diff options
Diffstat (limited to '76617-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 76617-h/76617-h.htm | 703 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76617-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 0 -> 261186 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 76617-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg | bin | 0 -> 132439 bytes |
3 files changed, 703 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/76617-h/76617-h.htm b/76617-h/76617-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf198e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/76617-h/76617-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,703 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0"> + <title>Too Old to Fly | Project Gutenberg</title> + <style> + body { + line-height: 1.2; + margin: 0 8%; + color: #333; + } + p { + margin: 0; + text-align: justify; + text-indent: 1.2em; + } + i, em { + font-style: italic; + } + .tn { + font-size:0.9em; + border:1px solid silver; + margin-top:1.8em; + margin-left:8%; + width:80%; + padding:0.4em 2%; + background-color: #DDDDEE; + } + .tn p { + text-indent:0; + } + .tac { + text-align:center; + } + h1 { + text-align:center; font-weight:normal; font-size:1.25em; + margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; + } + .fs09 { + font-size:0.9em; + } + .fs11 { + font-size:1.1em; + } + .mb10 { + margin-bottom:1.0em; + } + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76617 ***</div> + +<div class='tac fs09 mt01' style='width:74%; margin-left:13%;'> +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! +</div> + +<div style="text-align: center; margin-top:0.5em;"> + <img src="images/illus-fpc.jpg" alt="biplanes in air combat" style="width: 70%;" /> +</div> + +<h1>TOO OLD TO FLY</h1> + +<div class='tac mb10'>By IVAN MARCH</div> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“’Lo, colonel!” grunted Galladay.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“Right!” barked Sergeant Galladay.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>The C. O. reached for his pipe and waved his hands helplessly. He sensed the +utter futility of argument with the old leatherneck.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“I want to sign up with the aviation. I hear they’re forming a marine aviation +outfit. I want to fly.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Forty-three,” lied Sergeant Galladay manfully.</p> + +<p>“Forty-three! Good Lord, that’s only thirteen years over the limit. Guess you +better forget that fool aviation idea of yours, sergeant.”</p> + +<p>“Quit, then!” the leatherneck said.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<div style='height:1em;'></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Four, five, six, seven,” Sergeant Galladay counted the returning planes as +their wheels touched the field. “All present and accounted for. That’s good.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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—</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Well, hello, Hod, old-timer!” he greeted Sergeant Galladay affectionately.</p> + +<p>“What luck?” demanded the sergeant.</p> + +<p>“Great! Six direct hits. And we picked off two Fokkers on the way home! Not +bad, eh, Dad?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Suits me fine,” he agreed. “I’ll be ready. What time?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“You and your dates!” scoffed Galladay, for something to say.</p> + +<p>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?</p> + +<p>“You know any of the WAAC <i>femmes</i>, Dad?” he asked in a low voice as he strode +along.</p> + +<p>Galladay nodded his grizzled head; his mind was on the promised flight and he +hadn’t half heard the flyer’s question.</p> + +<p>“Then mebbe you know Miss Childers?” Buck primed, and there was a suggestion +of holy worship in his tone. “Ruth Childers?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll let ’em have it like they never got it before,” Dad Galladay muttered.</p> + +<p>“We’re half engaged,” the handsome young lieutenant admitted in a whisper.</p> + +<p>“Which half?” asked Galladay, without thinking what he said.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I’ll betcha I’ll get eight out of them ten Boche,” Dad promised inanely.</p> + +<p>Too late Buck Weaver kicked the sergeant’s ankle. The girl’s blue eyes had +widened with sudden perturbation.</p> + +<p>“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——”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But——” protested the girl.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Ruth Childers had taken the hands of the big aviator and was staring up into +his bronzed face.</p> + +<p>“All right, Buck,” she said. “This time.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“See you at four, Dad,” Buck announced. “<i>Toute suite.</i>”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div style='height:1em;'></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Feel a bit shaky, dad?” the pilot asked as he climbed into the cockpit. “Most +everybody does the first trip over.”</p> + +<p>Sergeant Galladay shook his head. “Not a bit shaky, son,” he lied. “Say, +listen, this airplane stuff is tame compared with the old days.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“All right! Pull the blocks!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The Germans weren’t paying any attention to the American planes at all. Where +the devil was the Archie—the German antiaircraft?</p> + +<p><em>Whomp! Woof! Woof!</em></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Weaver turned and grinned again, then signaled to Johnston who was in their +rear. The two planes headed back toward the allied lines.</p> + +<p>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——</p> + +<p><em>Zip—zip—zip!</em></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Dad! For God’s sake, heads up!” he screamed.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Damn you! Damn you!” Dad Galladay screamed. “Shoot the kid, will you? Well, +I’ll get you for that!”</p> + +<p><em>Rat—tat—tat—tat!</em></p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Dad! Dad!” he shouted. “I’m going—going——” His voice ceased, but his white +lips slowly formed two other words: “Ruth—good-by——”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p><em>Rat—tat—tat—tat!</em></p> + +<p>The Fokker lurched sidewise, hesitated a moment; then, +in slow, lazy circles it swung downward, the pilot hanging over the side of +his cockpit.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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—<em>put-put!</em>—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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<div style='height:1em;'></div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Well, I reckon I better congratulate you,” Sergeant Galladay said at last. He +threw a stubby thumb toward the door. “I met her outside.”</p> + +<p>“What did she tell you?” demanded Buck Weaver, his face beaming.</p> + +<p>“Aw——”</p> + +<p>“About the congressional medal of honor you have been recommended for, eh?”</p> + +<p>“Medal be damned!” burred Sergeant Galladay. “She—she kissed me. I reckon +that was for bringing you back alive, eh?”</p> + +<p>“And all the time you had those two bullets in you.”</p> + +<p>“Aw,” protested Sergeant Galladay, “I never felt ’em. I was too scared to feel +’em.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, you were!”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Dad,” Weaver said reverentially. “She’s the finest, sweetest, prettiest, +nicest——”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Buck Weaver nodded, but the spasm of mingled disgust and indignation which +twisted the old-timer’s face caused him to burst out laughing.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Bang! Bang! Bang!” he shouted gleefully. “Take that, and that, and that!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<div class='tn mb10'> +<div class='tac'>Transcriber’s Notes</div> +<ol> +<li>This story appeared in <i>The Popular Magazine</i>, November 7, 1929.</li> +<li>Author consistenly used "De Haviland" to describe "De Havilland".</li> +<li>"Paris Island" is the original name of what is now "Parris Island"</li> +</ol> +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76617 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76617-h/images/cover.jpg b/76617-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2025b97 --- /dev/null +++ b/76617-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76617-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg b/76617-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..34a20a7 --- /dev/null +++ b/76617-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg |
