In April 1917, Woodrow Wilson declared war against Germany and the United States' involvement in World War I began. The country exploded into a fount of patriotic fevor not seen again for twenty years. Even children's magazines and books joined the fray: both girls and boys in the series novels of the era found some way to help, from sewing to spying, and St. Nicholas published numerous short stories and articles about young men and women, and children, involved in the war effort. This is a typical boys' tale of the time, showing heroism and modesty all at once, a tale that showed none of the actual realism of that "war to end all wars.""You will take poor Jack's Silvertip. She 's all right now. And if that trapeze artist gets within a mile of the line—oh well, lad, do the best you can. I would n't send you, but—you know where our men have gone!"
Thus the captain, to Clarence Reginald, who looked at him with his mouth open, his eyes starting in his head, and absolute incredulity and lack of comprehension spread all over his face. Jack's Silvertip—the fastest single-seater battle-plane in the squadron—to keep the "trapeze artist" from the line—he, Clarence Reginald—Oh, it was simply impossible!
Clarence Reginald could n't help his name. Indeed, it is somewhat doubtful if he ever thought that he had a name he wanted to change—it was his father's name, and his father's before that, and his grandfather's name, and the names of a whole lot of fighting ancestors. Their portraits were all in the great hall at home, and there were even a couple of suits of battered armor which once belonged to some ancient Lord Chesley. When he thought about it at all, Clarence Reginald remembered to be proud of the fact that he had an armor-wearing ancestor who fought at Hastings.
But lately he had n't had time to think much about ancestors. You don't, you know, when you are qualifying to be an aviator. And that was what had taken all of Clarence Reginald's time since the great adventure began.
The great adventure was his running away from home and getting in the army. Boys of not quite eighteen can't go and enlist in the British army just when they want to, even if they do look a good deal older. There are strict laws, and the recruiting people have such an inconvenient way of asking questions! They want to know who you are and why you are and where you came from, you know, and if you are of age. and are your parents willing; and they are very sorry, because they need men, but unless Father will sign a permit, you can't take the king's shilling, and so on and so on. Clarence Reginald had tried it several times,—three, to be exact,—and it would n't work. Liverpool, London, and Leeds—all were very inhospitable.
Clarence Reginald could n't see why he could n't go. There was his elder sister, the Honorable Lady Egberta, and she was somewhere in France in a hospital. There were his three cousins—two of them dead and one a prisoner. Dad was something important in the Flying Corps offices in London, while he, Clarence Reginald, was supposed to amuse himself with home-guard duty and make-believe soldiering at Chesley. Clarence Reginald had been brought up an English gentleman, and English gentlemen are taught not to tell lies. So it was n't until Clarence Reginald had been turned back three times that it occurred to him that if he went to some other city and pretended to be just of age, and to be an orphan, that he might manage to get into an English soldier's suit.
And then, strange though it may seem, by an odd combination of circumstances, he managed to slip through.
Then, in training-camp, came the incredible bit of luck. Clarence Reginald did n't believe it even when it happened, but there it was. Colonel Hammond had a wife, and the wife a carriage, and the carriage, of course, had horses, and they ran away, and Clarence Reginald jumped out of ranks, where he was drilling, and snatched at their heads and stopped them just in time to prevent them smashing into a field battery. And when Colonel Hammond sent for him that night and grabbed him by both hands and severely reprimanded him for breaking ranks and asked him what it was he wanted most in the world that Colonel Hammond could do for him, Clarence Reginald said, "Transfer me to the Royal Flying Corps and let me fly!"
That was how it happened. Yes, he knew the risk. Yes, he wanted to do it. Yes, he could pass any physical test. No, he did n't know about mental tests, but—"please try me!" They did. And he passed. And after a perfectly interminable training in England, and another, nearly as bad, in France, here he was, after less than a week of flying with, an observer and in a squadron, looking up into the face of his captain and trying to understand the unthinkable thing he was saying.
It is very much to the captain's credit that he did n't ask Clarence Reginald if he wanted to go. For Clarence Reginald behaved, as he realized afterward, very much as if he did n't want to do the one thing he was craziest to do. But the captain knew his type, if not Clarence Reginald, very well, and only smiled a little as the lad tried to recover himself.
"Better go up for an hour this morning. You don't have to get on duty until eleven. Poor Jack always said the Silvertip handled as easily as a training-plane; but remember that she is awfully sensitive. All those mosquitoes are. And if you find you can't feel happy in her, tell me, and I 'll get Webb out of bed. We won't get a new batch until next week. I 'm afraid—"
Clarence Reginald saluted, and came as near flying in his run to the hangar as a man on foot can. If he had had time, he might have felt sorry for the squadron, which had lost seven of its best men in two days, for the captain who would n't get new men until next week, for Webb, who had to stay in bed with a semi-sprained ankle. But he had n't time. He wanted to get into that swift little fighter, and go up, and try out his gun, and get the feel of the "joy stick," and learn for himself just how sensitive she was, and to live—to live—to satisfy himself that he was n't dreaming, but that he, Clarence Reginald,—under another name, true, but still the future Lord Chesley,—was really about to take the air in a fighting plane to defend the honor of England and of France—yes, and of America—from one of the brilliant fliers of the "flying circus" from Bocheland, across the way.
If there were only space enough in which to print it, a dozen or more pages might be used in telling how Clarence Reginald enjoyed that morning. Deep down in the back of his mind there was a feeling of grave responsibility. He knew it was no light task which sent him, almost untried, to face an experienced air-fighter. Of course, he had been under fire in the air, and he knew the machine-gun, and he knew, too, without any feeling of vainglory, that he could fly. It was just as when you know you can swim well, or ride a bicycle well, or play baseball well. If it 's so, and you know it, you know it. Clarence Reginald knew he could fly—knew that he knew every trick and turn of a plane—knew that he was perfectly willing to "fly stunts" with any one. But he also knew that he knew little of air fighting, save what he had heard, seen, picked up.
"Just the same—Oh, well! I only wish Dad could see me—I suppose he 's wild!"
But the Silvertip left him little time for thought. She was sensitive. She was also fast. But she was easy to manage if you once got the hang of her, and when, at the end of a long, delightful, terribly short practice-hour, Clarence Reginald made a somewhat bumpy landing, trying not to make it too high up, he was satisfied that he had plenty of confidence, and that, wrhile he might not be any ace, he was n't going to be merely a target for the "trapeze performer" who had made his sector a hunting-ground for a week.
He had a light lunch, fussed a good deal over his instruments, and bothered old Sergeant Kennedy a good deal about his tanks and his tensions.
"Ye need n't to worry, sir. She 's tuned to a hair. Poor Ja—the lootenent did n't hurt her none, poor lad! Yes, sir, them tanks won't hold another spoonful—sure, I tested the plugs myself—"
Clarence Reginald was not at all nervous. Just before he went on duty, and after the Silvertip was well warmed up and just turning over and he was strapped in his seat, his captain stepped up to him for a last word.
"Just remember, I 'm not sending you up to go looking for a scrap. All you 've got to do is keep the Boche planes away. But don't go chasing miles into Hunland to do it. But—keep them away. I don't know what depends on it, but I 've word that it is vital, just now, not to have any observations over our lines."
"Yes, sir."
That was all. Clarence Reginald opened his throttle, there was a roar from the engine, the little plane started forward, rolled faster and faster, then, as the stick came back, fairly leaped into the air.
Clarence Reginald was very busy. There were four other planes going up at the same time. He had to get a mile or so up, keep his distance to right and left, look out for enemy planes, spot any white in the air that meant "Archies" were at work, get a good mental picture of the land in front of him, and at the same time see if there were any Hun specks in sight.
But except for a lot of mile-high clouds, the air was speckless. Yet it was not unexciting. Below, the lines, the buildings, the tents, the ribbons which were roads, the dots which were men, the blotches which were motors. Not far in front, the wavering snake which was the front line, and beyond, a wilderness of brown, pockmarked with craters—No Man's Land. In the dimmer distance, the occasional green of some of France—now, for the time, Hunland—not yet shot to pieces; far, far away to his left, a glimmer of silver, which was the Channel; still farther, but hidden in haze, a white line—which was home.
The Silvertip was working beautifully. There was a steadiness to the roar which spoke of every valve perfect, every plug functioning, carburetor working as it should. There was no play to the stick, and the rudder turned with the least touch. Clarence Reginald bent the little single-seater to right and left, up and down. He was high now, a mile at least, and he throttled down his engine, then dipped for a sudden dive, to "zoom" up in a long, delightful, hair-raising climb, only to coast down again. He was above Hunland now, and turned to the west, as per orders. Straight ahead was a cloudbank, and—what was that?
Clarence Reginald had intended to climb over that cloud. Clouds are useful to hide in, but stifling to one's sense of direction. But now, with that unexplained sudden dark streak which flashed and disappeared, he changed his mind.
He shot into the cloudbank as straight as he could go, then up, up, up, to come out on top of it. And—yes! There was a plane, a tiny speck of a plane, going down out of the bank, a black cross showing plainly on each wing-tip, and, farther down yet, the observation plane the Hun fighter was guarding.
Clarence Reginald had two courses open to him. He could turn, race back to his own lines, give the alarm, and have some reserve planes take the air. Or he could give chase, himself, and see what he could do with the Hun. But if he did the latter and missed, the Hun plane would get the information it went after. If he did the latter, it was a problem whether the reserve would take the air in time, and, if they did take the air, would they "get"-the circus rider? And would it—
Suddenly, realization came to Clarence Reginald. He was n't doing patrol and observation work—he was in a fighting plane, and he had his instructions! He was to keep the trapeze performer from getting within a mile of his own lines.
Clarence Reginald smiled. There was a chilly feeling up his backbone, but it was because he was afraid he might fail, not because he was afraid. Airmen are not afraid. They can't be, you know, and be airmen. Your life does n't count when you are in the air. It is n't that you don't care for your life, but that you care so much more, so infinitely much more, to do the job you have sworn to do. What 's one life against a regiment? And the Hun must n't get the information—
Clarence Reginald was diving. He was diving with his motor full on, too, for in no other way could he hope to catch up with the swiftly flying plane below. And diving with your motor on means that you not only fall, but that you fly down the air, and two hundred miles an hour, or even more, is not an excessive speed for such a performance. The danger comes when you flatten out after the dive—do it too steeply, and your wings collapse.
But Clarence Reginald did n't think of that. He thought only of that black-crossed plane and thanked his stars that he had dived into the cloud. For apparently the Hun did n't see him.
Clarence Reginald looked to his gun. He knew it was ready, but he looked at it. Closer now, closer—bigger, bigger—the Hun plane was losing in the race—
Clarence Reginald opened fire. It was too soon, and he knew it was too soon, but he just could n't help it. There was a spluttering crash. The little smoke-bullets told him he was shooting over the enemy. Push the stick—so—again—pull the trigger—
Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was surprise. But Clarence Reginald had the wonderful luck to hit the gas-tank, to see a flash of flame and smoke, to watch the Hun plane falter and wobble—then to see it whirl into a nose dive, a flaming torch. Clarence Reginald dived after it, close enough to the ground to watch it crash, a crumpled mass. Then he turned, climbed again, and began looking for the observation plane.
But he had no time to look. There was a rattle behind him, and, oddly, the fabric of his left plane tore. There was a rattle to his right, and a smoke-bullet went past his nose. Clarence Reginald suddenly came to the realization that there were two Hun planes in his immediate vicinity, that both of them were shooting at him, and that, if he did n't do something mighty soon, the chances were that he would follow the unfortunate he had just sent down.
It was entirely instinctive—not conscious thought. Clarence Reginald pulled on his stick, turned Silvertip's nose upward, jerked the motor on full, and did a loop. There is nothing much more confusing to an enemy one is close to than to loop right under his nose. The only trouble is that if he is shooting straight, he will probably get you as you go over and end any possible chance for a retaliation. But if he does n't get you, you flatten out behind, and then, if he is a single-seater, you have the range and he has n't.
So Clarence Reginald looped. And one of the two machines was a single-seater, which has a gun which is pointed only by pointing the whole plane. But the other was one of the new Hun two-seaters, with a mobile gun and a man to operate it. And Clarence Reginald knew there was no chance for him to fight them both and live. So he turned to the one asset he had—speed, and, first diving, fled. After him came the two.
As he fled, there was a succession of pictures before Clarence Reginald's eyes. Home, his mother, his father, the captain, Webb, poor Jack, in whose plane he flew, England, France—
There was a sudden stinging pain in his shoulder. And suddenly Clarence Reginald got mad. Before, it had been almost a game. Now he was angry. They were two; he was only one. The captain had said it was his job to keep them a mile from his own lines; and here he was fairly streaking it for his own lines and leading two Huns after him. It would n't do. It was n't playing the game. And they had hit him—confound their good shooting! His shoulder felt as if some one had struck it with a baseball bat.
