Aces Up. Covington Clarke
boys–”
“Will all be aces in a month,” Larkin completed, knowing the extent and warmth of McGee’s habitual enthusiasm. “All right, Shrimp, so be it. But what has that to do with the show? Want to go?”
“Sure. But what about passes? I don’t know just who we are answerable to down here, in the matter of privileges and so forth. I’ve been sort of lost for the last few days.”
Larkin shoved his hand into his inside blouse 37pocket and brought forth two folded papers which he displayed proudly.
“Here are the passes–all jake! Marked official business and authorizing fuel and supplies, if needed. I’m a great little fixer. And about that question of not knowing who you are answerable to, don’t forget that it’s little Johnny Bull–capital J and B. You’re liable to get jerked off this detail so quick you’ll leave toothbrush and pajamas behind. Every morning now when I wake up and remember that I don’t have to go out on dawn patrol I start pinching myself to see if I’m awake. Boy, in this game it’s here to-day and gone to-morrow. Wasn’t it old Omar who handed out that gag, ‘Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, before we too into the dust descend’? … Yeah? Well, he must have written that for war pilots. The minute J.B. finds out how comfortable we are down here we’ll be recalled and sent to chasing Huns back across the line. In fact, I think we’re both asleep and having nice dreams.”
“That reminds me,” McGee said, drawing up a chair and sitting gingerly on the edge after the manner of one about to indulge in confidential disclosures. “Have you heard anything of this repatriation business?”
“Sure. Haven’t you?”
“Not a word.”
“Where have you been? It came down in a G.O.”
38McGee scratched his head. “So I’ve just learned, but it’s the first I’ve heard of it. Funny you didn’t mention it to me.”
Larkin eyed him curiously. “Well,” slowly, “I knew you were English and–”
“But I’m not, and you know it!” McGee flared.
“Calm, brother, calm! I mean, I knew your father and mother were English, and so was your brother.”
“But I was born in America. I’m just as much of an American as you are!”
“Calm, brother, calm! No one says you are not. But because of your family nationality, I supposed you would want to finish out the string with the R.F.C. and,” he reached over and tousled McGee’s mop of flaming red hair, “I’m just fool enough to want to stick around where you are–you little shrimp! So I thought I wouldn’t bring up the subject.”
McGee gave him a look of deep understanding and appreciation.
“Fact is,” Larkin went on, “I just got a letter from Dad the other day and he seems to be pretty hot under the collar because I haven’t made any move to get repatriated.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“You poor nut! I’ve just told you.”
“No you haven’t, Buzz. There is some reason deeper than that.”
39Larkin fingered his newspaper nervously and tried to simulate an interest in some news note. He hated to display sentiment, yet the fates had given him a double burden of it. As a matter of honest fact, he was as sentimental as a woman, and was forever trying to hide the fact behind a thin veneer of nonchalance and bluster.
“Did you see this communique from our old front?” he asked, trying to shift the subject. “They’re having some hot fighting up there.”
“Yes, I know. Things look pretty dark for the English. But answer my question: What is the real reason why you haven’t thought of getting transferred into the United States forces?”
“I didn’t say I hadn’t thought of it,” Larkin avoided. “Maybe I didn’t want to trade horses in the middle of the stream.”
“Any other reason?”
“Well, hang it all! a fellow builds up some pride in the uniform he wears. A good many of our buddies have gone out for their last ride in this uniform and–and it stands for a lot. Of course I am proud of my own country, and sometimes I feel a little strange in this uniform now that my own country is in the war, but it isn’t a thing you can put on or take off just as the spirit moves you. It becomes a part of you. Say! What’s eatin’ you, anyway? Are you anxious to change uniforms?”
40“Um-m. I’m not so sure. I like that bunch I met over there to-night.”
“Yes, and they are all afoot. The truth is, our own country hasn’t enough combat planes to send out a patrol. They are developing some mystery motor, I hear, but I’m not very keen about trying out any mystery motors. Our Camels are mystery enough to suit me. When I’m up against the ceiling with a fast flying Albatross or tri-plane Fokker on my tail, I don’t want any mysteries to handle. No, Red, for the time being I guess I’m satisfied. Besides, they might chuck me in the infantry, and I have a horror of having things drop on me from overhead. Let’s to bed, old topper, so we can hop off early in the morning. The sooner we start the sooner we get to ‘Gay Paree’. Besides, early to bed and early to rise makes a man ready to challenge the skies. How’s that for impromptu poetry?”
“Rotten! Omar and Ben Franklin both in one evening!” McGee yawned as he began pulling at a boot. “But it makes me sleepy. Go on, say me some more pretty pieces. Or maybe you’d like to sing me to sleep.”
For definitions of military and aeronautical terms, as well as certain slang peculiar to army life, see glossary at the back of the book.
41CHAPTER II
A Pass to Paris
1
The following morning dawned with the quiet splendor and benediction which April mornings bring to the rural province of Cote d’Or. By the time the sun had climbed above the low hills to the east and was turning the dew covered fields into limitless acres of flashing diamonds and sapphires, McGee and Larkin had hurried through breakfast and were on their way out to the hangars where the mechanics, following Larkin’s orders, would have the two Camels waiting on the line. As the car rolled along the smooth highway leading to the flying field, McGee sank back in the none too comfortable cushions and drank deep of the tonic of early morning.
“Some day!” he said. Larkin merely nodded–the only reply needed when Spring is in the air.
“It would be more fun to drive up to Paris,” McGee offered.
Larkin looked at him in surprise. “Where’d you get that idea?”
“Well, nearly all of my impressions of France are 42from the air. It stands for so many squares of green fields, of little rivers gleaming like silver ribbons interlaced through squares of green and brown plush, of torn up battlefronts where there is no life, no color–nothing but desolation. But this seems like another world. Here are spring flowers, the orchards are in bloom, and children are playing in the narrow streets of the towns. Flying over it, you look down on all that. You see it–and you don’t see it. But in driving we would feel that we were a part of it. There’s a difference. It gives you a feeling that you are better acquainted with the people, and you get a chance to smell something besides the beastly old Clerget motors in those Camels. I’m getting so I feel sick every time I smell burning oil. Let’s drive up, Buzz.”
Larkin, being in a different frame of mind, shook his head.
“No, you’re too blasted poetic about