; he's an American. I'm told he won a coupla medals in the R.F.C., and has sixteen Huns to his credit. He must be good--though he doesn't wear the medals to prove it. Not a bit of sw.a.n.k."

"What's he doing here?"

"He's an instructor," Yancey replied without hesitation.

"Oh Ho! So you still need instruction? I heard that Cowan knows it all."

"Naw, he only knows half, and you know the other half. Too bad both sets of brains wasn't put in one head. In that case somebody would have been almost half-witted. Better toddle along, soldier. The animals are goin'

on a rampage in a minute."

"Yeah? Well, turn 'em loose. I'm something of a big game hunter myself.

What sort of a flyer is this instructor?"

"Dunno. We'll see in a minute, maybe. He's crawling in that Spad. Yep, they're turnin' her around. Don't go now. You can learn a lot here."

During the next ten minutes the entire squadron, and the ferry pilots, were given an excellent opportunity to form their own conclusions about McGee's ability to fly. He took the Spad aloft, in test, and plunged through a series of acrobatics that served to convince all watchers that here was a man whose real element was the air. Ship and man were one.

The group on the ground watched, open-mouthed, despite the fact that they themselves were flyers of no mean ability. But they had never flown such ships as the Spads, and the prospect and possibilities made their hearts race with feverish eagerness to take off in one of these trim little hawks.

Yancey and Smoot had now joined the watching group around Major Cowan, and as McGee rolled at the top of a loop, Yancey turned to the doubting ferry pilot.

"Yes, I think he can fly. What do you think, brother? When you can do stick work like that, you'll be sent up here to join us."

Major Cowan was equally envious, but he was not one to betray it. "A very bad example," he commented, testily. "An excellent pilot, doubtless, but reckless. His take-off, for instance. He zoomed too long.

I want to warn you against such a mistake."

The ferry pilot, Smoot, decided to take a chance. "The example seems good enough, and if that fellow's flying is a mistake, I'm sure Brigade would like to see a lot more mistakes like him."

"The commander of this squadron will answer to Brigade for the conduct of this group, Lieutenant Smoot," Major Cowan retorted with such acidity that the poor ferryman decided it was time to join his own group and head for the base. But before taking his departure he relieved his mind in the presence of Yancey, Siddons and Hampden, who had drawn away from Cowan through a desire to watch the flying rather than listen to his lectures on the art of flying.

"If you had a flyer like that one up there for a C.O.," Smoot said to them, "you'd get somewhere in this little old war. But as it is, you have my sympathy. Well, toodle-oo, _mes enfants_. Be careful with those Spads. They were built for flyers."

"You be careful that you don't fall out of that motor cycle side car on the way back," Yancey retorted. "They look like baby carriages, but they're not."

As Smoot walked away, stung by this last retort, Yancey turned to Hampden and Siddons. "How'd you like to have a flyer like that in this outfit?" he asked.

"He's all right," Hampden replied. "A lot of the ferry pilots are crack flyers--just a tough break in the game. It might have happened to you."

"I wasn't talkin' about _him_" Yancey replied and pointed to McGee's plane, now banking in to a landing at the far end of the field.

"I meant that bird down there."

"Oh, McGee?"

"Yes."

Hampden laughed, skeptically. "Fine chance to get a flyer like that!"

"Oh, I dunno. Some American outfit will draw him. He and that other fellow, Larkin, have asked to be repatriated."

"How do you know?"

"I was with 'em in town last night and they told me all about it. They flew up to Paris day before yesterday, and on the way back they landed at Chaumont and made a call on G.H.Q. They put their case before the Chief of Staff and asked him to use his influence. They've made out formal application. Both of them are tickled pink over the prospect.

McGee said he would like to get with this squadron."

"Bully for him!" Hampden enthused. "Maybe we don't look so bad, if fellows like that are willing to throw in with us, eh, Tex?"

Siddons was coldly skeptical. "You have the weirdest imagination. Why should he want to be with us?"

"Dunno. Ask him."

"I shall," Siddons answered as he moved over toward the point where he estimated McGee's taxiing plane would come to a stop.