Part 10

Hoyt was side-slipping below him, and he saw his own airdrome under the leading edge of his bottom wing. He followed Hoyt down. They landed together and taxied slowly in toward the hangars. They stopped side by side and climbed out stiff-legged. Paterson looked down and saw that his right flying boot was torn and flayed into shreds across the outer side. There was a jagged fringe on the skirt of his coat where the leather had been ripped into ruffles. Dumbly, he looked back into his cockpit. The floor boards were splintered and the wicker arm of his seat was eaten away. He shrugged and walked over toward Hoyt. There was blood on the rabbit fur of Hoyt’s goggles, blood that oozed slowly down and dripped from his chin piece in bright drops.

“Cigarette?”

Paterson gave him one. They walked into the flight office and slumped into chairs. Hoyt ripped off his helmet and dabbed at the scratch on his cheek. “I’m glad you got out, Pat,” he said absently.

Then the fear spot broke and spattered into the four corners of Paterson’s soul. He sprang up trembling, with his fists beating the air.

“The dirty lice!” he screamed. “They’ve killed P-B! They’ve killed Trent! D’y’ hear me, Hoyt?--they’ve killed ’em! They’re gone! They’ll never come back! They’ve----”

Hoyt’s voice came evenly, calmly, through his screaming. “Steady, boy! Steady! You can’t help it. No one can. Steady, now!”

A mat of white oil-splotched faces stared at them from the open doorway that led into the hangar. The boy turned wildly. “Clear out!” he shrieked. They vanished, open-mouthed. Hoyt drew him down into a chair. “No, Hoyt, no! Can’t you see? P-B and you and Trent have meant everything to me. I can’t go on. I’ve fought this thing till I’m crazy.” Hoyt reached quickly and slammed the door. “I’ve fought it night and day!” He threw up his arms hopelessly and covered his face with his shaking hands.

Hoyt put his hand on his trembling shoulders and patted them. “Steady, now! Steady! None of that!” he said awkwardly.

Paterson’s head whipped down across his sprawled arms on the desk top and the sobs tore at his throat in great gusts that choked him. “Oh, God!” he sobbed. “What’s it all about, Hoyt? What’s the use of it?”

“Steady, son! I don’t know. Nobody knows. It just happened, as everything happens. It’s much too late to talk causes. We’re here and we know what we have to do. That’s enough for us. It’s all we have anyway, so it must be enough.” He took his blood-soaked cigarette from his mouth and hurled it into a corner. It landed with a soft spat.

Someone knocked at the door. “Come in.” It was the runner from squadron office. He saluted. “Yes?” said Hoyt.

The man glanced at Paterson’s face and snapped his eyes quickly back to the captain’s.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “Squadron’s just been signalled through wing. One of the C Flight machines came down near B Battery, the 212th.”

“Who was it?” asked Hoyt.

“Lieutenant Mallard, they reported it, sir. That’ll be Lieutenant Mallory, sir, won’t it?”

“Yes.” Hoyt’s voice was quite flat. “Thank you.”

The man saluted again and shut the door. Hoyt dabbed at his cheek and reached into his desk drawer for another cigarette. Paterson stood up suddenly and grabbed his arm. “Listen, skipper!” Hoyt’s eyes met his calmly. “I’m going to tell you something. I’ll feel better if I do. I’ve been a weak sister in this flight. I’ve planned for days to go down and let myself be taken prisoner--to get out of it all. I’ve been sick of it--sick of it, d’y’ hear, until I couldn’t think straight. I wanted to get out alive. I wanted to get away in any way I could. This morning I broke. I let go and started down----”

Hoyt smiled. “Your trouble, Pat, is that you think you’re the only person in this jolly old war.”

Paterson stared at him. “But I did! I started down, out of it, this morning!”

“How’d you get here?” asked Hoyt.

