Aces Up Part 16

He had lost flying speed on his zoom to get at the green plane. To regain speed, and give life to his laboring motor, he dived sharply.

At the beginning of this dive a glance told him that the green plane had suffered an injury vital enough to cause it to lose all interest in any return to the attack.

During the first flashing seconds of the attack Larkin's mind had been occupied only with the thought of hurling himself at the oncoming planes in the forlorn hope of diverting their course of action for a few brief but precious minutes. Suddenly, now, the fleeing green and gold plane awakened memory. Green and gold! Could that be the plane of the renowned von Herzmann, who from the beginning of his fame had advertised himself as the man who always flew a brightly painted green and gold plane?

Another Fokker dived at Larkin, his Spandaus rattling. His aim was wild and he overshot Larkin's steep dive. But in that dive, which brought him all too close, Larkin caught sight of the insignia on the plane--a German eagle perched on a lettered scroll. It was von Herzmann's Circus!

Larkin's heart leaped. He kicked his left rudder savagely and wheeled left, thundering after the green and gold plane that was streaking homeward. Get that plane, get that plane! ran through his mind. All else faded. The presence of other planes, and his original plan, all were lost sight of in the pulse-quickening realization that he had crippled the plane of the famous ace in that first burst. Now to get him and bring him down! Von Herzmann was not one to cut and run unless there was an urgent reason for it. He was trying to tool a crippled plane back across the lines. Larkin, determined to make the most of this golden opportunity, forthwith lost sight of all else.

Ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! Crash! Splinters flew from Larkin's cowling and two gashes suddenly appeared in the fabric of his left wing. So! The crippled eagle had loyal kingbirds for protectors, and they had plunged, pecking, at the Camel pursuing their leader.

Larkin dived clear of the streaming bullets, zoomed upward into a half loop and rolled into position to fire at the leading attacker. The German was slow and Larkin poured a stream of lead into the c.o.c.kpit. He saw the pilot stiffen, as one who has received a sudden shock or surprise, and then slump down. The plane thundered on for a moment, then nosed down, out of control.

Ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! Larkin saw tracers zipping past the nose of the plane. He side-slipped, out of the line of fire, and glanced back. Two more kingbirds coming to the relief of the fleeing eagle.

Ta-ka-ta-ka--the Spandaus again began their monotonous, metallic stutter. Into the c.o.c.kpit of Larkin's plane streamed a half dozen deadly pellets. Two of them pinged against the instrument board, another pa.s.sed completely through the c.o.c.kpit, just in front of his stomach. He felt suddenly cold at the nearness of death as he zoomed steeply into a quivering stall and slipped off into a spin.

He was conscious of the fact that both the Fokkers were thundering after him. Then a Camel, with the speed of a thunderbolt, flashed across his line of vision. He could see the Lewis gun quivering with little excited jumps as it poured out lead. Good old McGee! He always turned up when needed most.

Larkin neutralized the stick, then ruddered hard left against the spin, and thus stopped the tail spin. Then, gaining speed by a quick dive, he looped with a suddenness that brought the Camel squarely on the tail of the remaining pursuer who was diving steeply. Both guns began jumping with delight as Larkin thumbed the releases. What luck! Square in the ring sight! The telltale tracers poked their white fingers into the vitals of the Fokker tri-plane. A serpent-like tongue of red licked out, fluttering for a moment like a wind blown candle flame, and then leaped afresh in an enveloping burst of flame and smoke.

Two!

He glanced around. McGee was in a merry game with the other kingbird.

Round and round they plunged in steep spirals, each trying to get a glimpse of the other across the sights. A tight, breath-taking game, but one which cannot last long. The circle becomes too small, the pace too swift. It was a game in which, Larkin knew, the tri-plane Fokker could excel the Camel, granting that the pilots were of equal skill.

Larkin jockeyed for position, but in that moment when his eye was taken from the mad game of ring-around-the-rosy, McGee demonstrated that the skill was not equally placed. The Fokker was now spinning down, obviously out of control, and McGee was following, filling it with enough lead to sink it. It spun earthward, sickening in its erratic gyrations.

McGee pulled up on his stick, banked sharply, bringing himself alongside Larkin. They waved to each other, exultantly. Larkin, who a few minutes ago had decided that his luck had played out its string, swallowed his heart, murmured "Whew!" and surveyed the field.

The green and gold plane of von Herzmann was now a rapidly diminishing speck against the cloud bank toward la Chapelle, streaking for the Fatherland. The others, lacking a leader, and facing unequal chances with the timely and unexpected appearance of the French Spads, were withdrawing from the action with all the speed they could get out of their wonderful motors. And that was speed enough.

The French Spads had come out of a cloud bank just in time to upset the well laid plans of the German ace, and that worthy, never expecting such a dare-devil, self-sacrificing move as made by Larkin, had for once been taken by surprise. He had been damaged enough to force immediate retirement. The celerity with which his group abandoned the project and followed in his wake gave glowing tribute to the true value and leadership of that youth who flew the green and gold plane. With him as leader, they would have taken a toll, despite the unexpected arrival of the Spads. But with von Herzmann, their idol and their pride, forced from the fight by a hated Englander flying a d.i.n.ky little Camel--well, the Fatherland could be served some other day.

But von Herzmann had been right in his boast that he would scatter the Americans like quails. As the French Spads pursued the fleeing Fokkers, which were numerically strong enough to make a too vigorous pursuit unwise and unhealthy, Major Cowan took up the task of gathering his brood. He flew around, bringing them together, signaling instructions to take up positions, and pointing westward along the line of flight. Three of his brood, however, were crushed and crumpled fledglings on the ground far below. Carpenter, and fat, jolly little McWilliams, had collided while engaging an enemy. Their crumpled wings had locked fast in an embrace that spun them down dizzily to a crashing, splintering death. And Nathan Rodd, he who spared his words, had also been a bit too provident or tardy with his fire and had been sent down out of control.

Cowan had avenged Rodd a second later, sending his attacker down spinning and thereby gaining his first victory.

The score, in that far flung encounter, stood one in favor of Cowan's squadron, but it was a heavy-hearted group of pilots who at last took up formation and headed westward. Their faces had a new, grim look. Flying was not all a matter of shooting the other fellow down. Those who had witnessed the sickening crash of Carpenter and McWilliams learned at a tragic cost that one must be all eyes. The gateman, who controls the airways of the skies, was taking his toll, and every one of the group that flew westward toward La Ferte, leaving three comrades behind, now more soberly considered the alarming casualty figures of eighty per cent per month--and wondered!

A month! It is such a little while.

CHAPTER VIII

McGee Makes a Discovery

1

Three nights later, while members of the squadron were engaged in the usual after mess gab fest, an orderly entered with a summons for McGee and Larkin to report to Major Cowan. Larkin had just that day secured a misfitting regulation issue uniform from the Supply Officer, Robinson, and the group had been having a great deal of fun at his expense. Yancey now saw another chance.

"Old Fuss Budget is goin' to have you shot for impersonatin' an officer in that scarecrow riggin'," he taunted. "You should have kept your old uniform on, like McGee."

"Huh! Robinson didn't have one small enough for McGee," Larkin retorted.

"They only have men's sizes in the American Army. What's wrong with this uniform?"

"Uniform?" Yancey repeated. "Oh, I thought it was a horse blanket."

Larkin thumbed his nose at Yancey as he pa.s.sed through the door with McGee. He knew the Major would have a long wait if he stayed to get ahead of Yancey.

Major Cowan appeared to be in an unusually happy frame of mind.

"I've good news for you," he announced as they entered the headquarters hut. "In losing Carpenter, McWilliams and Rodd, we have gained you two.

And instead of the bawling out I expected, I was congratulated for unusual foresight. The order a.s.signing you to this squadron will be down to-morrow. I hope you are as well pleased as I am."

"Of course we are," McGee answered for both. "We wouldn't feel so much at home anywhere else. I'm sorry, of course, to come as a replacement for any one of those other chaps. They were fine fellows."

"Of course," Cowan responded, heartily. "Their loss demonstrates the value of experience. There was no reason at all for the collision between Carpenter and McWilliams. They simply forgot there was anyone else in the air. A tough break."

"Any break is a tough one when you don't come back," Larkin said.

The Major seemed to see him now for the first time. "Where in creation did you get that gunny sack you're wearing?" he demanded.

Larkin grinned, foolishly. "From Lieutenant Robinson, sir."

"What's it supposed to be?"

"A uniform, sir."

"Thanks. I didn't know." He turned to McGee, who still wore his British uniform. "Didn't Robinson have any more masquerade costumes?"

"Not my size, sir."

"Oh, you go in for size? I see Larkin doesn't. Why don't you get uniforms?"

"We haven't had a chance, sir," Larkin answered. "There is no tailor around here, so I chinned Robinson out of this enlisted man's issue.

Perhaps," he offered, smiling, "the Major will give us a pa.s.s to Paris to have uniforms made."

"The Major will not! We've some real work ahead. But--"

The door opened and Siddons entered.

"But don't put that thing back on in the morning," Cowan completed.

"Your British uniform is at least presentable."

"You sent for me, sir?" Siddons spoke from the doorway, his voice having the quality of one who is extremely bored--especially bored with being sent for.