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diff --git a/76617-0.txt b/76617-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..339d11f --- /dev/null +++ b/76617-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,690 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76617 *** + + +Outnumbered, His Pilot Shot, and Himself Wounded, His Plane + Hurtling to Death, the Old Sergeant Kept Up that Grim, + Bitter Stream of Live, Whining, Killing Lead! + +[Illustration: Biplanes in aerial combat] + + + + +TOO OLD TO FLY + +By IVAN MARCH + + +Sergeant Galladay learned to shoot a machine gun “from the rear end of a +mule.” That was the old marine corps phrase to describe a gunner who +learned all the tricks of his trade in the jungles and brush of +“spiggoty land.” + +Quite obviously such a leatherneck was not to be mentioned in the same +breath with a fellow who acquired his knowledge of projectory, windage, +recoil and assemblage, safe in the lecture room or gun pits of Paris +Island. + +The grammar-school education of Sergeant Horatio Galladay--then Private +Galladay--took place in the Spanish-American War, and his textbook was a +many-barreled Gatling gun he turned with a crank. Given plenty of +ammunition and a large enough target, Private Galladay caused plenty of +damage while he learned. His high-school course was in the Philippines, +followed by a college degree of D. B. W.--Doctor of Bushwhacking. + +For a diploma he received the navy cross for distinguished service, his +sergeant’s chevrons and a letter from the secretary of the navy, +complimenting him upon the diligence with which he had pursued his +studies--and the enemy. + +During that island campaign Sergeant Galladay served as the unwilling +carving block for an artistically inclined Moro chieftain. His machine +gun had jammed and the entire contents of his army model .38 Colt failed +to stop the maddened charge of the brown man, who danced forward, his +black eyes fixed gleefully on Galladay’s midriff, his bolo knife cutting +anticipatory patterns in the air. + +Silent as the death which he was facing, Sergeant Galladay dropped the +Moro at last with a straight right to the jaw, but in the meantime the +tribesman had carved his initials several times on Horatio Galladay’s +anatomy. The men of Company B found him weak in his own blood but still +cursing the jammed machine gun which he loved with a blaspheming love. + +For fear that Sergeant Galladay might forget what he had already learned +about the tricks of machine guns and to keep him abreast of the times in +his fine art, a philanthropic government at Washington managed to find +perennial fracases in various far-flung corners of the world where a +good machine gunner was worth his weight in gold. + +He chased cacos through the jungles and up the mountains of Haiti; he +crooned to his gun in San Domingo, Nicaragua, China and other places not +so well marked on the map. And he acquired, during this post-graduate +work, a marvelous knowledge of malaria fever, native liquor and +man-eating insects. In addition, during the occupation of Vera Cruz, he +earned two bullet wounds through his left leg, which ached abominably in +wet weather, and a flattened nose from the gentle caress of a mule’s +right hind foot. + +The entrance of the United States in the World War found the +battle-scarred veteran eligible for a professorship in his favorite +subject. Some one in Washington remembered the sergeant, thought twice +of his stocky, erect figure, his legs bowed by the weight of the guns he +had carried, his cold, blue eyes which had taken on the glint of the +metal barrels he had squinted down so often, thought once more of all +the knowledge and practical experience in that grizzled head. “Just the +man to teach the fine art of machine gunnery to the marine ‘boots,’” +General Somebody decided. Forthwise, Sergeant Horatio Galladay was +ordered to Paris Island. + +Sergeant Galladay went. But he didn’t stay. Thirty minutes after his +arrival he marched up to the commanding officer’s desk and snapped to +attention, his square jaw thrust forward belligerently and his eyes +firing two hundred shots a minute. + +“Hello, ‘Hod’!” greeted