“But if I hadn’t broken for that moment this morning----”

“That’s a lie!” snapped Hoyt. “You’re talking poobah! I know how those things happen. If P-B hadn’t gone down after the two-seater they’d all be here now; and by the same reasoning, if my aunt wore trousers she’d be my uncle. The important thing is that it’s you and me now and nothing else matters. We’ll have four brand-new men to whip into shape to-morrow, and whatever you think of yourself, you’ve got to do it. I can’t do much, for I’ll be ahead, leading. You’ll be behind them and you’ll have to do it all. They’ll be frightened and nervous and green, but the job’s to be done. Understand? You’ve got to goad them on and get them out of trouble and watch them every minute, so that in time they’ll be as good as P-B and Trent--so that when their turn comes they can do for other green men what P-B and Trent did for you. Do you see now what this morning has done for you?” He paused for a moment, and then, in a lower tone--“Afraid? Who isn’t afraid? But it doesn’t do any good to brood over it.”

C Flight did no duty the next day, nor the day following. Hoyt went up to the 212th and identified Mallory for burial, while Paterson flew back to the Pool for the replacement pilots and a new Camel for Hoyt.

In Amiens he heard the first whispered rumours of what was going to happen. Intelligence was ranting for information. Everybody had the story and nobody was right. The hospitals were evacuating as fast as possible. Fresh battalions were being hustled up. It wasn’t a push. Anyone could tell that with half an eye. Something the Hun was doing. The spring offensive a month earlier this year. G. H. Q. was plugging the gaps frantically, replacing and reinforcing and wondering where the hammer would fall and what it would carry with it. Hence the pictures that had cost the lives of P-B and Trent. The air itself trembled with uncertainty, and rumours flew fast and thick.

Paterson flew back with the four new pilots and brought the rumours with him. Hoyt had more to barter in exchange. The talk ran riot at dinner.

“It’s a Hun push, all right, but where, nobody knows. We’ll have word in a day or so, but it’ll be wrong whatever it is, mark what I say!”

And then on the evening of the twentieth things started. A signal came for the major just as they sat down to mess. He went out and presently called out the three flight commanders. When they came back, they took their places thoughtfully. Silence trembled in the room like the hush that precedes the first blasting stroke of a great bell in a cathedral tower. The major swept his eyes down the board.

“You will remain at the airdrome to-night, gentlemen, and remain sober. Officers’ luggage is to be packed and placed on lorries which Mr. Harbord is providing for that purpose.” He paused for a moment. “This is a precautionary move, gentlemen. We are to be ready to retire at a moment’s notice. Flight commanders have the map squares of the new airdrome. You can take that up later among yourselves.” He leaned back in his chair and beckoned to the mess sergeant. “Take every officer’s order, sergeant, and bring me the chit.”

The talk broke in a wild flood that roared and crackled down the length of the table. The tin walls trembled with the surge of it and the echoes broke in hot discord among the rough pine rafters. Offensive patrols for all three flights, to start at five minutes to four A. M. Air domination must be maintained. Wing’s instructions were to stop everything at all costs. Go out and fight and shut up. Somebody presented the adjutant with the sugar bowl and asked him if he had his umbrella for the trip back. The adjutant had spent eighteen days without soles to his boots in 1914. He and the medical officer stood drinks for the squadron.

About ten o’clock, Hoyt called the five men of C Flight into his hut. “To-morrow, something is going to happen, I’m afraid, and you’ve got to meet it without much experience. What I want you to understand is simply this: You’ve got Pat and you’ve got me. Follow us and do what we do. We won’t let you down so far as it is humanly possible. If the flight gets split up in a dog fight, then fight your way out two and two--and go back to the new ’drome two and two. Don’t go separately. Further”--he paused--“if anything happens to me”--Paterson looked up at him quickly and something tugged sharply at his heart; Hoyt went on quietly--“take your lead from Mr. Paterson. You’ll be Number 5, Darlington. You’ll climb up as deputy leader. And if anything happens to Pat, then it’s up to you to bring the rest home.” He smiled. “There is a bottle of Dewar’s in this drawer. Take a snifter now, if you want it, and one in the morning. It’s for C Flight only. Oh, yes, one more thing: The fact that we’re moving back to a new airdrome seems to indicate that staff thinks nothing can stop the Hun from breaking through. The fact that nothing can stop the Hun seems to indicate that, for the nonce, we are losing our part of the war. If the thought will help you--it’s yours without cost.”

