Aces Up Part 22

This state of affairs could not last long, McGee knew. It was only a question of time until German planes would come up and accept the gage of battle. It was a situation, therefore, calling for the greatest effort possible in the shortest length of time.

Every movement below offered positive proof that the enemy were concentrating in the direction of Chateau-Thierry, and if they were in fact making a thrust to the eastward it was only to draw attention from the real objective.

For once McGee decided to disregard the Major's orders and, instead of proceeding to Dormans, swing back and do all he could at the bridgeheads at Chateau-Thierry.

He swung around, and as he banked caught sight of seven or eight German planes coming up from the northwest. He looked aloft. The Spads had seen them, too, and were closing in.

McGee began climbing, and noted with satisfaction that Larkin, on the alert, was waggling his wings as a signal that he too had seen them and was prepared.

Then, for apparently no reason at all, Siddons cut out of the flight and started streaking it for the lines.

For a brief moment McGee felt a burning desire to take after him and turn his guns loose on him.

"Traitorous hound!" he muttered to himself. "I wondered how you could follow when we were strafing those troops. I'll bet anything he never warmed his guns. Of course he wouldn't!"

But just now there was business at hand more urgent than chasing after a man whom he felt sure was both a traitor and a coward.

Above him the Spads were engaged in a merry dog fight with the German Albatrosses. But two of the Germans had somehow eluded them and were diving down on Larkin's flight.

The action of the next moment was too swift for words. The two Albatrosses came bravely on, scorning the odds against them. Larkin's plane engaged the first one, but the second one got in a lucky burst that sent one of the Nieuports nosing down in a disabled effort to make a safe landing. And perhaps the luckless pilot could have saved his life to spend the rest of the war in a German prison camp but for the fact that the German who had crippled him, tasting blood, wanted a more complete victory. Down, down, he followed the plane, spitting lead at the poor pilot who seemed unable to think of anything except getting to the earth.

As the planes came down to a level with McGee's flight, Red whipped around and closed in on the pursuer. Too late! Flame came curling, licking from the motor of the Nieuport. That second, for the first time, McGee recognized it as Randolph Hampden's s.h.i.+p. Poor Hampden! The only man in the squadron who ever had a good word for Siddons, and now he was going down in flames while Siddons, supposedly his friend, was high-tailing it for home.

With bitterest venom McGee thumbed his trigger releases as he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Albatross in the ring sight. But that German was not only courageous--he was a consummate flyer. He whipped around with surprising speed and came streaming at McGee with both guns going. Head on he came, and there was something about the desperation of the move that told McGee that the battle-crazed fellow would actually ram him in mid-air.

McGee dived. So close was the other upon him that he imagined he could feel the wheels of the undercarriage on his own wings.

He Immelmanned, only to discover that by some brilliantly rapid manoeuver the German had rolled into position and was rattling bullets into the Camel's motor. Crack! One of the bullets struck a vital part and the motor started limping. McGee's heart came into his mouth. He was disabled and--

That moment Hank Porter and Fouche closed in on the German and Larkin came diving down from above. Three against one! McGee, despite his own predicament, felt like saluting the fellow's dare-devil courage. Larkin could take care of him alone, even should Porter and Fouche fail.

Certain of the outcome of the now unequal struggle, McGee turned the nose of his pounding plane in the direction of the lines near Mezy, and prayed fervently that the failing motor would not conk completely before he reached and crossed the river. He had no desire whatsoever to spend the remainder of the war in a German prison. Even that, however, was preferable to being sent down in flames, and he kept a sharp lookout for any attack that might come from some keen-eyed German looking for "cold meat."

Presently he noticed a shadow sweep across his plane. He glanced up fearfully, and then smiled with delight. It was Larkin, following along to give battle to any or all who might pounce upon his friend. McGee felt a new surge of hope. Why had he even thought he would have to make the trial alone? Larkin, who never deserted, who never failed in a pinch, had disposed of that German in great haste and was ready for whatever the next few minutes might bring.

