Aces Up Part 3

"Why haven't you?"

"You poor nut! I've just told you."

"No you haven't, Buzz. There is some reason deeper than that."

Larkin 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 bl.u.s.ter.

"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?"

"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."

[Footnote A: For definitions of military and aeronautical terms, as well as certain slang peculiar to army life, see glossary at the back of the book.]

CHAPTER II

A Pa.s.s 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 from 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 it already. Besides, we have permission to fly up, not to drive. I suppose we could get the pa.s.s changed, but why fool with your luck? And the quicker we get there the more we see."

"All right, but on a day like this I could get more pleasure out of just wandering through the countryside than in seeing all the cities of the world rolled into one. Look!" he pointed to the flying field as the car turned from the highway. "There are the Camels, warming up, and filling this good, clean air with their sickening fumes. Bah! I hate it!"

"Say, have you got the pip? You talk like a farmer. Snap out of it!

We're headed for Gay Paree!"

The car had rolled to a stop at the edge of the field. McGee climbed out slowly. "All right, big boy. You lead the way. And no contour chasing to-day. I'm too liable to get absent-minded and try to reach out and pick some daisies. Besides, this motor of mine has been trickier than usual in the last few days despite the fact that the Ack Emma declares she is top hole. So fly high and handsome. Know the way?"

Larkin was crawling into his flying suit and did not answer.

"Know the way?" McGee repeated.

"Sure. That's a fine question to ask a pilot bound for Paris. We land at Le Bourget field, you know."

"No, I didn't know."

"Where'd you think you'd land--in the Champs Elysees?"

"I'm liable to land on a church steeple if that motor cuts out on me as it did yesterday afternoon--for no reason at all. Remember, no contour chasing and no dog-fighting. We're going to Paris."

Larkin grinned. Rarely did they go into the air together but what they engaged in mimic warfare--dog-fighting--before their wheels again touched the ground. It was the airman's game of tag, the winner being that one who could get on the other's tail and stay there. It was a thunderous, strut singing game wherein the pursued threw his plane into fantastic gyrations in a frenzied, wild effort to shake off the pursuer and get on his tail. It was a game in which McGee excelled. Although Larkin recognized this fact, he was always the first to start the dog fight and had never found McGee unwilling to play. As for contour chasing--well, they had broken regulations times without number, and to date had paid no penalty.

McGee, knowing what thoughts lurked behind Larkin's grin, wagged a prudent finger under his nose.

"Mind your step, Buzz," he warned. "We are supposed to be sedate, dignified, instruction-keeping instructors. Fly northwest to Auxerre, then follow the railroad toward Sens and on to Melun. Then swing straight north and come into Le Bourget from the east."

"All right. All set?"

"Yes. You lead off and I'll follow. Wait! On second thought I think I'll lead and pick my own alt.i.tude. And if you start any funny business, I'll leave you flat!"

They climbed into the waiting planes, whose motors were still warming idly. Members of the ground crew took up their stations at the wing tips. McGee was on the point of nodding to the crew to remove the wheel chocks when he remembered that for the first time in his experience as a pilot he had climbed into the c.o.c.kpit without first casting an appraising eye over braces, struts and turn buckles. He promptly cut the motor and climbed from the plane, saying, half aloud; "I must be getting balmy. It's the weather, I guess."

"How's that, sir?" asked the air mechanic.

"I say, it's balmy weather we're having."

"Oh! Yes, sir."

"You've checked her all over, Wilson?"

"Yes, sir. And fueled her according to Lieutenant Larkin's instructions."

"Hum." McGee slowly walked around the plane, giving every functional detail a critical look, nor was he the least hurried by the fact that Larkin was displaying impatience. Satisfied at last, he climbed back into the plane. A member of the ground crew took his place at the propeller.

"Petrol off, sir?"

"Petrol off."

Whish! Whish! went the prop as the helper began pulling it over against compression.