Clarence Reginald did another loop. He did it deliberately. He knew he was taking a fearful chance, but that was what he wanted. His blood was up, and he was n't going to fly home just because they had two guns to his one. He had n't worked his way to a battle-plane for that. Ancestors who fought at Hastings in armor would n't do that. Of course, ancestors who fought at Hastings never heard of a battleplane—
His loop brought him once again above the single-seater. And when he saw it, Clarence Reginald made up his mind that if it was his last one, he 'd forget the two-seater and "get" the single-seater. So he dived straight at it, firing as he came. The two-seater was above him, now, and shooting at him. There were rents in his plane and splinters in his fuselage. Why he was n't killed, he did n't know. How his propeller and his gas-tank escaped, he did n't know. He only knew that—
"Ah! You would, would you? Well, not today! Your friend will get me in a minute, but I 've settled you for all time—"
Clarence Reginald exulted. The single-seater was spinning, spinning down. It might be a dive, but it looked like a fall. Well, he would soon follow. There was n't a chance, now. They had the wind, the sun, the range, all he could do was dive—
What?—mist—a cloud—
Clarence Reginald found himself enveloped in a white covering. And—was this instinctive, also? As once before, he turned the nose of the plane straight up, and climbed, climbed, climbed. When he emerged, he laughed. For there, so close he could all but count the stitches in the wings, was the Hun two-seater—not twenty feet below him, not fifty to his left. It, too, must have climbed as it entered the cloudbank. But the Silvertip climbed the faster.
"Got you—" cried Clarence Reginald to himself, and pressed the trigger.
There was a single report—no more. Then the disheartening truth came home to him—his gun was jammed! Desperately he worked at it, but it refused to unlimber. The Hun, so close, was even then training his gun—his mobile gun. There was no such thing as missing at that distance. Well, it had been a good fight. He had sent down two—and the Silvertip, poor Jack's Silvertip, had done nobly. It was a shame she should be shot down—
"She sha' n't be! We 've got to go down, but we 'll all go together!"
Then Clarence Reginald did the unthinkable thing—the thing that almost never happens because almost never do two planes get in such a position that the one chance in a million is all that is left. Straight for the pointing gun he headed the Silvertip—jamming his joy stick down and banking sharply. The little plane responded, as the little plane always does, almost instantly. The Hun pressed his trigger and the bullets flew, but the expression on the German's face told Clarence Reginald that his suicidal manueuver had spoiled a good aim. Clarence Reginald yelled. He could hardly hear his own yell, but it was one of exultation. Then his propeller bit into the wing in front of him, there was a splintering crash, heard even above the roar of the two motors, and a chaotic drop, a terrific fall, as two planes, one large, one small, two men and one lad, soldiers all three, locked in an inextricable embrace—propellers, wings, spars, one tangle of mess that was once two planes—hurtled earthward.
The story ought to end here. Clarence Reginald ought to have been killed. He had a bullet in his shoulder, one in his left arm, and one in his chest. The fall should have killed him, anyway, if the bullets did n't. But just before they reached the ground, the two machines fell apart. For the third time, by instinct, Clarence Reginald pulled on his joy stick. Whether it was because the air gods are kind to the foolhardy, the highly courageous, whether it was, as old Sergeant Kennedy said, "the Silvertip just would n't bust herself against a Hun plane," or whether, as a comrade aviator remarked, it was simply that Clarence Reginald must have been born to be hung, no one knows. But the battered wreck of a plane responded, all engineless and propellerless as she was, gave one last lurch of life and lift, and, instead of crashing flat, "pancaking" to earth, she staggered a moment, hesitated, then, in a wavering glide, half fell, half slid to earth. When the Silvertip finally crashed, a scant quarter-mile inside its own lines, Clarence Reginald was still alive, and still conscious enough to wave a feeble arm to those who came running.
Clarence Reginald is at Chesley Hall. It will be long before he flies again, because his lithe body is all battered to pieces with Hun bullets and broken bones and torn muscles. But the doctors say he is n't half the wreck the Silvertip is, and that if he has n't any right to be alive at all, still, he is, and plainly good enough to be a Hun target again. So he goes back into service in two months' time, as an instructor in air fighting, if you please, and he goes under his own name, with a father's handshake and blessing, and a father's permission on a new set of papers.
Lord Chesley does n't do all the giving, however. "You keep it for me, Dad," says Clarence Reginald. "It was just luck, I know, but I don't want to lose it."
"Should think not, indeed!" snorts Lord Chesley, trying not to look like a peacock with pride.
