His heart closed with the cold of weakness and fear, and he dived low to free himself of the hail of lead. He knew he had not fought the approach with care, and he bit his teeth and swept to the left in a climbing turn.
For a moment he got above the line of fire and felt relieved; then he half-rolled to get on top. The Fokker raced by a hundred and fifty yards away and Dorman kicked his rudder around savagely and squeezed his trigger again.
The crank arms wouldn’t move. Madly he yanked at the cocking lug. It wouldn’t budge. He yanked again and the wind screamed in his face. Still it refused to move.
The little spot of fear that had burned at him now swelled and gave way to flame. His mouth was dry and he couldn’t swallow. Big George Dorman had a panicky moment. He was helpless. Out ahead the Fokker, like a thing inspired, had banked wide and was coming back.
Dorman put his nose down and came home.
He bounced down into the landing field and as he pulled over to the starting line another Spad was trundled out of the hangar. A pilot was getting in as it came through the door. He had a silk stocking tied around his mouth and nose and the straps of his helmet were dangling below his chin. His uniform coat and his flying coat both were open and Dorman could see his shirt beneath. His boots were only half-laced.
It was Lufbery.
As Dorman kicked off the switch Luf got away. He pulled straight off with the windside and made straight for a line of bois-d’arc trees ahead; and just when it seemed his wheels would get caught in the foliage he yanked his Spad up and went after the Fokker.
But the Fokker was no longer in a playful mood. It rolled of a sudden and scudded for home, with the drab brown Spad on its tail. It may be, sometimes these things did happen, that the pilot recognized an adversary of merit. There was a double explosion of black from the exhausts of the Spad as Luf gunned it and drove after the daring German pilot.
Dorman crawled down and Saufley came trotting over.
“Say,” Dorman said, “drop a match in this cockpit. What the hell’s the matter with these guns?”
Sergeant First Class Saufley didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked. A cold, contemptuous look. Then he spoke.
“Tough luck,” he said.
He turned around and saw a slender officer approaching rapidly. He was about forty, and he was in a light overcoat. From his cap gleamed a silver star. Saufley snapped to a salute, Dorman raised his hand awkwardly. He felt ill, for something shone through the officer’s eyes.
“Your name, Lieutenant,” he said, spreading his legs.
“Dorman, sir. George Dorman.”
“Oh, yes. Reported this week for duty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Come to my headquarters in half an hour,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
He snapped his hand to a salute, and the general turned on his heel without another word.
Saufley said, “I’ll have the guns gone over.” Dorman nodded abstractedly.
“Who was that?” he asked.
Saufley rammed his hands in his pockets and screwed down the corners of his lips.
“My God, you mean you don’t know?”
Dorman got a little sore.
“I sure as hell don’t,” he said.
“Well,” Saufley said carelessly; “that wasn’t nobody much. Just Billy Mitchell.”
Dorman’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said. “General Mitchell. I guess he saw the—er—mess?”
Saufley nodded. Dorman pulled off his helmet and went over to the cubicle. He flung his helmet against the wall and swore loudly and took off his coat and shirt and poured a pan of water. He washed himself loudly and continued to swear, then he dressed and went back to the hangar.
“Get somebody to take me over to headquarters,” he told Saufley.
Saufley went inside the hangar and in a moment a mechanic rode out with a motorcycle and sidecar. Dorman piled in without saying anything. He looked back off in the direction where he had seen Luf chasing the Fokker but there was nothing in the sky. It was serene and blue.
General Mitchell had his headquarters in a two story house on the Rue Pigalle, and the motorcycle jerked to a stop before the huge iron grillwork.
Dorman got down and went inside. He announced himself and in a minute was shown into a deep-ceilinged room. There was a desk in the center and behind it sat the General.
Dorman saluted and the General nodded.
“Lieutenant, Major Lufbery has just been shot down.”
Dorman paled. All at once a mist ascended before his eyes, the General seemed very far away.
“Sir?”
The General nodded heavily and looked out the window.
“Major Lufbery has been killed,” he said again.
Dorman bit his lip and his head dropped. Luf was gone; Luf the great. It didn’t seem possible.
General Mitchell turned his head and looked at Dorman.
“His ship caught fire and he jumped out. He fell in a shoemaker’s flower garden eight miles up the river. You know why, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You should have handled that enemy, Lieutenant. Your failure has cost us our finest pilot. You’re being transferred to ferry duty at once.”
Big George Dorman opened his mouth to protest, to say something; and then he suddenly closed it. He had washed out as a fighting pilot, he had blown his first chance—and now he was getting his medicine. Well, he told himself he’d take it on his heels.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I shouldn’t—”
“That’s all, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dorman saluted and went out.
CHAPTER III.
Ferry duty. God what a laugh that was. A month now he’d been doing ferry duty. A month of peaceful flying. Why, a guy might as well be back home!
