Read Ebook: Aces Up by Clarke Covington

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Ebook has 1254 lines and 60682 words, and 26 pages

Major Cowan was not one who could permit others to roll the sweets of flattery under their tongues. He must qualify it with a touch of vinegar.

"Lieutenant McGee is modest concerning his duties," he said. "In fact, you will find all English officers becomingly modest."

"But I am not English!" McGee corrected. "I am an American--born in America, and that's why I have been so happy about this assignment."

Several members of the squadron began edging nearer. Perhaps things were not going to be so dreadful after all.

"Indeed?" Major Cowan lifted his eyebrows in surprise. The points of his nicely trimmed moustache twitched nervously as he began to wonder just how he should treat an American who happened to be wearing the uniform and insignia of a lieutenant in the R.F.C.

"My parents were English," McGee decided to explain, "but I was born in the States. When the war broke out, my brother, who was older by a few years, came over and joined the balloon corps. I was too young to enlist, but my parents were both dead and I came along with my brother, remaining in London until--" he hesitated and cleared his voice of a sudden huskiness, "until word came that my brother had been killed. His balloon was shot down while he was up spotting artillery fire. Naturally, I began to try to get in. I had to put over a fast one on the examining board, but I made it. And here I am at last, with my own countrymen. Top hole, isn't it?" His smile was so genuine and compelling that none could doubt the sincerity of his pleasure. All barriers of restraint were broken down. This chap actually courted conversation.

"Why don't you get repatriated, Lieutenant?" Yancey asked.

"The tactless fool!" Hampden thought, but dared not say. Of course the Texas clown would rush in where angels feared to tread. Didn't the fathead have any conception of pride of uniform and pride in a nation's accomplishments? Hampden felt that he would like to hit Yancey with one of the water carafes.

"What's that? Repatriated?" McGee repeated. "How can that be done?"

"Haven't you seen the General Order providing for it?" Tex continued, despite Major Cowan's silencing frown.

"I'm afraid not," McGee replied. "I've been pretty busy--and I don't get a great thrill out of G.O's. Tell me about it."

"Well--" Yancey began slowly, enjoying to the fullest the opportunity to provide information uninterrupted, "as you know, a lot of Americans joined the English and French air forces before we came in. Some of 'em, just like you, maybe, had a sort of score to settle. But I reckon most of 'em went in because it offered something unusual and a lot of thrills. Huh! You tell 'em! Then when Uncle Sam got warm under the saddle and came hornin' in, a lot of the boys who'd come over and joined up began castin' homesick glances back in a westerly direction. Natural-like, Uncle Samuel is willin' to welcome home all his prodigal sons, if he can get 'em back, and he's specially forgivin' considerin' that his army at the beginnin' of hostilities is just about one day's bait on a real war-like front. As for flyers, he hasn't got enough of 'em, trained, to do observation work for an energetic battery of heavies. So he makes medicine talk with Johnny Bull and with France, and for once he comes out with all the buttons on his trousers. They agree to release all the Americans servin' under their colors who express a desire to get into O.D. under the Stars and Stripes. 'Repatriation' was the flossy name they gave it, but I call it homesickness. A lot of the wayward sons jumped at it quick, and we're 'way ahead on the game, any way you look at it. Now take some of those boys in the Lafayette Escadrille. Why, if they--"

Yancey's voice droned on, but McGee no longer heard what he was saying, though to all appearances he was paying courteous attention. But as a matter of fact his eyes were resting upon Lieutenant Siddons, and he was cudgelling his brain in an effort to remember where he had seen him before. The blond, curly hair; the rather square face and brow; the thin lips, the calm, cold grey eyes; and the air of self-satisfied assurance, all were part of a memory which was vivid enough but which refused to come out of the back of the mind and associate itself with identifying surroundings. Where had he seen that face? New York? No, not there. He knew very few people in New York. Well, after all, perhaps it was only a strong resemblance. But resembling whom? Surely no one of his acquaintances looked like Siddons, at least none that he could remember.

