Aces Up Part 11

But Foch was handicapped. He had an army bled white by four years of dreadful warfare. The French soldiers, no less valiant than when the war began, found themselves too weak in numbers to stem the tide of an advance conducted by an ambition crazed Crown Prince determined to reach Paris regardless of the cost to him in human sacrifice.

Sullenly the French fell back, fighting like demons, contesting every inch of the way, but none the less retreating. In this hour of peril France turned her eyes upon the newly arrived and partially trained Americans, and in those eyes, now almost hopeless, was a look of mute, desperate appeal. It must be now or never!

All the roads leading back from the front were choked with refugees too weary, too heartbroken, too barren of hope to do anything but hurry their children before them and strain at their hand drawn, heavy carts piled high with the household belongings which they hoped to save. Old men, old women, the lame, the halt, the blind; dogs, cats, goats, with here and there a dogcart, all struggling to the rear. Many came empty-handed, facing they knew not what, and looking with pity upon the French troops who were moving forward to battle the enemy unto death.

"Ah," said the refugees, shrugging their shoulders, "_finis la guerre!_ These poor Poilus of ours, they cannot stop the Boche. They are too tired, too worn with war. If only we had new blood. If only the Americans would come now. But no, perhaps it is now too late."

Behind them, all too close, rumbled and roared the angry guns--guns of the enemy furrowing fields and leveling houses and villages; guns of the French in savage defiance protesting every inch of advance and holding on with a rapidly failing strength. Help must come now, quickly.

And help came. Two American divisions, ready for action, were summoned by Foch to move forward with all possible speed. The 2nd Division came hurrying from their rest billets near Chaumont-en-Vexin, northwest of Paris; the 3rd Division came thundering by train and camion from Chateau-Villain, southeast of Paris. Two converging lines of fresh, eager warriors came marching, marching, the light of battle in their eyes and with rollicking, boisterous songs on their lips. At quick rout step they came. This was no parade; this was a new giant coming up to test its strength. And all up and down the brown columns the giant was singing as it came....

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, _Parlez vous_, Mademoiselle from Armentieres, _Parlez vous_, Mademoiselle from Armentieres Hasn't been kissed for forty years, Hinkey d.i.n.key _Parlez vous_!"

Slush, slog! Slush, slog! went the heavy hobnailed shoes slithering through the mud and water of the roads. Mile after mile, hour after hour. At the end of each weary hour a short rest, an easing of the shoulders from the cutting pack straps. Ten minutes only did they rest.

Then down the long columns rang the sharp commands, "Fall in. Fall in!

... Com-pan-ee ... Atten-shun! Forward, March!" A few minutes in cadenced marching and then the command, "Rout step--March!" Again the confident, boisterous giant took up its song:

"Good-bye Ma, good-bye Pa, Good-bye mule with your old he-haw.

I may not know what the war's about But I bet by Gosh I soon find out!

O, my sweetheart, don't you fear, I'll bring you a king for a souvenir.

I'll bring you a Turk, and the Kaiser too, And that's about all one feller can do."

Marching, singing, jesting, they pressed on until their advance guard met the plodding, cheerless, downcast refugees. The French peasants halted in their tracks, staring, unable to believe their eyes. Here, in the flesh, by thousands upon thousands, was the answer to their prayers.

Perhaps it was not too late, after all. Here was new strength, new courage.

Old men danced with joy, embracing their wives and children, embracing one another, and tears of joy coursed down their wan, lined faces.

"_Les Americains!_" they shouted. "_Vive l' Amerique! Nous sauveurs sont arrivee!_" (The Americans! Long live America! Our saviors have arrived.)

The cry spread; it ran up and down the roads and bypaths; it became a magic sentence restoring courage throughout all France.

As for the resolute Americans, they merely plodded on, questioning one another as to what all the shouting was about. Oh, so that was it? Sure they were here, but why get excited about it? ... The Boche is breaking through, eh? As you were, Papa, and keep your s.h.i.+rt on! And as for that old lady over there by that cart, crying so softly--say! somebody who can parley this language go over there and tell that old lady not to cry any more. Tell her we'll fix it up, toot sweet. O-o-o! La, la! Pipe the pretty mademoiselle over there driving that dogcart. Ain't she the pippin though! Say--

"Fall in! Fall in!... Com-pan-ee, At-ten-shun! Forward, March!"