the C. O., grinning his pleasure at seeing the +sergeant again. As a matter of past history, there had been a torrid day +in the Philippines when Sergeant Galladay’s bullet-spitting music box +had saved the C. O.’s little company from being wiped off the earth. +“Hello, Sergeant Galladay!” he added more severely, for he saw trouble +in the gunner’s cold eyes. + +“’Lo, colonel!” grunted Galladay. + +“Well, well, what’s the trouble now?” And the C. O. began to turn over +the foot-high stack of paper work. “Suppose you want to go straight to +France, eh? Be shooting up the German high command by to-morrow night, +eh? Just like the rest of----” + +“Right!” barked Sergeant Galladay. + +“Listen, sergeant,” reasoned the C. O. placatingly, “we’ve got something +better than that for you. Sure! We’re going to give you a commission. +Yes, sir, a commission! And put you in charge of machine-gun +instruction. How’s that, old-timer? A commission and----” + +“Commission be damned!” burred Hod Galladay. “Begging your pardon, +colonel. Look here, sir. I’ve been fooling around in these half-pint +spigotty wars for twenty-five years. Now when a real war comes along you +try to give me a trick commission and shelve me away ‘training boots’! +Is it fair? No, it ain’t! Now get this! My hitch in this man’s service +is up in six weeks. Six weeks! And if I don’t get a promise of action +pronto I’ll quit. Quit cold, unless I join up with them Germans, maybe.” + +The C. O. reached for his pipe and waved his hands helplessly. He sensed +the utter futility of argument with the old leatherneck. + +“All right, all right, you old fire-eater,” he said soothingly. “We’ll +just forget that teaching detail. Name your poison. What do you want to +do?” + +“I want to sign up with the aviation. I hear they’re forming a marine +aviation outfit. I want to fly.” + +“What?” The commanding officer’s jaw dropped open, the pipe fell from +his mouth. He stared at Sergeant Galladay as if the latter were an +escaped lunatic. + +“Good Lord, Galladay, you can’t sign up with the air service! Why, man, +that’s a young fellow’s outfit--got to have a bunch of crazy kids. We’re +setting the age limit at thirty and we’d rather have ’em around twenty. +Say, how old are you, anyway?” + +“Forty-three,” lied Sergeant Galladay manfully. + +“Forty-three! Good Lord, that’s only thirteen years over the limit. Guess +you better forget that fool aviation idea of yours, sergeant.” + +“Quit, then!” the leatherneck said. + +The commanding officer shook his head despairingly. These old-timers +were damnably set in their ways. If they got an idea into their heads +you couldn’t budge it--not with a three-inch field piece. The commanding +officer reached for a memo pad. + +“Very well then, Galladay,” he sighed. “I’ll recommend that you be +attached to this new air-force group. They’ll need some one to teach +machine gunnery. But get this! They’ll assign you to that job and keep +you on the ground for the duration of the war. Serve you right, too.” + +“Keep me on the ground?” grinned Sergeant Galladay. “Sure they +will--like hell! Once I get set with that outfit I’ll be flying every +ship they’ve got!” He snorted contemptuously. “Too old to fly! Say, +colonel, just give you and me twenty men from the old C Company and we +could swab up a whole regiment of these here young whipper-snappers +they’re recruiting nowadays.” + + * * * * * + +Sergeant Horatio Galladay thrust his head out of the door of the armory +shack of the --th Marine Aviation Group, Ardres, France, just as a +bombing squadron, returning from a daylight raid on the submarine base +at Ostend, swept downward over the row of French poplars which lined the +north end of the drome. + +“Four, five, six, seven,” Sergeant Galladay counted the returning planes +as their wheels touched the field. “All present and accounted for. +That’s good.” + +For eighteen months now he had watched the planes--not these particular +planes, but ships varying from the old Canadian-rigged, Hispano-powered +J. N. training planes and tricky, tail-heavy “Tommies” to these +Liberty-motored De Haviland bombers; and always he got the same thrill, +the same