Lexus RX300, RX330, RX350 [2006.

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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 who has rolled up a score of five victories against those whose 33

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 escapes, 34

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.
McGee caught a gleam of light through the shutters of the upstairs
35

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.”
McGee jerked a pillow from the bed and sent it crashing through 36

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 see it to-morrow night and be back the next
day. That fine bunch of pilots of yours can’t get off the ground until
the Spads get here–and maybe not then.”
“See here!” McGee challenged stoutly. “I’ll bet you anything you
like that those 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 pocket and brought 37

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.”
McGee scratched his head. “So I’ve just learned, but it’s the first
38

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.”
Larkin fingered his newspaper nervously and tried to simulate 39 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?”
“Um-m. I’m not so sure. I like that bunch I met over there to- 40

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.”
[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 41

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 from the air.42It
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 pass
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 43

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 44

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 altitude. 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 45

time in his experience as a pilot he had climbed into the cockpit

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.
“Contact, sir!”
“Contact.”
The motor caught, coughed, caught again and the prop whirled
into an indistinct blur. The sudden blast of wind sent clouds of dust
eddying toward the hangar, but ahead lay the cool, fresh, dew- 46

washed green of the field. McGee turned to look once more at the
wind sock which, for want of a breeze, hung limp along its staff. He
nodded to the men at the wheel chocks, waved his hand to Larkin
and gave her the gun.
No pilot in the service could lift a Camel off the ground quicker
than could McGee, but this morning he taxied slowly forward and
was getting dangerously near the end of the field before he began to
get the tail up.
Larkin, watching him, chuckled. “Guess he wants to take a spin on
the ground,” he commented to himself. “Fancy that bird wanting to
go to Paris by motor!” Then to show how little he thought of the
ground he advanced his throttle rapidly and took off on far less
space than should ever be attempted by one who knows, from
experience, how suddenly a crowded Clerget-motored Camel can
sputter and incontinently die. And as a parting defiance to his
knowledge, Larkin pulled back his stick and zoomed. Altitude was
what McGee wanted, eh? Well, here was the way to get altitude in a
hurry.
McGee, glancing backward, saw the take-off and the zoom. “The
poor fish!” was his mental comment. “If he shows that kind of stuff
to this squadron they’ll be needing a lot of replacements–or yelling
for a new instructor.”
But the appreciative ground crew, watching, expressed a different47

view. “Boy!” exclaimed an envious Ack Emma. “Can that baby fly! I’ll
tell the world! Watch him out-climb McGee. Did you see how McGee
took off? Like a cadet doin’ solo–afraid to lift her. And they say he’s
one of the best aces in the R.F.C. Huh! I think he’s got the pip! Ever
since he first touched his wheels to this ’drome he’s been yellin’
about his motor bein’ cranky. And it’s all jake. She takes gas like a
race horse takes rein.”
“Yeah,” growled a mechanic by the name of Flynn, who by nature
and nationality stood ready to defend anyone bearing the name of
McGee, “a lot you know about those little teapots in them Camels.
You was trained on Jennies and–and Fords! What you know about a
Clerget engine could be written on the back of a postage stamp. Say,
do you know why he took her off so gentle? Well, I’ll spread light in
dark places, brother. He took off slow because he knew you didn’t
know nothin’, see?”
“Say, listen–”
The quarrel went on, despite the fact that the two pilots
constituting the meatless bone of contention were rapidly becoming
specks in the sky to the northwest.
At five thousand feet McGee leveled off and swung slightly west.
He looked back and up. Larkin was five hundred feet above him and 48

somewhat behind, but at McGee’s signal he dived down, taking up a

position on the left. In this manner they could point out objects
below and engage in the sign language which they had perfected
through many hours spent in the air together.
As they flew along McGee felt his spirits mounting. It was a good
world to live in and life was made especially sweet and interesting by
the soft unfolding greens of a land brought to bud and blossom by
April’s sun and showers. In the beautiful panorama below there was
nothing to indicate that a few miles to the eastward mighty armies
were striving over a tortured strip of blasted land that for years to
come would lie fruitless and barren. Here all was peace, with never a
hint–yes, far below on the white ribbon of roadway a long, dark
python was slowly dragging itself forward. It was a familiar sight to
Larkin and McGee–troops moving up to the theatre of war. And over
on another road a long procession of humpbacked brown toads were
plodding eastward. Motor lorries, carrying munitions and supplies.
Strange monsters, these, to be coming from the green fields and
woods of a seeming peaceful countryside. Forward, ever forward
they made their way. Never, it seemed to McGee, had he seen roads
choked with returning men and munitions. Was the maw of the
monster there to the eastward bottomless and insatiable? Where 49

