Aces Up. Covington Clarke
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 31Cadet 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 (which he thought justified) 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 32had 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 33who 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 34escapes, 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.”
“So you really wanted to be a pilot, Martins?”
“I sure did, sir.”
“Um-m. That’s why I said you were a very lucky young man. I know the names of a lot of young fellows who wanted to become pilots–and did. But they’ve gone West now and their names are on wooden crosses. Hoe your own row, Martins, and thank the Lord for small favors.”
“Yes, sir,” aloud, and under his breath, “It’s easy enough for them that has wings.”
“How’s that, Martins?” McGee asked, rather enjoying himself.
Martins fidgeted with the gear shift. “I said I had always wanted a pair of wings, sir.”
“Well, be a good boy and maybe you’ll get them–in the next world. Good night, Martins.”
“ ’Night–sir.” Gurrr! went the clashing gears as the car got under way with a lurch that spoke volumes for the driver. It was tough to be held to the ground by a wingless motor.
35McGee caught a gleam of light through the shutters of the upstairs windows. So Larkin was back already? He took the front steps in a jump and raced up the stairs in a manner most unbecoming to a First Lieutenant with a score of victories to his credit.
“What kind of an outfit did you draw, Buzz?” he demanded as he burst into the room.
Larkin was buried behind a Paris edition of the Tribune, his legs sprawled out into the middle of the floor where the heel of one boot balanced precariously on the toe of the other.
“Oh, so-so,” never bothering to look from behind his paper. Phlegmatic old Buzz, McGee thought, what was the use of getting excited over an instructor’s job?
“Are they good?” McGee asked.
“Um. Dunno.” Still reading.
“Mine are great!” McGee enthused. “Stiff, crusty young C.O., who needs a couple of crashes–one fatal, maybe–but the rest of them are fine. Great bunch of pilots.”
“Yeah?” Still reading, but doubtful. “See any of ’em fly?”
“No-o,” slowly, “of course not.”
“Um-m. Well, wait until they begin sticking the noses of those new Spads in the ground, and then tell me about ’em. They’ve been trained on settin’ hens. Wait until they mount a hawk.”
36McGee jerked a pillow from the bed and sent it crashing through the concealing paper. “Old killjoy! If a man gave you a diamond you’d try it on glass to see if it was real.”
Larkin began rearranging his crumpled paper. “Well, why not? If it wasn’t real I wouldn’t want it. And I wish you’d keep your pillows out of my theatrical news. I was just reading about a play at the Folies Bergeres, called ‘Zig Zag’. They say it’s a scream. By the way, Shrimp, how’d you like to fly to Paris to-morrow morning and give it the once over?”
“Fine, but–”
“But nothing! We can