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, _Parlez vous_.

Mademoiselle from Armentieres..."

A new giant was going in, a giant that did not yet know its own strength, a somewhat clownish giant, singing as it came.

3

Those three days of the Crown Prince's drive on the Marne were dark days for France. The French people listened eagerly for word from the front--and prayed as they had never prayed before, while every American unit, wherever billeted in France, waited impatiently for orders that would send them in for their first baptism of fire.

McGee and Larkin, though supposed to be instructors and therefore unmoved by the battle l.u.s.t that had laid heavy hands on every pilot in France, found themselves itching for action. They could smell battle afar off; they knew the need of air supremacy at such a time. On the flying field, and at squadron headquarters, they tried to cheer up the depressed and sullen pilots who were chafing under the restraint of inaction. But alone, in the home of Madame Beauchamp, they freely expressed their feelings.

"I can't see why this squadron is not ordered up," McGee said to Larkin one night as they sat alone in their room. "They are better trained than we were when we hopped across the channel. Remember that day, Buzz?"

"Yes indeed! That was our big day; it's exactly the same big day these chaps are waiting for. There must be a great need of planes. I understand the German Army has crashed through to the Marne. If they pa.s.s there--" he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

They sat for a moment in silence, thinking the same gloomy thoughts that were so staggering to all the people of the allied nations.

"What if the squadron should be sent up?" Larkin asked at last. "Just where would we get off?"

McGee shook his head. "Don't know, I'm sure. It's strange how we've received no word on our applications for repatriation. I guess we are stuck for the rest of the war. Instructors! Bah! I'm developing an itch for action."

"So am I," Larkin agreed. "When we were first sent back from the front, I'll admit I was glad enough to come. I was fed up. But I'm fed up here now. And what can _we_ do about it?"

"Well, for one thing I can go to bed," McGee replied yawning. "To-morrow is another day." He began unwinding one of his wrapped puttees. "Ever notice how much longer these blasted things are when you are sleepy?" he asked.

Just as he had finished with one, and had rolled it into a neat ball, a motor cycle came popping into the yard. Buzz looked at Red inquiringly.

"Wonder what that is?" he asked.

The downstairs front door opened; heavy hobnail shoes sounded on the stairs.

"Dunno," McGee answered, looking at the puttee roll in his hand. "But I'll wager it's something that will force me to put this thing on again.

I never got an order from headquarters in my life when I hadn't just finished taking off my putts."

A heavy knock on the door.

"Come in."

An orderly entered, saluted smartly, and handed McGee a folded paper. "A note from Major Cowan, sir. He said there would be no answer."

"Very well. Thank you, Rawlins. For a moment I thought it might be orders for the front."

"No chance, sir. We're the goats of the air service. The war will be over before we get a chance. I say they'd as well kept us at home where we could get real food and sleep in real beds instead of these blasted hay mows us enlisted men sleep in."

"Right you are, Rawlins. I'll speak to the Commanding General about it to-morrow. In the meantime, carry on, Rawlins."

"Yes, sir." A smart salute, a stiff about face, and he was gone. They could hear him grumbling as he went down the stairs.

McGee looked at the folded paper. On it, in Cowan's hand, was written; To Lieutenants McGee and Larkin.

"What is it?" Larkin asked, impatiently.

McGee unfolded the sheet. Scrawled across it were these electrifying words:

"Just finished talking over the phone to Wing. They inform me that orders have been received approving your application for repatriation.

The order will come down in the morning. Congratulations. Cowan."

Red slapped Larkin on the back with sufficient force to start him coughing and then began tousling his hair.

"There, you old killjoy!" he was shouting. "Now stop your worrying. What do you think of that?"

Larkin began a clownish Highland fling that eloquently spoke his thoughts. At last he came to rest, snapped his heels together, saluted smartly and said: