Raoul Whitfield

“ The patrol had been a long one, a difficult one. He was new to such flying. The German pilot was more experienced. The Nieu-port’s gun was getting low. There was the fog hanging close to the earth; it might mean that he would have to search for the Squadron field.
The Albatross was a quarter mile away, between the Nieuport and the Allied rear lines, and banking. Her pilot banked, came out of it, zoomed for altitude. Tex Langdon wiped his goggle-glass clear of a splatter of oil, nosed down to gain speed, and banked his own ship. He could not afford to let the other pilot get altitude. ”

“ You’re sore. You knew I couldn’t find the Squadron in the fog and you left me to go where you’ve said I came from!”
There was a little silence. Then Lieutenant Adams spoke. His voice was like ice.
“You couldn’t have followed me through that fog, Langdon,” he stated. “Because you can’t handle a ship in the sky. Is that any reason that I should mess my chance up? My Nieuport was running low in gas, too. I wasn’t sure of finding the outfit. And I dropped on that Boche because he was out-maneuvering you. I sat up in the sky and watched you. ”

“ As it was, a twisting, battering branch shot through the fuselage fabric, ripping the overall material and sending a stabbing pain up his right leg.
Then the plane was motionless, and Tex Langdon snapped the safety-belt buckle loose, slid carefully out of the cockpit. The splintered prop was in the soggy earth beneath the trees through which the ship had plunged, but it had not battered in deeply. Off to the right, as Tex dropped to earth and limped about, sounded the steady firing of a battery. ”

“ Every five or six days the ground fog was so bad that ships didn’t get in. Once or twice they hadn’t been able to get off.
The pilot turned back toward the barracks. He shook his head slowly. Somewhere in the sky, winging back toward the squadron, most probably, were Lieutenants Adams and Tex Langdon. Quite often two pilots, one winging in from the north and the other from the south patrol of the front, would meet over Chalbrouck, fly back to the Squadron together. Perfectly synchronized wrist watches helped such a meet in the air. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer. He knew about fog ”

“ One plane was a baby Albatross, very well camouflaged. The other was a fifteen-meter Nieuport, not so well camouflaged. In the narrow cockpit of the Nieuport was Lieutenant Tex Langdon. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, his lips were pressed tightly together as he handled the American ship, trying to get in position for a machine-gun burst at the enemy plane.
The German pilot was a fine flyer. Twice he had almost sent streams of tracer-marked lead into the fuselage of the American ship. The left wing surfaces showed the bullet holes of his last hit—and it was much too close for comfort. ”

“ Tex leveled out of the bank, dove on her with engine half on. She dove instantly and he saw that she was going down after the wingdrooping plane below. That plane, he saw now, was a Nieuport! And a Sixteenth Squadron Nieuport!
The Fokker gained rapidly on the crippled American plane. Tex dove with engine power adding speed. The Fokker swept down behind and slightly below the Nieuport then zoomed, leaving a tracer stream in the sky, slanting back of the wing-drooping ship. Again her pilot had missed by a narrow margin. ”

“ He climbed into the cockpit, revved up the little ship’s engine for a few minutes, nodded his head for the blocks to be pulled away. The pursuit plane rolled out across the soggy field, climbed into the sky. Tex headed straight for the front. As the Nieuport gained altitude, he stared over the side. From the northeast, clinging low to the ground, white fog was drifting.
Tex Langdon groaned. For a brief second he thought of banking around, turning back. The C. O. was not pleased with his work. And he was winging toward the front with darkness and fog coming to obscure the Squadron field. ”

“ Enemy ships are flooding the Sector air. Is your new ship all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Tex replied quietly.
“Take her over until dark,” the C. O. ordered. “Lieutenants Harrington and Adams are out. Head for Hill G.8. Some Fokkers are raising the devil up that way. The French may get some ships across, and you might help some in a dog fight. Pull back here before dark. That’s all. Get me a report as soon as you get in.”
Tex nodded, saluted. He went to his barracks, got his helmet and goggles, headed for the Nieuport again. The ground crew pulled her out. Adams across the line! ”

“ Acts like he’s trying hard enough. But this’ll be his first dose of—”
He checked himself. He was thinking of the clash after mess, last night, between Adams and Tex Langdon. It had been a sharp one. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer—three weeks on the front. Tex had been up three days. In that time he had nosed over one ship, cracked another up two miles from the Squadron, in a forced landing, and then he had taxied into a wing-tip of Adam’s pet Nieuport, just before mess. ”

“ The lieutenant nodded.
“I understand, Captain,” he stated. “I’ve cracked up a lot of ships in a short time. But I’ve been trying—”
The C. O. smiled slightly. “That helps but it isn’t the whole thing, Lieutenant,” he stated. “I know you’re trying. ”