Sailor Malone was aptly named, for he had been a sailor. He still had the swinging, weaving walk of a sailor off the ship for the first time. He ran his hand through his brown hair and grunted, “Who cares?”
“You don’t, do you?” Pug Hardeston grinned. He studied his companion as the two made their way to the headquarters building. “You’re gonna get yourself killed if you keep on takin’ chances like you did in that brush with the Jerries yesterday.”
“So what? When you’re dead you can rest,” Malone said.
Hardeston muttered, “Well, don’t get yourself killed, mate. That’s all I’ve got to say.”
As the two reached the steps, a tall, aristocratic-looking man nodded to them. Clive Bentley was only twenty-two, but he had all of the fine blood of the Twenty-fourth Squadron. His father was a member of Parliament, Sir Claude Bentley, and Clive himself had all the smooth good looks of a matinee idol. Bentley let Hardeston and Malone go up and stopped long enough to say, “What do you think, Cecil?”
Cecil Lewis, tall, blond, and lanky, with blue eyes and a scholarly look, did not answer. He was, in fact, a professor of English at Balliol. As usual he had a tag end of poetry, which he quoted as he responded to Bentley’s question. “We all so serve who only stand and wait.”
“Don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” Bentley grinned. “We haven’t got to stand and wait in a long time. I’ll bet you a fiver we’ll be up again in an hour.”
“No takers.”
The two entered and soon two more men came wandering in. One of them, Harold Holmes, had a wild look in his eye. He was only eighteen, the youngest of the squadron, and was more timid than any fighter pilot had a reason to be. He was the only son of a shopkeeper and had led a sheltered life with his three sisters and his mother. Now he kept his head down and refused to look up.
Pete Jennings, called Copper because he had been a policeman in a small village, grinned and said, “Don’t worry about it. If you can walk away, it’s a good landing.”
“The captain’s going to kill me!” Holmes said.
“No, he won’t, Harold. He needs pilots too bad. If he gives you any trouble, just stand and look at him, and he’ll let you alone.”
A man with very pale blue eyes and tow-colored hair had come in and heard him. He was a small man, small enough to be a steeplechase jockey. Some of those riders reached as high as five ten, and Jerold Spencer had the tough look that most jockeys accumulate over a period of years of wrestling with animals weighing twenty times their own weight or more. “Wonderful landing, Harold! You must have spent a lot of time practicing it.”
“Oh, leave him alone!” Copper said. “I’ve done worse.”
“So have I,” Spencer said. He saw that Harold Holmes was upset and said, “When you fall off, get right back on. That’s the first rule of riding a horse. I think the same thing’s true of flying a plane. If you crack up, go right back at it.”
“Attention!” Captain Lance Winslow stepped out of his inner office and now stood surveying the pilots. They had all come trooping in now, and he thought again of what a motley crew they were. Nobody would ever pick some of them out to be pilots, he thought. But he put that behind him. “I have a few remarks to make about your flying.”
“I’ll bet he does,” Sailor Malone whispered under his breath.
“Did you say something, Lieutenant Malone?”
“No, sir. Just clearing my throat.”
Lance stared at him until the burly man dropped his eyes and then continued for ten minutes to explain how they were quite possibly the worst pilots in the entire world. Finally he grudgingly said, “I will give you this, though. Your formation flying is a little bit better.”
“When are we gonna get new planes, Captain?” Cecil Lewis asked. He had pulled a pipe out and was puffing on it, the blue smoke rising in large featherlike plumes. “That Farman of mine is going to fall out of the skies at any time.”
“We’ll talk about that later. In the meanwhile I do have one bit of good news.”
From somewhere among the men the whisper came, “About time,” but Lance ignored it.
“Any of you ever hear of a pilot called Roland Garros?”