were the roads that led men back to the land of living, green things?
As they passed over a town, McGee saw Larkin point down. On
the outskirts of the village a great cross in a circlet of green marked
the location of a military hospital. Ah!... Yes, some came back. But
even then they must brand their pain-racked sanctuary with the
mercy imploring emblem of the Red Cross so that enemy planes,
bent on devastation, would mingle mercy with hope of victory and
save their bombs for those not yet carried into the long wards where
white-robed doctors and nurses battled with death and spoke words
of hope to the hopeless.
It was a sorry world! McGee, who but a few short minutes ago
was entranced by the beauty of the world, now felt a sudden,
marked disgust. He pulled his stick back sharply. He would climb out
of it! He would get up against the ceiling, where the world became a
dim, faint blur or was lost altogether in a kindly obliterating ground
haze.
On McGee’s part the action was nothing more than an unconscious
reaction to distressing thoughts. Larkin, however, on seeing the
sudden climb, grinned with delight. This climb for altitude was
nothing more than the prelude to a dive that would start them into a
merry game of hare and hound. So McGee had forgotten all about
his doleful sermon against dog-fighting? And so soon. Ha! Trust the 50

freckled “Little Shrimp” to feel blood racing through his veins when
motors are singing sweetly.
Instead of following, Larkin decided to nose down and offer more
tantalizing bait.
McGee, seeing the dive, found it more than he could resist.
Besides, a merry little chase would serve to wash the brooding
thoughts from his mind. This was a morning for sport, for jest, for
youth–for hazard!
Forward went the stick and he plunged down the backwash of
Larkin’s diving plane, his motor roaring its cadenced challenge. This
was something like! Sky and ground were rushing toward each
other. The braces were screaming like banshees; the speed indicator
hand was mounting with a steady march that made one want to dive
on and on and on until–
Larkin, in the plane ahead, brought his stick backward as he made
ready to go over in a tight loop. McGee smiled and followed him
over. When they came out of the loop they were in the same relative
position–Larkin the hare, McGee the tenacious hound.
For the next few minutes the open-mouthed countrymen in the
fields below were treated to a series of aerial gymnastics which must
have sent their own pulses racing and which might well serve them
for fireside narration for years to come.
The two darting hawks Immelmanned, looped, barrel-rolled, side- 51

slipped, and then plunged into a dizzy circle in which they flew round
and round an imaginary axis, the radius of the circle growing ever
shorter and shorter. Every action of the leading plane was
immediately matched by the pursuer.
Larkin, realizing that his skill in manoeuvering was something less
than McGee’s, decided to bring the contest to a close with a few
thrills in hedge hopping.
Of all sports that offer high hazard to thrill satiated war pilots, that
of hedge hopping, or contour chasing, occupies first place. This is
particularly true when the pilot is flying a Sopwith Camel powered by
the temperamental Clerget motor with its malfunctioning wind driven
gasoline pump. The sport had been repeatedly forbidden by all the
allied air commands, but these commands had to deal with
irrepressible youth, which has slight regard for doddering old
mossbacks who think that a plane should be handled as a wheel
chair.
Larkin dived at the ground like a hawk that has sighted some
napping rodent, and so near did he come that by the time he had
leveled off, his wheels were almost touching the ground–and wheels
must not touch when one is screaming through space at the rate of
a hundred and forty miles per hour.
He glanced back. Sure enough, McGee was still on his tail. No
hedge hopping, eh? Huh! Trust The Shrimp to keep young, 52 he
thought. Fat chance they had of getting old. Who ever heard of an
old war pilot? Ha! That’s a good one! And here’s a double row of tall
poplars fringing the road directly ahead. Hold her close to the
ground and then zoom her at the last minute ... landing gears just
clearing the topmost branches ... make it, and that’s hedge hopping.
Fail to make it–and that’s bad news!
Larkin made it, a beautiful zoom that carried him over the trees by
a skillful margin. Then he swooped down again, skimming along the
level field on the other side of the road.
McGee’s zoom was just as spectacular and as nicely timed, but as
his nose climbed above the first row of trees his motor died as
suddenly as though throttled by the strangling hands of some
unseen genii. Sudden though it was, McGee had sensed that he was
crowding the motor too much and had tried to ease her off and still
clear the trees. It was too late to relieve the choked motor but he
did clear the first row of trees. He was about to close his eyes
against the inevitable crash into the poplars on the other side of the
road when he saw that two of the trees had been felled, and that so
recently that the woodsmen had not yet worked them up. There was
one clear chance left. If only he could slip her over just far enough
to clear the outstretched limbs of the tree to the right.
At such a time seconds must be divided into hundredths, and 53

action must be instantaneous, instinctive, and without flaw. McGee

felt one of the spreading limbs brush against his right wing tip, felt
the plane swerve for a moment, then respond to rudder and aileron.
It was a case where one moment he was supremely thankful for
flying speed, and the next, as the ground of the level field was
flashing under the wheels, wishing that he had held to his resolution
concerning hedge hopping.
The wheels struck hard. The plane bounded, high, and again the
wheels touched. Again the plane bounded, and this time came down
with a shock that left McGee amazed with the realization that the
undercarriage was intact and that he still had a chance to keep her
off her nose if only he could get the high-riding tail down.
Crash! Crack! The tail was down now ... and broken to splinters,
like as not. Never mind.... By some great mercy he was at last on
three points and rolling to a stop.
 He suddenly felt very weak. A narrow squeeze, that! Stupid way
for an ace–and an instructor–to get washed out. Like a Warrior
falling off his horse while on the way home from a victorious field.
He saw Larkin bank his ship into a tight turn, set the plane down
in a perfect landing and come careening down the open field to stop
within a dozen paces of McGee’s plane.
Larkin, white-faced, tight-lipped, crawled from his plane and came54

forward on the double-quick. Not a word did he speak until he stood

by the side of Red’s plane, his hands gripping the leather piping at
the edge of the cockpit until his knuckles were white.
“What happened, Red? Gee, you’re white! All the freckles gone.”
“Lucky I’m not gone!” McGee answered. “My knees are too shaky
to crawl out yet. It looked like finis la guerre pour moi for a second.”
He turned and blew a kiss at the gap in the trees. “Thanks, Mr.
Woodchopper, whoever you are. Buzz, never repeat that old poem
about ‘Woodman, spare that tree!’ If he had spared those two–well!
Take a look at my tail skid, Old Timer. Is it broken off?”
“No. It’s cracked and sort of cockeyed, but a piece of wire from
that fence over there will fix it all O.K. What happened?”
McGee fixed him with a baleful glare. “You should ask–with as
much experience as both of us have had with these tricky motors. I
choked it down, that’s all. That same little fault has sent many a pilot
home in a wooden box. Go get me a piece of that wire. We’ll fix the
skid, somehow, and when I get to Le Bourget I’ll set her down on
two points. And listen! From here on in we do–”
“No contour chasing,” Larkin completed, forcing a thin smile.
“Seems I heard that somewhere before. Crawl out, Shrimp. You said 55

you wanted to be out among the flowers and sweet things. Well,
here’s a sweet thing, and this field is full of flowers. I brought you
down low so you could enjoy them.”
“Yeah! I said I wanted to be among ’em–not pushing ’em up.
Hurry over and get that wire before I do something violent.”

2
Thirty minutes later two chastened pilots took off from the level
field, with a half dozen curious French peasants for an audience, and
laid a straight course for Le Bourget. No more acrobatics and no
more hedge hopping. To an observer below they would have
resembled two homing pigeons flying rather close together and
maintaining their positions with a singleness of mind and purpose.
When they reached Le Bourget they circled the ’drome once,
noted the wind socks on the great hangars, and dropped as lightly
to the field as two tardy, truant schoolboys seeking to gain entrance
without attracting notice.
A newly arrived American squadron was stationed at the field,
jubilant over the fact that they were trying their skill on the fast
climbing, fast flying single-seater Spads. Five of these swift little
hawks were now on the line, making ready for a formation flight.
McGee and Larkin introduced themselves to the officer 56in
command, presented their passes and authority for refueling, and
McGee requested that his tail skid be repaired and his motor
checked over.
“Let’s stick around and watch this formation flight,” McGee then
said to Larkin. “I want to see what these lads can do with a real
ship.”
“All right, but don’t get goggle-eyed. I came up here to see Paris,
and I’m thirty minutes behind time now.”
The take-off of the five Spads was good, and in order. McGee
noticed with considerable satisfaction that the flight commander
knew his business, and the four planes under his direction followed
his signaled orders with a precision that would have been creditable
in any group of pilots.
“Nice work!” Red said to an American captain who seemed not at
all impressed.
The captain was six feet tall, burdened by the weight of rank and
the ripe old age of twenty-four or twenty-five years, and was
somewhat skeptical of McGee’s judgement. He wondered, vaguely,
what this youthful, freckle-faced, five-foot-six Royal Flying Corps
lieutenant could know about nice work. Why, he couldn’t be a day
over eighteen–in fact, he might be less than that. A cadet who had
just won his wings, probably.
“Oh, fair,” the captain admitted.
McGee, sensing what was running through the captain’s mind, and 57

having no wish to set him right, winked at Larkin and said:

“Let’s go, Buzz. It isn’t often that two poor ferry pilots get a
twenty-four hour leave.”
Later, as they were bounding cityward in a decrepit, ancient taxi
driven by a bearded, grizzled Frenchman who without make-up
could assume a role in a drama of pirates and freebooters, McGee
said to Larkin:
“You know, Buzz, I think a lot of these American pilots are better
prepared for action right now than we were when we got our wings.
And we had hardly gotten ours sewed on when we were ordered to
the front. These fellows will give a good account of themselves.”
“I think so, too. Do you remember how the Cadets of our class
were sent up for solo in rickety old planes held together by wire,
tape and chewing gum? Poor devils, they got washed out plenty
fast! I’ve seen ’em go up when the expression on their faces told
that they had forgotten everything they had learned. No wonder a
lot of them took nose dives into the hangars and hung their planes
on smokestacks and church steeples.”
McGee frowned, remembering some of the friends who had tried
for their wings and drew crosses instead. Quickly he threw off the
mood with a laugh.
“Yes, and I was one of those ‘poor devils’ who forgot. I’ll never
58

forget that! I had no more right being up in that old Avro than a hog
has with skates. But England needed pilots and needed them badly.
I guess it was a case of ‘what goes up must come down’ and the
government gave wings to the ones who came down alive. The
others got angels’ wings.”
“I suppose so. And before another month passes the need will be
greater than ever. Look what the Germans did to the British Fifth
Army just last month. I’ll never know what stopped ’em. But they’re
not through. What do you make of that long range gun that is
shelling this very city?
 “Um-m. Dunno. Seems to me that well directed reconnaissance
flights should be able to locate that gun.”
“Maybe; but locate it or not, its purpose is to drive war workers
out of Paris, cripple the hub of supplies and make it more difficult for
us to coordinate the service of supplies through here when they
make their drive at Paris. It’ll come within a month. Then we’ll need
every pilot and every ship that can get its wheels off the ground. I’m
tellin’ you–a month!”
“Think so?”
“I know so! America is going to have her big chance–and may the
Lord help us if she doesn’t deliver! I don’t know how many combat
troops she has landed, but I do know that her eyes, the air service, 59

is in need of ships. The French and English are willing to give them
all the old, worn out flying coffins that they can pick up out of junk
heaps–old two-seater Spads, old A.R.’s, 1-1/2 strutter Sopwiths, and
crates like that. If they can get new Spads, like those we saw ’em
flying this morning, or Nieuport 28’s, or the Salmsons which their
commander has been trying to get, then all will be jake. Otherwise–”
he shrugged his shoulders expressively.
“Otherwise,” McGee took advantage of the pause, “Otherwise
they’ll deliver just the same, even if they have to fly Avros, Caudrons
or table tops. Buzz, these Americans over here have fight in their
eyes. They’ve got spirit.”
“Yes, but spirit can’t do much without equipment.”
“Huh! Ever read any history?”
“What’s on your mind now, little teacher? I read enough to pass
my exams in school.”
“Then you’ve forgotten some things about American history,
especially about spirit and equipment. Where was the equipment at
Valley Forge? What about the troops under Washington that took the
breastworks at Yorktown without a single round of powder–just
bayonets? What about the war of 1812, when we had no army and
the English thought we had no navy? You don’t remember those–”
“That’s just what I do remember,” Buzz interrupted, “and that’s
what I’m howling about. We never have been prepared with 60

anything except spirit. Right now we have a lot of good pilots over
here and the air service is having to beg planes from the French and
English. And here we are, sent down to this front to act as
instructors to a shipless squadron, at the very time when the
Germans are making ready for another big drive. It’s all wrong.
Every minute is precious.”
McGee had been looking out of the window of the swaying,
lurching cab that was now threading its way through hurrying traffic.
“Forget it!” he said. “Give Old Man Worry a swift kick. Here we are in
Gay Paree. The war’s over for twenty-four hours!”

3
To all allied soldiers on leave of absence from the front, Paris
represented what McGee had voiced to Larkin–a place where the
war was over for the time limits of their passes. Forgotten, for a few
brief hours, were all the memories of military tedium, the roar of
guns, the mud of trenches, the flaming airplane plunging earthward
out of control–all these things were banished by the stimulating
thought that here was the world famous city with all its
amusements, its arts, its countless beauties, open to them for a few
magic hours.
The fact that Paris was only a ghost of her former self made 61 no
impression on war-weary troopers. What mattered it, to them, that
the priceless art treasures of the Louvre had been removed to the
safety of the southern interior? Was it their concern that the once
mighty and fearless Napoleon now lay blanketed by tons of sand
bags placed over his crypt to protect revered bones from enemy air
raids or a chance hit by the long range gun now shelling the city?
What mattered it that famous cafés and chefs were now reduced to
the simplest of menus; what difference did it make if the streets
were darkened at night; who that had never seen Paris in peace
time could sense that she was a stricken city hiding her sorrow and
travail behind a mask of dogged, grim determination?
Paris was Paris, to the medley of soldiers gathered there from the
four points of the compass, and it was the more to her credit that