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Updated: May 20, 2025
Directly in McGee's path, about half way between his plane and Yancey's, a black, formless bulk loomed out of the fog. A sausage! McGee drove hard for it, and noted that he was in a race with Yancey, whose quick eye had sighted it. The black bag was hardly out of the fog bank when tracers from McGee's and Yancey's guns began streaming into it.
He Immelmanned, only to discover that by some brilliantly rapid manoeuver the German had rolled into position and was rattling bullets into the Camel's motor. Crack! One of the bullets struck a vital part and the motor started limping. McGee's heart came into his mouth. He was disabled and That moment Hank Porter and Fouche closed in on the German and Larkin came diving down from above.
At three in the morning he again returned to the stove and sat down by a stranger. Before the bar-keeper could get to him with another warning whisper, some one outside fired through the window and riddled McGee's breast with slugs, killing him almost instantly. By the same discharge the stranger at McGee's side also received attentions which proved fatal in the course of two or three days.
"Well then, I suppose Cowan will come back here with a chest on him like a Brigadier!" Yancey laughed, picked up McGee's report and handed it to Mullins. "Read that especially the last paragraph. When Cowan reads that I can see his chest droppin' like a toy balloon that meets up with a pin. I sure want to be hangin' around when it is presented to him. This war has its compensations.
In McGee's flight appeared the names of Tex Yancey, Hank Porter, Randolph Hampden, and of all luck Siddons! McGee started to make protest, thought better of it, and biting his lips savagely left the group around the board and went to his quarters. Of all the good men in the squadron, why should that traitorous scoundrel be included and other loyal deserving pilots be left behind?
It was a clean, beautiful, precise weapon, even to the unprofessional eye, its long, laminated hexagonal barrel taking a tenderer blue in the moonlight. He snatched it up. It was capped and loaded. Without a pause he dashed down the hill. Only one thought was in his mind now the crudest, simplest duty. He was there in McGee's place; he should do what McGee would do.
"Got another one, a flamer, just back of Chateau-Thierry. That boy is some flyer! He's an ace already." McGee's delight was genuine. "That's great! Never can tell, can you? I didn't think much of his work." He hesitated, wanting to inquire about the others but held back by that statement of Larkin's to the effect that casualties were above forty per cent.
McGee's return to the squadron would have been fittingly celebrated but for the fact that five o'clock the following morning had been designated as "zero hour" for the greatest drive ever undertaken by Americans on foreign soil.
But, despite this, they too had been victors in their first encounter with the enemy, and in a manner quite as dramatic as had been McGee's victory. And it was more widely heralded because the victor was wearing an American uniform and the victory could be properly called the first score for the Americans.
McGee's eyes gleamed. Harry saw that while not of alert mind he was nevertheless a gentleman. "We work together, Captain Sherburne," he said gratefully, "and I thank God you've come. What splendid men you have!" Captain Sherburne's eyes gleamed also. This troop of his was his pride, and he sought always to keep it bright and sharp like a polished sword blade. "Whatever you wish, Captain McGee.
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