“I have,” Sailor Malone spoke up. “We flew together back a few years ago.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Clive Bentley said. “He’s got five kills. That makes him an Ace according to the new method of scoring things.” This much was true, for only recently had the word Ace been used to identify a pilot’s number of kills. At the present time, anyone who had shot down five planes was automatically considered an Ace, at least in the British service. The French and Germans scored somewhat differently.
“Well, I’ve never met Garros, but he’s evidently a pretty sharp fellow.”
“What’s he done, Captain?” Sailor asked.
“He got tired of standing up in his seat,” Lance said, “and trying to fire that gun balancing on one foot and changing drums with the wind whipping around you.”
“Who doesn’t?” Pug Hardeston said. “You don’t mean to say he did something about it?”
“That’s just what I mean.” Lance waited for a moment and then shook his head. “I don’t know why no one thought of this before, but Garros decided to shoot right through the propeller.”
“Through the propeller! Why, my dear sir!” Clive Bentley said, looking down his aristocratic nose. “Impossible! He’d shoot his propeller off!”
“Well, that’s what one would think, but Garros had one of those ideas that come along once in a great while. He put steel plates on the back of his propeller shafts.”
Instantly Cecil Lewis, the deepest thinker of the group, narrowed his eyes. He took the pipe out of his mouth. “My sainted aunt!” he breathed. “And did it work?”
“It worked like a charm. He had a Hotchkiss that fired twenty-five rounds, and most of those missed the propeller. Those that didn’t were ricocheted off.”
“Has he tried it in combat?” Lewis demanded quickly.
“Yes. That’s how he shot down five planes. The Germans just can’t believe it, I would think.”
“As Shakespeare would say, ‘There’s a divinity that shapes our ends.’ It looks like the good Lord has given Mr. Garros a great idea.”
A clamor went up, and it was Sailor Malone who demanded, “Are we gonna try it, Captain?”
“Yes. We’ll try it on the ground first so we’ll be sure we’ve got the right plates. I’ve already had them made up. We’ll attach them to our propellers, and if they work, the Germans are in for a shock.”
Lance let the talk run around the room, and then finally he said, “That’s not the only good thing.” When he got their attention he smiled again.
Sailor Malone thought, Two smiles in one day. That’s used up Captain Winslow’s smiles for a year.
“The good news is that the whole squadron’s going to be fitted with Nieuports.”
Excitement spread around the room, and Lance made no attempt to stop them from cheering loudly. He waited until they quieted down, and then he said, “These will be factory fresh. Any man that gets shot down will incur my displeasure.”
As all the men laughed, Lance happened to glance over to the door, which was to his left, and a shock ran through him as he saw Jo Hellinger standing there.
“That’s all for now. We take off in an hour.”
The pilots trooped out, all of them taking a good look at Jo. She met their gaze with a friendly smile, and when they were all gone, she came over and said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt, Captain.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that again, Miss Hellinger. Really, it’s not too good to interrupt one of our briefings.”
“I am sorry, and it won’t happen again. You’re going up again?”
“Yes. In an hour, as you heard.”
“I wonder if I could have a little of your time after you get back.”
“It will be fairly late.”
“That’s all right. I
don’t mind waiting. I’d like to talk to some of the mechanics, if you don’t mind, while you’re gone. With your permission, of course.”
For some reason, Lance was irritated with Jo Hellinger, but he could find no way to bar her. Rather curtly, he said, “Certainly. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
Jo watched Lance as he left headquarters. She stepped outside the door and watched him walk straight to where his mechanic was working on a plane. The two men engaged in quite a long conversation, and finally she said to herself, “Well, he’s a hard nut, Mr. Lance Winslow. I wonder if he’s as hard on the inside as he is on the outside.”
****
“I would like to spend more time with you, but I’m afraid I don’t have it to spare.”
“Could you spare time for a cup of tea?” Jo smiled at him demurely. “After all, I have waited four hours.”
It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and Jo had spent the entire time speaking to the mechanics. She had found them a fascinating group of men, and they had fallen for her head over heels. Jo had done wonders for their morale.