McGee's gaze must have been a little too steady, at least enough to prove discomfiting, for Siddons half turned away and began speaking in whispers to Hampden. He talked out of the corner of his mouth, as one who is ashamed of the words he utters, and McGee felt the stirrings of a faint dislike for him.

Yancey reached the end of his monologue. The moment of silence that followed brought McGee sharply back to the present. He smiled graciously at the Texan.

"That's quite interesting," he said. "Strange I missed that order, and stranger still that no one mentioned it to me. But we've been pretty busy up in the Ypres salient--too busy to think much about what flag we were fighting under. I've enjoyed being with the English, but of course 'there's no place like home'. I'm very happy to be assigned here, and I am glad Major Cowan gave me this chance to meet you. The Major tells me that you are to get several new Spads in the next two or three days. Until that time, I won't disturb you. I'm driving back into town. Anyone want a lift?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Hampden spoke up, "Siddons and I are going in. Have you room?"

"Certainly. Glad to have you along. Major Cowan, how about you?"

"Sorry," the Major replied, dourly, "but I have to pay the price of command by poring over a lot of detail work which would be spared me if I had a more efficient staff."

Mullins, the peppery little Operations Officer, felt the full force of the sting but he passed it off by winking wisely at Yancey. Why worry? Cowan was always looking for work and for trouble. He was never so happy as when bawling someone out.

McGee felt sorry for Mullins and sorrier still for Cowan. One with half an eye could see that Cowan was about as popular with his command as would be a case of smallpox. McGee had been trained in an atmosphere where discipline was a matter of example rather than a matter of fear, and as a result had always known a sort of good-fellowship which he felt instinctively would be impossible with such a commander as Cowan.

"I'm sorry you can't come with us, Major," McGee said in a voice that carried no conviction. "However, I must toddle along." He turned to Siddons and Hampden. "Ready? Right-O!"

During the short motor trip into Is Sur Tille, McGee's curiosity finally got the better of his natural dislike for admitting that his memory had failed him. "I think I have met you somewhere before, Lieutenant," he said to Siddons.

"Yes? I do not remember it," Siddons replied, with the air of one who is making no great draft upon his own memory. He himself evidently sensed the lack of courtesy, for he added, "New York, perhaps. Have you been around New York much?"

"No, I haven't. Somewhere else--"

Lieutenant Hampden's mellow laugh interrupted.

"Siddons has the idea that one never meets anyone outside of New York," he said. "He's terribly provincial, Lieutenant. He thinks there are only two places in the world--New York and everywhere else."

Siddons displayed no resentment at the taunt; he seemed quite well satisfied with the opinion expressed. In fact, he appeared quite satisfied with everything--especially with himself.

McGee wondered how a likeable chap, such as Hampden, could choose as companion one so utterly different in manner, in ideas, and in speech. But then, war brings together strange bedfellows and establishes new standards. McGee dismissed the matter from his mind as the car swung into the narrow streets of the darkened town.

"Where can I drop you?" he asked.

"Going by the caf? down on the main drag?" Hampden asked.

"Right."

"That will be fine. I hope to see you again soon, Lieutenant."

"Thanks. The Spads are due to arrive on Monday. That's three days. See you then. Well, here we are," as the car swung in to the curb in front of the caf?. The shutters were closed, no light came from any of the stores or houses along the street, but from behind the closed door of the caf? came the sound of voices and laughter mixed with the metallic banging of a very old piano beating out tuneless accompaniment to a bull-voiced singer roaring through the many verses of "Hinkey Dinkey Parlez Vous".

McGee smiled as he sat for a moment listening to the words. All his service had been with the English, who of course had composed many songs highly complimentary to themselves, and only in the last few days had he come in contact with the forerunners of the mighty American army now pouring into French harbors from every arriving boat.

"Quite a fellow--this Yank Marine," he said to Siddons.

Siddons nodded, rather stiffly. "So it seems. Though he hasn't been over the top yet. Prophecy, I suppose." He stepped from the car to the curb with the bearing of one accustomed to being delivered in a chauffeur-driven car.

McGee was on the point of calling out, "When shall I call, sir?" but at that moment noticed young Hampden's genuine smile and heard him voicing words of appreciation for the lift.