unsatisfied longing to fly when they took off, the same relief +when they returned. + +He hadn’t flown over the enemy lines himself yet, but that wasn’t his +fault. He had begged, pleaded, cursed, pulled wires--and all he got for +it was a laugh and a glance at his grizzled head, a glance which said: +“Too old to fly, old-timer--a young man’s game.” So he remained in +charge of the noncommissioned machine gunners and the armory shop. True, +by dint of threats and bribery he had managed to get a few joy rides and +three of the pilots had even allowed him to handle the stick a bit. But +when he requested permission to solo-- + +Sergeant Galladay sighed as he turned back into the shack. He supposed +he was too old--too cautious. It took the devil-may-care young-uns for +air work. He looked very sad as he placed the Lewis gun he had been +repairing back into its wooden case. For a moment or two he caressed the +weapon absently, staring into space. Suddenly his shoulders went back, +he pulled his fore-and-aft hat over the bald spot on his head and +started for the door. His eyes glinted his determination. He’d try once +more. + +The De Havilands were taxiing up to the camouflaged hangars which lined +the field. Motors roared in staccato bursts. Lieutenant “Buck” Weaver, +the flight leader, a blond, wind-tanned giant, brought his plane up to +No. 1 hangar with a roar, cut the throttle and leaped out of the +cockpit, leaving the motor idling. He felt a hand on his arm and turned. + +“Well, hello, Hod, old-timer!” he greeted Sergeant Galladay +affectionately. + +“What luck?” demanded the sergeant. + +“Great! Six direct hits. And we picked off two Fokkers on the way home! +Not bad, eh, Dad?” + +Sergeant Galladay scowled. He had helped to whip the tall, gawky recruit +into a real soldier and now here he was with a commission, calling an +old-timer “Dad”! Well, at that, the young pilot was a son of whom any +real dad might be proud. + +“Yeah, Buck, suppose you’ll personally claim both them Boches,” Galladay +said with heavy sarcasm. “And about five of them direct hits.” Suddenly +his manner changed. He became mild, ingratiating, pleading. “Say, when +you going to give me that ride over the lines you promised?” + +Lieutenant Weaver flashed a row of strong, white teeth; his young eyes +smiled banteringly. “Any time, old-timer. How about this afternoon? +We’ll get ‘Hap’ Johnston to go along with us in his bus for company. +Suit you?” + +Little chills of excitement ran up and down Sergeant Galladay’s spine; +he could feel the hair prickle at the back of his neck. At last he was +going to fly over the lines! With an effort he controlled himself; his +face was as expressionless as a wooden image. + +“Suits me fine,” he agreed. “I’ll be ready. What time?” + +“Oh, about four. We’ll take a little joy ride up to Nieuport and back. +You’ll learn what antiaircraft is like, anyway. I want to be back early. +Got a date for six thirty.” + +“You and your dates!” scoffed Galladay, for something to say. + +Impulsively Buck Weaver took the older man’s arm and led him toward +headquarters. Buck was overflowing with sentiment; he must tell some +one, and it couldn’t be his flying comrades for they’d laugh at him, kid +him unmercifully. Yes, the thrill of the successful raid had increased +his excitement and happiness; he must tell someone his secret or burst. +Why not the tight-lipped old marine sergeant, Dad Galladay? + +“You know any of the WAAC _femmes_, Dad?” he asked in a low voice as he +strode along. + +Galladay nodded his grizzled head; his mind was on the promised flight +and he hadn’t half heard the flyer’s question. + +“Then mebbe you know Miss Childers?” Buck primed, and there was a +suggestion of holy worship in his tone. “Ruth Childers?” + +The old sergeant shook his head. He was hoping that they’d meet eight or +ten or twelve Boche planes that afternoon. He’d show ’em some plain and +fancy shooting. + +“Well, you got to meet her,” Buck announced gravely. “She’s the most +wonderful girl in the world, bar none. Ask me if she’s wonderful!” + +“I’ll let ’em have it like they never got it before,” Dad Galladay +muttered. + +“We’re half engaged,” the handsome