“No one ever pays any attention to us,” one of them said. “It’s always the pilots that get all the glory. But they wouldn’t be up there if we didn’t keep those planes humming.”
After Lance agreed and they had gone to a small tea room in the center of town, Jo told him what she had found out. She spoke glowingly of the mechanics. “I don’t know how good they are at their trade, but they are very possessive. They speak of the planes as if they belonged to them. They all say when my plane gets back.”
Lance nodded. “It’s good they feel that way. And they’re right about one thing. They are the ones that keep the planes up. I’m sorry there’s not more credit given to them.” He stirred his tea, sipped it, and said, “Are you actually going to write about the mechanics?”
“Certainly!”
“But people wouldn’t be interested in that.”
“Oh, I think you’re wrong, Captain Winslow. Everyone’s heard about the pilots. I’ve written a dozen stories about them, but people are interested in those stories that go unnoticed as well.”
“I never thought of it that way. But I’m all for you if you can get any credit to those men. They’re hard workers. And quite frankly, I wouldn’t take my plane up if I didn’t know my mechanic had done a thorough look-over before.”
Jo noticed that he was tense and she waited, making small talk mostly about the mechanics and the aerodrome. He was interested in what she had to say about the other aerodromes she had visited. He began to ask many questions about how many planes they had and what she had found interesting about the pilots. Jo spoke quietly but with knowledge, and was not afraid to say from time to time, “I just don’t know, Captain. I’m just an amateur. But it might be good if you could make a tour of these other places. You could see what they’re doing.”
“I’d like to, but I just don’t have time.” Lance took a sip of tea, then fell silent.
“You look very worried. But I suppose that goes with your job.”
“You saw the pilots. Did you notice the youngest one out there?”
“The small baby-faced pilot? He didn’t look over sixteen.”
“That’s Harold Holmes. He’s only eighteen. He’s had only a hundred hours flying time, and here he is flying in combat.” Putting the cup down, Lance shut his eyes and rubbed them with the heels of his hand. “Can you imagine writing a letter to his mother and sisters?”
“How big a family does he have?”
“Just the three sisters and his mother. His father’s dead now. Of course, all their hopes are with Harold.”
“How terrible!”
Surprised, Lance looked at her. “Yes. It is terrible, but it happens over and over again. I’ve had to write more letters than one for pilots who are no more than boys, just like Harold.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She was wearing a light gray dress with a green scarf around her neck, and as she leaned back, she noted, with interest, that for once Captain Lance Winslow was looking at her as a woman instead of a journalist. It encouraged her, and although she was not flirting, she was glad to see that he did let down his guard from time to time.
“If you have time, I’d be glad to take you by the hospital to meet Logan Smith.”
“Oh yes! The pilot. How long will he be in the hospital?”
“They’ll be releasing him in two days. He’ll have to go back to the Legion if you can’t arrange to have him transferred.”
“I’ll give him a try. If he can fly, I don’t think it will be a problem. We’ve done it before.”
“I’d be so grateful.”
Lance studied Jo curiously. “You two are very close?”
“I met him out on the ranch his family owns out west. He’s a very fine young man. A rodeo competitor.”
“Rodeo? Riding horses and bucking horses? They do that sort of thing?”
“Oh yes. It’s very popular, especially in the West.”
“Looks like a rather dangerous occupation to me.”
Jo suddenly laughed. “Dangerous! After what you do every day, and you call that dangerous?”
“People are afraid of different things, I suppose.”
“I’ve noticed that. The bravest man I ever knew was scared to death of rats. I think he would have picked up an eight-foot rattlesnake with his bare hands, but the sight of a rat turned him to jelly.”
“We all have our secret places.”
“Secret places? It sounds like something from a poem.”
Lance smiled. “I don’t think so. It just popped out.”