For McGee those next minutes were filled with a thousand misgivings. The s.h.i.+p was losing alt.i.tude rapidly, and the motor was pounding furiously, but if it would only hold up he could make it.

When he flashed across the river at Mezy, with some eight hundred feet to spare, he turned and waved a light-hearted O.K. to Larkin, and began to look for some landing place free of sh.e.l.l craters.

It was not unlike looking for land in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

Barrage after barrage had marked the earth with the deep scarred pocks of war. He must push on toward the rear with the last inch that could be wrung from that motor and then land straight ahead, leaving the outcome to Lady Luck. She had never deserted him completely--

That moment she deserted. The motor conked with a non-stuttering finality. Now for a dead stick landing, straight ahead! If he could only pancake her down just beyond that big hole, maybe she would stop rolling--

He pancaked, but in doing so struck too hard. The undercarriage was wiped out completely. He felt the bound, followed by a terrific up-fling of the tail, and then a thousand stars went shooting before his eyes and it seemed that a lightning bolt rived his brain. Then darkness--and an infinite peace....

CHAPTER X

Medals and Chevrons

1

When McGee next opened his eyes, it was upon a world in which white seemed to be the shockingly outstanding scheme of things. White walls, a white painted fence, which he at last concluded must be the end of an iron bed, and just beyond this, near at hand yet seemingly miles and miles away, a woman in spotless white. He couldn't quite make out her face, in fact all detail was lost in a dim haze that refused to be cleared up by a blinking of the eyes. And there was such a roaring sound, as of a mighty waterfall thundering down into an echoing canyon.

Oh, yes! His head. He tried to lift his left hand to feel of his head, but the muscles failed to respond. Indeed, the arm seemed not only lifeless, but to be clamped firmly across his chest by tight bonds. He tried the right arm. It responded, and the hand came up to touch and wonder at the large bundle of cloth that should be his head.

The woman in white moved toward him, quickly, and he was about to form a question when she faded before his very eyes, and the thundering waterfall left off its roaring as he floated out of the world of white into a black, obliterating nothingness.

Hours later he again opened his eyes. Again he saw a woman in white at the foot of what he now knew to be a bed. She smiled, a sort of cheery, wordless greeting. He could see distinctly now, and the thunder of the rus.h.i.+ng torrent had subsided until it was little more than a wind whispering among the tree tops. But the left arm was still lifeless and numb, and his head felt as large as a tub.

"Where am I?" he asked, and was startled by the feebleness of the voice which seemed in no way related to him.

The woman in white bent over him, smoothing the pillow and pressing him back upon it.

"You must be quiet," she said, "and not talk, or try to move."

Funny thing to say. Why shouldn't he talk--especially when he had so much to learn about this strange place?

"But where am--"

The figure in white began fading away again, a most distressing habit, and darkness again rushed at him from the white walls.

Hours later he again opened his eyes, realizing at once that it was night, though objects could be dimly seen by the glow of the one light at the far end of the room. He could hear voices, and with a slight turn of the head saw a man in uniform talking with the white-clad woman who could so suddenly and miraculously disappear. At the movement the man turned quickly.

It was Larkin, and the worried lines in his face were swept away by a quick, cheery smile as he bent over the bed and pressed McGee's right hand in a manner that spoke more than words.

"What happened, Buzz?" McGee asked, and was again surprised at the thin quality of his voice.

"You're all right, old hoss," Larkin evaded, "but you mustn't talk yet.

Be quiet now. To-morrow night I'll be back and tell you all about it."

"But--"

"Quiet now! See you to-morrow," and with another squeeze of the hand he was gone.

Well, McGee thought, it was rather tiring to try to think. Sleep was so easy--and so soft.

2

The following evening Larkin came back again, just as the nurse had finished giving McGee a light, liquid meal.

"h.e.l.lo, you little shrimp!" he sang out cheerily. "Eyes bright and everything! Old Saw Bones just told me I could see you for five minutes--but to do all the talking. You can have three questions only."