young lieutenant admitted in a +whisper. + +“Which half?” asked Galladay, without thinking what he said. + +“Well, it’s like this,” Buck Weaver confessed naively. “She’ll marry me +if I give up flying. Marry me.” He repeated the words and stuttered over +them. “Only, of course, I can’t give up flying. Not now, anyway. So +we’re half engaged and... Holy mackerel! Here she comes to meet me! Ask +me, Dad, ask me, isn’t she the neatest, prettiest, nicest---- Ruth, this +is Sergeant Galladay. Dad Galladay. Miss Childers, Dad.” + +Dad Galladay received a faint impression of a mass of golden-yellow hair +escaping from a rakish little cap, of big blue eyes, a pink-and-white +complexion and a smiling little mouth. He realized dimly that in front +of him stood a girl with her hand outstretched, a very attractive girl, +trim and graceful in her neat, brown uniform. Very faintly, too, he +understood that the girl’s blue eyes were watching Buck Weaver with love +akin to worship and her lips were smiling at the big, blond giant with +marvelous tenderness. Sergeant Galladay took the little hand that was +proffered him. + +“I’ll betcha I’ll get eight out of them ten Boche,” Dad promised +inanely. + +Too late Buck Weaver kicked the sergeant’s ankle. The girl’s blue eyes +had widened with sudden perturbation. + +“What’d you say?” she asked, and when the old sergeant stammered +incoherently, she turned full on Weaver. “Allington,” she pleaded with +half a sob in her voice, “you aren’t going to fly again to-day, are you? +Oh, you won’t, will you? Not when you don’t have to. You don’t know how +I worry when you’re out. It makes me almost sick and----” + +“Oh, shoot!” scoffed Buck Weaver. “I just promised Dad a little joy +ride, that’s all. Just up to Nieuport and back. We won’t make any +contacts. Sure we won’t. I just want to show him how the antiaircraft +work. He’s been hounding me to death for four months now and I got to do +it.” + +“But----” protested the girl. + +“I got to keep my promise, haven’t I?” Buck Weaver insisted. “You +needn’t worry. Honest, we’ll scoot home at the first sign of Boche. +Honest, I will, Ruth.” + +Ruth Childers had taken the hands of the big aviator and was staring up +into his bronzed face. + +“All right, Buck,” she said. “This time.” + +Buck flashed a grin over his shoulder to old Dad Galladay who stood +there awkwardly enough, shifting from one foot to the other, still +thinking about the eight Boche planes he was going to bring down out of +the ten he was already fighting in his imagination. + +“See you at four, Dad,” Buck announced. “_Toute suite._” + +“Sure!” called Galladay, and as an afterthought: “Say, Miss Childers, +you needn’t worry about Buck this afternoon. I’ll bring him home O. K. +Sure I will.” + +The two young people strolled away arm in arm, leaving the old marine +sergeant standing there and staring after them. But he wasn’t wondering +about young love at all; in his mind he was already pressing the trigger +of a Lewis machine gun, soaring high in the air and engaging ten huge +enemy planes at once. + + * * * * * + +Four o’clock found the planes of Buck Weaver and Hap Johnston gassed, +oiled, ready and on the line. Sergeant Galladay had seen to it that the +motors were tuned up like Swiss watches. For the last hour the old war +dog, dressed in a borrowed flying suit which was considerably too big +for him, had been adjusting and readjusting the double Lewises in the +gunner’s cockpit of plane No. 1. Meantime Corporal O’Hara seated in the +other plane, was offering unheeded advice to the old-timer. + +“If we run into any Boche don’t get buck fever like I did first time, +sergeant!” he shouted. “Yes, sir, I sat there and couldn’t fire a single +shot. Not for the life of me. Now don’t get that way, sergeant. Just +swing on ’em like you were shooting ducks. Throw the tracers at ’em and +keep pouring ’em in.” + +“Say, who learned you how to shoot, kid?” Sergeant Galladay snorted +contemptuously. “Didn’t I have to show you which end of a gun the +bullets came from? Kid, I was shooting off’n the rear end of a mule while +you was cutting teeth. Now you know it all just because you happened to +knock down a Boche