* * * * *

The caller rapped sharply and threw back the door. Paterson leaped to his feet half asleep and pushed back the window curtains. The clouds were down to about four hundred feet, lowering in a gray mass over the mist on the airdrome. He went into the next cubicle and turned Hoyt out. Hoyt sat up on the cot edge and ran his hand across his forehead.

“Stop the caller,” he said. “Let’s see what’s what before we turn everybody out.” They shrugged into their flying coats and groped down the passage to the major’s cubicle in the next hut block.

“Let ’em sleep,” said the major. “Can’t do anything in this muck. Turn out one officer in each flight to watch for the break and to warn the rest. Send Harbord to me if you see him wandering about.”

They woke up the skippers of A and B Flights and told them the news. Paterson took the watch for C. He turned up his coat collar and went out. It was cold and miserable in the open, and the chill crept into his bones. The smoke from his cigarette hung low about him in the still air.

Presently to the eastward there came a low roar. He looked at his wrist watch. The hands pointed to six minutes before four o’clock. The ground trembled slightly to the sound of the distant guns and the air stirred in faint gusts that pulled at blue wraiths of his cigarette smoke. The push had started. His muscles stiffened at the knees as he listened. The first shock of the guns was raw and sharp in the quiet air; then it settled into a lower, full-throated rumble like the heavy notes of an organ growling in an underground basilica. Now it rose again in its greater volume--rose steadily, slowly, as if it were a colossal express train hammering down the switch points at unthinkable speed. Presently it soared to its highest pitch and held the blasting monotony of its tone. The minutes ticked off, but the guns never faltered in their symphony of blood. At 4:35 one pipe of the organ to the southeastward cut out suddenly and almost immediately began again, closer than before. Again it broke, as he listened, and crept nearer still.

He walked down the line of huts, thrashing his arms and blowing on his cold hands. An impersonal thing to him, yet he shivered slightly and stared upward at the low clouds. Men out there to the eastward were in it. The suspense was over for them. And suddenly he found himself annoyed at the delay, annoyed at the fog and clouds above, that kept him on the ground. He wanted to see what was going on--to know. He turned impatiently and went into the mess. The sergeant brought him coffee, and presently Muirhead of A Flight came in with Church of B.

“It’s on,” Church said absently. “I suppose this fog means hell up the line.”

They drank their coffee and smoked in silence. The sound of the guns crept nearer and nearer, and one by one the rest of the squadron drifted in for breakfast.

Hoyt sat down next to Paterson. “I don’t like it,” he said. “Something is giving way up there.” He went to the window and looked out. “Clouds are higher,” he said, “and the fog’s lifted a bit. What do you think, major?”

They crowded out of the mess doorway and stood in an anxious knot, staring upward. It was well after six o’clock.

“All right”--the major turned around--“get ready to stand by.”

C Flight collected in a little knot in front of Hoyt’s Camel, smoking and talking nervously. Paterson kept his eyes on Hoyt and stamped his feet to get the circulation up. A strange elation crept into his veins and warmed him. In a moment now--in a moment. Awkward waiting here. Awkward standing around listening to Darlington curse softly and pound his hands together.

Somewhere behind him on the road, a motor bike roared through the mist, and then to the southward a shell crashed not a thousand yards from the ’drome, and the echo of it thumped off across the fields. Darlington jumped and stared at the mushroom of greasy black smoke. A moment more--a moment now. Paterson reached over and tapped Darlington’s sleeve. “Keep your guns warm, old boy.” Darlington nodded fiercely.

The major climbed into his cockpit and a mechanic leaped to the propeller. The engine coughed once and the propeller snapped back. The mechanic leaped at it again. It spun down and melted into a circle of pale light. Everyone was climbing in. Hoyt flicked his cigarette away sharply and put a leg up into his stirrup.

They were taxi-ing out into the open ground, with the mechanics running after them. Presently they could see the road. Paterson stared at it in amazement. It was brown and crawling with lorries and troops. Something had happened! A Flight, with the major, sang off across the ground and took the air together in a climbing turn. B Flight waited a brief second and followed. Out of the corner of his eye, Paterson could see the mess sergeant climbing up on the lorry seat beside Harbord, the equipment officer. Then Hoyt waved his hand. Mechanics yanked at the chock ropes and waved them off. They blipped their motors and raced out after Hoyt.

At five hundred feet they took the roof in the lacy fringe of the low clouds. Bad, very bad, Paterson thought. He ran his thumb across the glass face of his altimeter and his globe became wet with the beaded moisture. He could hardly see Darlington’s tail. Ahead of them the clouds were a trifle higher. Hoyt led them up and turned northward. Murder to cross the line at that height, with the barrage on. Darlington was lagging a bit. Afraid of the clouds. He dived on Darlington’s tail and closed him up on Number 3. Darlington glanced back at him and ducked his head.

Hoyt was circling back now in a broad sweep. Over there somewhere was Cambrai. He looked up for an instant just in time to see the underside of a huge plane sweep over him. He ducked at the sight of the black crosses, but the plane was gone before he could whip his Lewis gun into action. Almost immediately one corner of his windshield ripped away and the triplex glass blurred with a quick frosting of a thousand cracks. He cursed into the roar of his motor and kept on.

They were higher now, but the visibility was frightful--like flying in a glass ball that had been streaked with thick dripping soapsuds. Here a glimpse and a rift that closed up as soon as you looked; there a blank wall, tapering into tantalizing shreds that you couldn’t quite see beyond. He fidgeted in his cockpit and turned his head from Hoyt, below him, to the gray emptiness behind. Nothing.

Presently Hoyt banked around, and following him, the compass needle on Paterson’s instrument board turned through a half circle. They were going back toward the south again and climbing still higher. An even thousand feet now--just under the rising, ragged clouds. He felt a drop of rain strike his cheek where his chin piece ended. It bit his skin like a thorn and stung for seconds afterward. His goggles were fogging. He ran a finger up under them and swept the lenses.

Then, in a breath, it happened. A gray flash swept down out of the clouds in front of the formation. Hoyt zoomed to avoid it. The Hun zoomed and they came together and melted into each other in a welter of torn, rumpled wings and flying splinters. Something black and kicking rose out and disappeared. The cords stood out in Paterson’s neck and his throat closed. Somewhere his stomach leaped and kicked inside of him, trying to get out, and he saw coffee dripping from the dials of his instruments.

In a second he had thrown his stick forward and gone down into Hoyt’s place. He didn’t dare look--he couldn’t look. He was screaming curses at the top of his voice and the screams caught in his throat in great sobs. His goggles were hopelessly fogged. He ripped them off. Behind him the four new men closed in tightly, with Darlington above them as deputy leader.

There was blood again on his lips. He pulled back his stick and climbed. There, somewhere in the clouds, were the men who had done it! All right! All right! His eyes stung and wept with the force of the wind, and his cheeks quivered under the lash of the raindrops. With his free hand, fist clenched, he pounded his knee in stunned anguish until his muscles ached. Hoyt! Hoyt! Then he saw what he wanted and dived down furiously at the shape in the mist. Bullets tore at his top plane and raked across the cowling behind him. He closed on the Hun and sent it spinning. There was another--three--five--nothing but Huns. He dived in between them. Fine! He was screaming again, and firing. He forgot he was flying. The joy stick thrashed crazily between his knees and the ground and the clouds were a muddy gray scarf that swept from side to side across his eyes. Guns were the thing. Once, in a quick flash, he saw tiny men running upside down through the ring sight of his Lewis gun--the gun on his top plane--funny.

His wrists ached and his fingers were quite dead against the Bowden trigger. No, not that; that’s a Camel--Darlington. He grabbed at his joy stick and pulled it back. Funny how hard it was to pull it. Another Camel swept in beside him, and another, with startling suddenness. It had been a long time now--a long time. Somebody had been afraid once and there had been a man named Hoyt. No, Hoyt was dead. Hoyt had been killed days before. Must have been P-B. P-B was probably in Amiens by now. He’d left in the tender at six o’clock. And always his guns chattered above the roar of his engine.

Abruptly, the cross wires of his centre section raced up to him from a great distance and stopped just before his eyes. He wondered where they had been all this time. He stared past them into the light disk of his propeller, and again the rain lashed into his face and stung him. He caught at the kicking joy stick and held on to it with both hands--but one hand fell away from it and wouldn’t come back. With an effort, he pulled back his stick to climb up under the clouds again. Must be up under the clouds. Must wait and get more Huns. Funny things, Huns. Clumsy, stupid gray things you shot at and sent down. Go home soon, rest a bit and get some more. He laughed softly to himself. Joke. Funniest thing in the world.

The centre section wires clouded up before his eyes and started to race away from him. Here! That’s bad! Can’t fly without centre section wires. He chuckled a bit over that. Absurd to think of flying without centre section wires! Come back here! You come back!

Just as his eyes closed, he saw a streak of roadway flicker through the struts of his left wing. There were faces on it quite close to him; faces that were white and staring; faces with arms raised above them. Funny. He whipped back his joy stick with a convulsive jerk, and then his head crashed forward and he threw up his arm to keep his teeth from being bashed out against the compass.

* * * * *

It was very dark--dark except for a dancing blue light far away. He moved slightly. Something cool touched his forehead.

“All right,” he muttered; “that’s all right now. You just follow me.” Someone whispered. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. “No,” he said quite plainly. “I mean it! Hoyt’s dead. I saw him go down.”

He felt something sharp prick his arm. “You’ve got the new airdrome pinpointed, haven’t you?” he asked.

A soft voice said, “Yes. Sh-h-h!”

“No,” he said, “I can’t. Darlington’s alone now, and I’ve got to go back. They’re green, but they’re good boys.” He moved his legs to get up. “There’s a bottle of Dewar’s----”

“No,” said the voice beside him.

“Oh, yes,” he said quietly. “Really, this is imperative. I know I crashed.”

A stealthy languor crept across his chest and flowed down toward his legs. He thought about it for a moment. “I ought to go,” he said pettishly. “But I’m so tired.”

“Yes,” said the voice. “Go to sleep now.”

“Right-o,” he said. “You call a tender and wake--me--half--an--hour.” He was quiet for a moment more and then he chuckled softly. “Tell ’em it’s poobah,” he said sharply.

“All right,” said the voice. “It’s poobah.”

His breathing became quiet and regular and footsteps tiptoed softly down the ward away from his bed.

NIGHT CLUB

BY KATHARINE BRUSH

From _Harper’s_

Promptly at quarter of ten P. M. Mrs. Brady descended the steps of the Elevated. She purchased from the newsdealer in the cubbyhole beneath them a next month’s magazine and a to-morrow morning’s paper and, with these tucked under one plump arm, she walked. She walked two blocks north on Sixth Avenue; turned and went west. But not far west. Westward half a block only, to the place where the gay green awning marked Club Français paints a stripe of shade across the glimmering sidewalk. Under this awning Mrs. Brady halted briefly, to remark to the six-foot doorman that it looked like rain and to await his performance of his professional duty. When the small green door yawned open, she sighed deeply and plodded in.