George Dorman yanked up the nose of his Nieuport 23 and passed over the flat-roofed houses on the edge of Chaumont. What he should do, he told himself again, was to put the ship down, go in and tell Pershing all about it. Tell him he’d had his lesson and that if he could get just one more chance…
But, of course, he didn’t. He took his Nieuport back to Orly, checked it in, and because he’d been doing a lot of thinking that day and was all in a fuddle he went down to Papa Jean’s grog shop that night and proceeded to get gloriously, thoroughly and completely soused.
The next morning his head felt like a balloon; it pulled him up and took him into the mess hall exactly two hours late. But the mess sergeant was a good egg, and he fixed Dorman some coffee, oatmeal and a thick slice of lamb.
Back in the barracks he learned that Red Rogers and Ben Taylor had been transferred up to the Twenty-seventh and already had flown up to report for duty. That information, combined with the effects of his spree the night before, conspired to send him down into a state of depression again.
Pretty damned soon, he reflected, the war would be over and unless a fellow did something quick he never would get back into a show. The debacle of that early summer afternoon ate at the back of his mind and made him so self-conscious he imagined that every time he passed an officer he was being regarded with pity, that everybody was saying behind their hands, “There is the bird who got Luf killed.”
Already he had grown cynical and had isolated himself and had but one prayer, a chance to vindicate himself.
He never could vindicate himself back here. He had to get up front to do that. And that seemed as impossible as spanning the poles.
“God, why can’t I get a chance?” he muttered. “I can fly rings around some of those birds up there. Damn! Damn! Damn!”
He reasoned that when a fellow was all torn up inside about anything he ought t
o go up. A man should go up when he got his thinking apparatus hung together.
So in spite of the admonitions of the field staff, Dorman went up. He took a DH4 but it was a short flight. He circled the field a couple of times and thought about jumping over to Romorantin to see his old buddy, Al Peebles, who was in the Fifth A.S. Regiment. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it; and he decided to put the bus down and go down and get tight all over again.
Coming down he was swept by a ghastly emotion; in an instant he realized he had forgotten all he ever knew of flying, and he had no feel. He remembered his arms and fingers like wood…and he bounced twice and then the D.H. swung over in a perfect somersault and pitched him out.
He picked himself up as the men rushed out to salvage the wreck, and walked off to the barracks. He was sore and at the point of open rebellion and had decided the way to settle the war was with his fists. The first man who said anything to him he didn’t like was going to get busted in the jaw.
Ten minutes later an orderly came into the room and told him Major Carew, who was the commanding officer, wanted to see him.
Dorman whirled around, his face livid and for a moment the orderly thought he was going to be smashed.
“You present my compliments to the major and tell him to go to hell!” he cried to the orderly.
The orderly stood his ground, shook his head and bit his lip.
Chick Lancaster, who was one of the mob waiting for assignment to combat, came in and said, “Wait a minute, orderly.” He turned to Dorman and said, “Listen, you’ve lost your mind! Go on and see the C.O.”
Dorman’s face got red but he held himself in check. Lancaster was the only man in the post he had ever said anything to. He was a rough and tumble battler from Indiana and always spoke his mind.
“To hell with the C.O.! Orderly, tell Major Carew if he’s got anything to say to me he can come here and say it. To hell with everybody!”
Lancaster grabbed him by the shoulder and jerked him around.
“Look, George. You’re only making things worse. You can’t buck the whole damned army.” Dorman wiggled his shoulder to free himself and squared around and doubled up his fists. His eyes were blazing.
“Chick, you keep outta this! I can handle it.” He looked at the orderly and said, “Go on, allez!”
Lancaster blocked the exit and his voice got hard. “Orderly, go on back and tell him the lieutenant is on his way.”
Dorman said, “I’m gonna bust—”
Lancaster moved over and turned sideways. His right fist was drawn back.
“You’re going to get some sense in your head if I have to punch it in there.”
The orderly went out.
Dorman’s lips quivered and he yanked off his helmet. A trickle of blood came down from his forehead.
Lancaster said, “You’re hurt, George. Fix yourself up and go on.”
Dorman put his hand up and it came away red. “You go to hell,” he said coldly and went over to the washstand. He soaked a towel and patted it against the cut and in a moment it had stopped bleeding. Lancaster came over and stood beside him without saying anything.
Dorman carefully turned his head and saw the understanding in Lancaster’s face. Remorse engulfed him and his eyes filled with tears. He massaged them out with his doubled fists and got sore all over again. He turned away and muttered.
“—damn!—damn!”
He drove his doubled fists into his hips and his body convulsed with impotent rage. Lancaster followed him over to the table and sat down beside him.
“Listen, get a grip on yourself for God’s sake. You’re in bad enough as it is now. Unless you check up you’ll never get back to the front.”
“I know it,” he said. He lifted his eyes and said. “Chick, I guess I’m just a damned fool.”
Lancaster laughed and said, “Forget it. Beat it over to see Carew and when you get back I’ve got a spot of Three-Star stuck away.”