plane or two! Me get buck fever! Say, I expect to get +eight out of ten, at least!” + +O’Hara grinned, “All right, old-timer! Only better men than you have had +it and---- Here comes our two guys. Say, them two babies are the best +pilots in the outfit, sergeant. The Heinies know it, too, and if they +weren’t scared clean out of the air they’d be on our tails this +afternoon.” + +Galladay was deaf to everything except the beating of his own heart. He +shouted to a mechanic to “twist her tail” and the motor was running long +before Buck Weaver reached the plane. + +“Feel a bit shaky, dad?” the pilot asked as he climbed into the cockpit. +“Most everybody does the first trip over.” + +Sergeant Galladay shook his head. “Not a bit shaky, son,” he lied. “Say, +listen, this airplane stuff is tame compared with the old days.” + +Pilot Weaver grinned and pushed open the throttle until the tachometer +registered fourteen hundred revolutions, listened intently to the motor, +wiggle-waggled his controls and nodded his satisfaction. + +“All right! Pull the blocks!” + +Two waiting mechanics removed the heavy wooden blocks in front of the +wheels. Weaver taxied to the middle of the field, brought the plane to +the wind and gave her the gun. The Liberty motor roared, spitting fire +from the exhaust manifolds; slowly the big De Haviland crept forward, +gathered speed, skimmed over the ground, bumped gently twice, and leaped +into the air. + +Around the field the plane circled until the hangars became little +camouflaged ant hills and the row of poplars behind them were like +miniature nursery trees. Still climbing, Weaver swung his plane toward +the coast. Sergeant Galladay could see the English Channel and the port +of Calais with the shipping in the harbor like little toy boats. Then he +noticed that Weaver had turned his head and was grinning at him. The +machine gunner, exultant as a viking in the prow of a pirate ship, waved +his hand and grinned back. + +Weaver continued to hold the plane’s nose up, and the altimeter on the +instrument board indicated twelve thousand feet when she passed over +Dunkirk. Beyond that point lay the skeleton houses of the ruined town of +Furnes, and the blackened scar stretching to the eastern horizon which +was the Flanders front. + +Sergeant Galladay peered over the side of the cockpit and scrutinized +the ruined landscape below with awed eyes. By glory, they’d made a mess +of it down there, he thought. A hell of a way to fight a war--men up to +their necks in mud in those zigzagged lines of trenches. Day by day, +month by month, hot as hell, cold as Iceland, penned up like rats in +their holes, pecking at each other with machine guns and rifles, +throwing hand grenades, waiting for a big shell with the right number to +blow up a whole squad. + +Sergeant Galladay recalled the old, wild, free days in the +Philippines--Haiti--Cuba. Fever, snakes, and big tropical ticks there +were in plenty--and action, too. But it had been every man for himself +there and lots of territory to cover--not this rat-trap warfare. + +The Germans weren’t paying any attention to the American planes at all. +Where the devil was the Archie--the German antiaircraft? + +_Whomp! Woof! Woof!_ + +As if in answer to his wonder the German batteries surrounding the town +of Nieuport sent up a welcoming barrage of high explosive shells--little +clouds of black, dirty smoke which barked at the planes like ferocious +dogs. Chains of flaming “onions” drifted upward lazily toward the two +allied planes. Sergeant Galladay’s heart leaped wildly. He was actually +over the lines now, really flying above German territory. It was the +realization of a dream, a realization which found him strangely shaken +and breathless. + +Weaver turned and grinned again, then signaled to Johnston who was in +their rear. The two planes headed back toward the allied lines. + +The antiaircraft was still banging away at them, but there didn’t seem +to be a German plane in the sky. Oddly enough, Sergeant Galladay, for +all his former anticipation and bloodthirsty threats, wasn’t sorry. It +was a lot different away up there in the sky than it had been in the +good old days down on terra firma with trees to hide behind and plenty +of ammunition and a good machine gun set up on a tripod. Down there he +was in his element; sky-high, he felt impotent, vulnerable, old. His +mind drifted back to that day years ago when he had had the battle with +the Moro chieftain and again to the storming of Vera Cruz. There a man +had a chance and---- + +_Zip--zip--zip!_ + +Three white streaks cut past Sergeant Galladay’s left shoulder. He +glanced upward, an oath of surprise on his lips. Three little planes +with black crosses painted on their wings had appeared out of nowhere +and were diving on the De Haviland, their guns gibbering death. Tracer +bullets cut through the wing fabric. A panel strut not six inches from +Lieutenant Weaver’s right ear flew into splinters. Sergeant Galladay +stood braced in the gunner’s cockpit as if paralyzed, his mouth open, +his eyes bulging, his guns forgotten, too surprised to move, even to +think. + +Buck Weaver was thinking fast enough for two. He had counted on Galladay +to keep close watch from behind and the attack had taken him completely +by surprise, but he was young enough to react with lightning rapidity. +Full motor he gave the De Haviland and banked it into a steep, climbing +turn. He was endeavoring to shake the Fokkers off his tail and to bring +his own fixed guns to bear, but the Germans were no novices. The leader +zoomed upward and the other two circled right and left and dived again. + +Weaver glanced quickly around him, hoping for support. To his right Hap +Johnston was having troubles of his own, a private little dog fight with +two other Fokkers. There was no help there, no help anywhere, only the +three enemy Fokkers attacking from three directions, converging their +fire. + +Desperately Buck Weaver dived, twisting the plane like a snipe in +flight, but the Germans’ fire continued to find its mark. Bullets ripped +through the fuselage, tore at the wings, splintered the struts. One cut +Weaver’s sleeve and a second later another struck him in the shoulder, +shattering it. He cried out, but strove valiantly to keep control of his +plane. + +Old Sergeant Galladay saw it all happen with wide, fear-haunted eyes. He +hadn’t made a move, hadn’t fired a shot. He seemed paralyzed--a statue +of a man. Now the De Haviland nosed over into a vertical dive. With a +supreme effort Buck Weaver straightened up and momentarily righted the +plunging plane. + +“Dad! For God’s sake, heads up!” he screamed. + +Sergeant Galladay couldn’t hear the words but the agonized look on +Weaver’s face struck him like a dash of cold water, startled him back +into reality as if from a nightmare. His mind, which had been stricken +numb, suddenly began to race like the motor. The predicament he had +created flashed in a searing flame across his brain. Buck fever! He, the +old-timer, veteran of a dozen campaigns had been stricken with buck +fever like the rawest recruit! But not for long. No, sir! Hadn’t he +promised that yellow-haired girl to bring her man back safe and sound? +Hadn’t he? And here was her man, good old Buck Weaver, in desperate +straits. + +With the quickness of a cat the old sergeant bent low in the cockpit and +swung his guns to bear on the nearest Fokker. Emboldened by the apparent +defenselessness of the De Haviland, the German plane was diving straight +upon its prey. + +“Damn you! Damn you!” Dad Galladay screamed. “Shoot the kid, will you? +Well, I’ll get you for that!” + +_Rat--tat--tat--tat!_ + +The double Lewises jabbered staccato death. Tracer bullets streaked +upward. Sergeant Galladay saw them pour into the fuselage of the +Fokker, saw the plane lurch into a spin, motor full on. That was all +he needed to see in that quarter. In a flash he swung his guns to bear +on the Fokker to the right. The German, observing the fate of his +companion, desperately whipped his plane into an Immelman turn. Again +Galladay’s double Lewises jabbered one short burst, but the bullets +went wild and the sergeant swore coldly, violently, at his own +marksmanship. + +Buck Weaver, weakened and dazed by loss of blood, fighting back the +blackness of unconsciousness, sat bolt upright in the front