As he sipped his tea again, Jo noticed how his fingers were long and tapered. They looked like a surgeon’s hands or perhaps those of a violinist or a pianist. She wondered if he played, but she was still thinking of what he had said. “Our secret places.” “I think one of mine might be snakes. If anyone threatened me with a snake, I believe I’d die.”
“You know what one of mine was when I was younger?”
“No. What?”
“High places.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“That’s a fact. When I was young I took a fall off of a barn. For a couple of years after that, I could hardly stand up on the curb.”
“Well,” Jo smiled and sipped from her cup, then put it down. “You’ve certainly gotten over that secret place. Any more?”
“I guess we don’t talk about those things. Anyway, I have to pick up my daughter, but we’ll go by the hospital and meet your cowboy first.”
****
“Let me give it to you straight, Mr. Smith,” Lance said. “I don’t know how much flying you’ve done, but there’s a lot of men who can get a plane up in the air but can’t make it as a combat pilot.”
Logan had stood up when the two had entered, and as soon as Jo had introduced Captain Winslow, he had been excited. He briefly told Winslow about his experience flying and nodded. “I wouldn’t ask for anything but a fair chance.”
“When will you get out of here?”
“Day after tomorrow. Maybe even tomorrow, if I beg.”
“No, you don’t,” Jo said. “You’ll do what the doctor tells you to do. His doctor’s your father-in-law, so I think your word might carry a little weight, Captain.”
“He’s an excellent doctor, Smith. You were lucky to get him. That’s who I’d want if I got shot.”
“I think he would be a wise choice,” Smith agreed.
Lance suddenly smiled. It seemed to be his day for smiling, he thought. “Have you heard the song about the dying aviator?” When they shook their heads, he sang in a pleasant baritone.
“The young aviator lay dying,
Beneath the wreck he lay.
These last parting words
He did say:
Take the cylinder out of my kidney,
The connecting rod out of my brain—
From my backside remove the crankshaft,
Assemble the blasted
Engine again.”
“I didn’t know you were musical, Captain,” Jo said.
“I’m not. The boys sing it all the time.” He straightened up, looked at Smith, and said, “I’ll give you a try, Smith. You may find combat a little more exacting than riding wild horses.”
“I’ll do my best, Captain Winslow. And I thank you very much for the opportunity. Oh, and by the way. This may be premature,” Logan said, “but if you decide to take me on—or even if you don’t—I can give you the name of the best mechanic in France.”
“You mean Rev?” Jo said.
“Exactly! Even if I don’t make the squadron, I’ll guarantee he can take any plane you’ve got, wing it out, and make it fly like you’ve never seen it fly before.”
“Leave his name with me. You understand I’m not making any promises.”
“Of course not, Captain.”
“You know,” Logan began, “my mother’s maiden name is Winslow. I wonder if we could be related somehow.”
“Well, I did have an ancestor who was born in America before moving to England to be a minister,” Lance replied. “Actually, he was born in the American colonies. The revolution had not happened yet. His name was William Winslow. I believe, if I remember correctly, that his father’s name was Miles Winslow.”
Logan answered excitedly, “My grandfather, Zach Winslow, used to speak of the early family stories, and I remember him telling about a great-great-great-grandfather Miles!” He stretched out his hand. “Well, how do you do, cousin.”
Lance smiled as he took his hand. “It’s wonderful to meet one of my American cousins. We’ll have to spend time talking about our family connections. But now I really must be going. Have a good day.”
Lance and Jo left at once, and Lance glanced sideways at Jo. “I haven’t sung that song in a long time. I don’t sing much anyway.”
“You have a fine voice. Were you in a choir as a boy?”
“Yes. It was a long time ago. But I still remember all those songs I sang in church.”
“I do too. I wonder if we sang the same ones? Did you sing ‘The Old Rugged Cross’?”
“Oh yes,” Lance said. They went on discussing the songs they had grown up with, and when they reached the car, he said, “I’ve got a chore to do. I have to take my daughter, Gabby, shopping.”
The Flying Cavalier Page 21