Dorman tried to smile.
“Okay,” he said.
* * * *
He expected the major to raise hell, but he was wrong. Max Carew had not won his majority for nothing. He knew men. He was to prove that later when he emerged from combat work as one of the finest squadron leaders of the war. He could be, and was sometimes, hardboiled; but to him each man represented an individual case and was not to be treated by a general formula.
“Sit down,” he said to Dorman, when the latter had come over to the office.
Dorman sat down, a little surprised, and waited for the blow.
Carew turned his chair around and said, “Boy, you’ve got a lot of things in your mind that you’ve got to get out.” He paused and waited, but Dorman didn’t say anything so he went on. “You’re sore at everybody. You’ve been sore for a month. Well, that’s not getting you anywhere.”
Dorman glared at him but still didn’t say anything.
“What the hell’s the matter with your head, Lieutenant?”
“What do you mean, Major?”
“Just that. You’re thinking crooked.”
“Maybe I am,” Dorman said shortly. “Maybe I am. But you know what the trouble is as well as I do.”
Major Carew smiled and nodded.
“Yes, I think I do.” He leaned over and folded his arms on his desk. “Well, Dorman, you aren’t the only one who wants to get up and see a little action. You don’t suppose this is pleasant for me to sit back here in a graveyard, do you? Not by a damn sight! But that’s the way of the army.
“There’s a war on and the generals know what they want. Most men can stand it—but sometimes there’s one who hasn’t got the guts to face the music.”
Dorman twisted in his seat and rubbed his hands together.
“Now, listen, Major—”
“You listen, Dorman!” the Major cut in swiftly. “I’ve seen men like you before. You had a chance to make good and muffed it and now you’re taking it out on the whole damned army. You’re a sorehead and a disorganizer. You’ve got the whole post up in arms. You’re a quitter if I ever saw one.”
The Major looked at him out of the corner of his eyes, saw the big fellow biting his lips to control himself and went on. “You don’t ever expect to get back up there by sulking, do you? Well, you haven’t a chance.” He hitched his chair closer and laid his hand on Dorman’s knee. It was rather an awkward gesture.
“You’re not the only man in this war, you know. There’s a lot of us over here and we’ve all got a job to do. The fellow who doesn’t do it is passing the buck to somebody else.”
Dorman looked at him in mingled rage and humiliation. Something in the major’s voice got under his skin. He lowered his head to avoid the major’s eyes and said, “I want to fight, sir. I want to fight more than anything else in the world.” He trembled.
The Major said, “Steady, now. Of course you do. And you will. In the meantime there are men who look to you for certain things. You aren’t giving them a break. Nobody knows what this war is all about. It’s tough to go on waiting and waiting…but it’s got to be done. Hold up your end of it. Now go on back to your barracks. There are five Spads to take up tonight.”
Dorman’s eyes widened.
“Tonight? You mean you’re sending me up after—” He hesitated and the Major said, “After what?”
“Why, I cracked a D.H.—”
The Major laughed and said, “Well, did it teach you anything?” He looked at the lieutenant sharply, the trace of a smile on his lips.
Dorman inhaled deeply, “I’ll say it did.”
“Fine.” The Major got up and stuck out his hand. “Are we friends?”
Dorman took the hand and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“That’s all right,” the Major said. “Just keep h
olding on.”
“Yes, sir,” Dorman said and went out.
He entered the barracks whistling and Chick Lancaster grinned and came over.
“What happened?” he said. “You don’t look like a little boy who caught hell.”
“I didn’t,” Dorman said.
“He didn’t decorate you, did he?”
“No, but he never said a word about the crack-up. Not a word. If he’d bawled me out I would have felt better. But he didn’t.”
“Swell,” Lancaster said. “Come on and we’ll have a snort.”
Dorman lifted up his right hand.
“Not me,” he said. “I’m off the stuff. I’m going up tonight with a convoy.”
Lancaster was surprised.
“What the Hell?” he said. “So am I.”
“Are you? Well, you oughtn’t to be boozing then.”
Lancaster was frankly amused.
“By God, he sure reformed you in a hurry.” There was a noise at the door and a slender chap with keen eyes and short-clipped hair came in. He had a dunnage bag with him and he dropped it in the corner and squared off in front of Lancaster.
“Well,” he said, “where do I park the body?”
Lancaster said, “Better go see the adjutant,” and the keen-eyed chap went out.
Dorman watched the retreating form. He asked, “Who’s the fresh guy?”
“Kid from Arizona,” Lancaster said. “Out in your country. His name’s Frank Luke.”
That didn’t mean anything to George Dorman. He sat down in a canvas-bottomed chair and said, “The First must be short of ships. I never heard of ferrying at night before.”
“They been catching hell, all right,” Lancaster said. “It’s being talked around even back here that the ’drome is in for a good bombing pretty soon.” He looked at Dorman quizzically. “Come on and take a snifter.”
The Adventure Novella MEGAPACK® Page 14