cockpit and +the De Haviland flew as if a mechanical man were at the controls--flew a +level course without effort to maneuver, without effort to escape. It +was an invitation to the two remaining German planes. They circled and +dived again, one from each side, meaning to strike the death blow to +this stubborn American plane and the American ace. + +Crouched low in the gunner’s cockpit, Sergeant Galladay waited. The +Fokkers were already firing. A burst of bullets ripped through the +De Haviland’s tail assembly; one glanced off the gun barrel not six +inches from the old sergeant’s head, but still he withheld his fire. +Buck Weaver cried out again. His leg was shattered this time. + +“Dad! Dad!” he shouted. “I’m going--going----” His voice ceased, but his +white lips slowly formed two other words: “Ruth--good-by----” + +Dad Galladay was sighting along the barrels of the double Lewises, +waiting, waiting. He could see the German pilot on the right peering +over the side of the plane and it seemed to him that the man was +laughing. + +“Laugh, will you?” he muttered. “All right, laugh now!” He aimed high, +allowing for distance. It was a long shot but he had made as hard ones +before in his life. He pressed the trigger. + +_Rat--tat--tat--tat!_ + +The Fokker lurched sidewise, hesitated a moment; then, in slow, lazy +circles it swung downward, the pilot hanging over the side of his +cockpit. + +Dad Galladay shook his fist at the doomed plane. “Next!” he shouted. +“Who’s next? Bring on your whole damned air force! We licked them, eh, +Buck, my boy?” + +But Buck Weaver did not hear the shouted words. A black veil, spotted +with crimson dots, was closing down over his eyes. He felt tired, very +tired. Slowly he slumped down in his seat. The pilotless plane nosed +over into a dive. + +Dad Galladay, clinging to his guns, at first thought that the sudden +dive was a maneuver of Buck Weaver’s. Then some inner sense warned him. +One glance at the front cockpit told him the desperate state of affairs. +Weaver was “out”; the plane was going down out of control. Just then +something stung the old gunner in the leg. He glanced upward. The third +Fokker, fearing a ruse or wishing to make sure of his kill, was +following the American plane down, pouring lead into it. The German was +so sure of his prey that he was making not the slightest effort to +protect his own plane. + +“Gotta get him!” Sergeant Galladay told himself. Once more he squinted +along the barrels of his double weapon until the sights were on the +vital section of the German plane. “Gotta get him!” + +He pressed the trigger, felt the beloved vibration of his machine guns. +But the plunging plane destroyed his aim and the bullets flew wild. +Cursing, he pressed the trigger again. The guns fired +twice--_put-put!_--and were silent. Out of ammunition! With the +swiftness of a magician, the deftness of a card shark, Dad Galladay +whipped a pan of cartridges from the rack at his side and fitted it on +the guns. None too soon, either. The German plane was not thirty yards +distant. Without aiming, almost instinctively, he threw the muzzles of +the guns at the German and pressed the trigger. Above him the Fokker +wavered; it burst into flames; it shrieked earthward. + +The American plane was in little better circumstances. It, too, seemed +utterly doomed. It had gone into a tailspin now, the fuselage whipping +around viciously. A dozen more turns and the structure, weakened by +German bullets, would fly to pieces. The earth where the flaming German +lay was racing up at an incredible rate. Nearer, nearer--a matter of a +few hundred feet now, a few seconds--and then eternity. + +Sergeant Galladay snatched the auxiliary control stick from its brackets +in the gunner’s cockpit; unerringly he thrust it into the socket which +connected with the auxiliary controls. His motions were cool, precise, +his blue eyes were icy cold. And his mind, working with that incredible +swiftness which sometimes precedes death, recorded impressions as the +whirling tape of a moving-picture camera records pictures--Buck Weaver’s +lifeless, bobbing head, the flaming skeleton of the German plane, a +trench with men in pot-shaped helmets peering upward, a dead man on the +barbed wire in front of the crowded trench. + +He pulled the stick back gently. A weakened flying wire snapped like a +tightened harp string. Every strut, every member of the wounded plane +screamed under the stress. Would she stand it? Would she fly to pieces? +And then gracefully the De Haviland righted itself, barely above ground, +just over the heads of those white-faced men in the queer, zigzag +trench. + +A shout sounded, a strange mingling of exultation and savage battle cry. +Dad Galladay, “too old to fly,” was soloing at last! Soloing over No +Man’s Land, with a wounded pilot in the front cockpit! + + * * * * * + +Lieutenant Buck Weaver sat propped up in bed in the convalescent ward of +a Belgian hospital, just behind the front lines. Around him lingered a +faint aroma of perfume and his eyes were fixed upon the door through +which Ruth Childers had just left. + +Suddenly the doorway framed a wheel chair in which sat Sergeant +Galladay. His face was as red as ever and contrasted vividly with the +white sheets and white walls of the ward; his grizzled hair rose +stubbornly around his bald spot. At sight of Buck Weaver the cold, blue +eyes of the old sergeant seemed to become several degrees warmer. + +He pushed his wheel chair forward rapidly with his hands until he was +beside Buck’s bed, and for a long moment the two sat close, grinning +sheepishly at each other. + +“Well, I reckon I better congratulate you,” Sergeant Galladay said at +last. He threw a stubby thumb toward the door. “I met her outside.” + +“What did she tell you?” demanded Buck Weaver, his face beaming. + +“Aw----” + +“About the congressional medal of honor you have been recommended for, +eh?” + +“Medal be damned!” burred Sergeant Galladay. “She--she kissed me. I +reckon that was for bringing you back alive, eh?” + +“And all the time you had those two bullets in you.” + +“Aw,” protested Sergeant Galladay, “I never felt ’em. I was too scared +to feel ’em.” + +“Yes, you were!” + +For a moment more there was silence, broken again by Sergeant Galladay. +“I reckon you aren’t half engaged any more,” he said, fingering the +blanket which was wrapped around his legs. “I reckon you’re all engaged, +eh?” + +“Yes, Dad,” Weaver said reverentially. “She’s the finest, sweetest, +prettiest, nicest----” + +“Tell that to the newspapers,” interrupted Sergeant Galladay brusquely. +“I heard it all once before, anyway.” He pointed an accusing finger at +the young flyer. “Say! I bet you promised her to give up flyin’--get +transferred to the damn infantry or somethin’! Didn’t yuh?” + +Buck Weaver nodded, but the spasm of mingled disgust and indignation +which twisted the old-timer’s face caused him to burst out laughing. + +“It isn’t so bad as all that, Dad,” he chuckled. “We compromised. I +promised never to climb into a ship again--after the war.” + +The expression of righteous indignation on Dad Galladay’s face faded to +a sheepish grin. Suddenly his eyes hardened, blue metal between two +slits. In his imagination his wheel chair became the gunner’s cockpit of +a battle plane, the crutch across his lap a machine gun. Buck Weaver was +in the pilot’s cockpit; twenty Boche fighting planes were swooping down +upon them. Dad Galladay waved the crutch wildly. + +“Bang! Bang! Bang!” he shouted gleefully. “Take that, and that, and +that!” + +A water bottle on the bed table was knocked to the floor. Its thud +brought Sergeant Galladay back to earth, and the wheel chair became a +wheel chair, the crutch merely a crutch. Dad Galladay leaned over and +touched Buck Weaver on the arm. + +“Say, Buck, old-timer,” he confided in an awed voice, “we’ll sure give +’em hell when we’re out of here and flying together, eh?” His voice +dropped. “Gosh, it ain’t hardly fair, Buck. No, sir, it ain’t right. +We’re jest too damn good for them Heinies.” + + +[Transcriber’s Notes: + 1. This story appeared in The Popular Magazine, November 7, 1929. + 2. Author consistenly used "De Haviland" to describe "De Havilland". + 3. "Paris Island" is the original name of what is now "Parris Island" +] + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76617 *** |