"Don't mention it," McGee said. "It was a pleasure. Cheerio! old man!"

"There," he thought, sinking back in the tonneau. "I said 'old man'. Singular case, and that lets Siddons out rather neatly. Hum. I'll bet a cookie he knows more about flying than I do--or anyone else, for that matter. Well, we'll see. I wonder what sort of outfit Buzz drew."

Lieutenant "Buzz" Larkin was closer to McGee than any person in the world. Close bonds of friendship had been formed while they were in training in Cadet Brigade Headquarters, at Hastings, England. During their months of service together in the Royal Air Force, on exceedingly hot fronts, those bonds of friendship had become bands of steel, holding them together almost as firmly as blood ties. Both were Americans, but the motives back of their entrance into the R.F.C. were as widely divergent as possible. Larkin, the son of a wealthy manufacturer, had never disclosed the real reason for his entrance into a foreign service. Perhaps he sought adventure. McGee, however, made no secret of the motives back of his entrance. When word reached him that his brother had been killed while doing observation work in a captive balloon, young McGee, not yet eighteen, employed a trick to gain entrance to the Air Force. He felt that he must carry on an unfinished work, and few will find fault with him if his actions were motivated by a slight spirit of revenge. After all, blood is thicker than water.

Whatever the motives of the two youths, once in the uniform of cadet flyers, the spirit of service seized them. Side by side, encouraging, entreating, helping and driving one another they plugged through their training with their eyes fixed upon the coveted reward of every air service cadet--a pair of silvered wings!

Together they had won their wings; together they had gone to the front; together they had gone out on patrol, high above the lines, and met the enemy. Thereafter, the fortune of one was the fortune of both. Each had saved the other's life, the culminating tie in their friendship, if indeed their friendship needed any further tie.

Both had become aces, though in combat work McGee was easily the superior. This, however, he constantly denied and was forever admiring Larkin's work. Larkin, if inferior to McGee in a dog fight, was better disciplined. He could go up in formation, keep his eye on his flight commander, obey orders, and keep his head when he saw an enemy plane. McGee, on the contrary, went as wild as a berserker the moment he laid eyes on a plane bearing the black cross. Orders were forgotten and he dived, throttle wide open, stick far forward, every thought gone from his mind but the one compelling urge to get that other plane on the inside of his ring sight. McGee had his personal faults, but he was a faultless flyer. The same may be said of Larkin, for men in aerial combat never make but one vital mistake. Those who become aces have no great faults; those with great faults become mere tallies for the aces. Now and then, of course, the grim scorer nods during the game and a fault goes unpenalized, but as a rule it can be said that a man who can become an ace may well be called a faultless flyer, for an ace is one who has rolled up a score of five victories against those whose skill was less than his own. Of course, there is the element of luck to be considered, for luck and skill must go hand in hand when youths go jousting in the clouds. But luck can only attend the skillful. With skill wanting, luck soon deserts.

Beyond doubt both McGee and Larkin had enjoyed a full measure of luck, and were still enjoying it. For example, wasn't it luck that had sent them both down here on the French front to act as instructors to newly arriving American squadrons? Wasn't it luck that they were still billeted together in the lovely old chateau at the edge of town, and could look forward to many, many more days together?

These latter thoughts were running through McGee's mind as his car swung under the trees lining the drive that led up to the chateau. Why, but for luck both of them might now be pushing up the daisies instead of being happily, and comparatively safely ensconced in such comfortable quarters. No more dawn patrols--for a while at least; no more soggy breakfasts--with comrades missing who banteringly breakfasted with you twenty-four short hours ago.

McGee's thoughts took unconscious vocal form as he stepped from the car. "Lucky? I'll say we are!"

"What did you say, sir?" asked the driver.

The question snapped McGee back to earth.

"I was complimenting myself upon some very narrow escapes, Martins, but I'll repeat--for your benefit. You are a very lucky boy."

Martins blinked. He held opposite views. "You think so, sir? I've gotta different idea. I wanted to be a pilot, like you, sir, and here I am toolin' this old bus around France with never a chance to get off the ground unless I run off an embankment. And this old wreck is no bird."

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