The air under the low-hung clouds raved and moaned as it was split a million times by tracer bullets and plunging planes. Four black-painted Sopwith Camels were fighting desperately a dozen blood-red Fokkers, and scarlet tongues licked from the muzzles of Spandaus and Vickers. Lieut. Jimmy Murdie hardly knew what he was doing. Twice, within thirty seconds, death had breathed in his face, had almost touched him with grisly fingers. Just by a flicker he had missed crashing side on into an enemy plane, and then bullets had ripped the shoulder from his flying jacket.
Grimly, he held to his tactics. It was not the first time death had jibed at him, and he was wildly eager to acquit himself well before Jarvis, his new flight commander. At mess, the night before, it had been whispered that Jarvis was not cordial with Canadians, did not consider them cool fighters—and Jimmy intended to give him an eye-full.
He zoomed suddenly, gained the position he had risked all to reach, a place under the tail of the most belligerent red machine, and pressed both triggers. The cockpit of the Fokker was shattered. Flames licked out. In a heartbeat the black-crossed ship was a fiery comet.
Jimmy’s speed shot him up into the low cloud ceiling and before he could turn he was engulfed in slow-moving banks of grey mist. He swore and set his teeth. The glimpse he had had of the blazing Fokker had dazed him, and he had gone high into the mists. He wheeled at once, circled and darted downward, feverish with sudden panic. There was nothing above earth he hated as much as he did a heavy fog bank. Wheeee…He gave the gas full on and his machine roared and trembled as he swerved through space. At any split second he might collide with a zooming plane from below, and he set himself to regain his balance when he shot from the clouds.
Sixty seconds after his gun had ceased shooting he glanced at his instruments, and nausea gripped his stomach. He was lost again, was in a spin. His one and only weakness was having another inning. The fog had bewildered him once more.
Two months of hectic service had not helped him; if anything, had made him worse. Given a clear sky, he had no superiors in the 27th Squadron; in a maze of mist he invariably lost all sense of direction, grew panicky, and almost lost his nerve.
He braced himself angrily, gritted his teeth. The frenzy of fighting had not cooled and he was wildly anxious to reach another Fokker. One more sweeping rush, and he shut off the engine. His altimeter showed immediate loss of height. Five thousand, four thousand, three, two…He hurtled downward and at last dropped from the swirling canyons of damp cloud vapour. Tense, heart-stopping seconds followed, for he was nearly to the ground before his sense of balance was restored and he could right his machine.
Soaring, he looked around. Not another plane, Fokker or Camel, was in sight. Jimmy’s emotions swung back to anger. He maintained his vicious climbing turn until he was very near the fog ceiling again and then swung back over Zillebeke. He had lost touch of his fellows, lost all chance of a double kill. Would they think he had dodged into the mists to escape the fighting? No, he knew that Hart and Barry would never hold such an opinion, but what about Jarvis? What would he think? Jimmy’s interior was burning with chagrin. He wanted to scream curses at his diabolical luck.
More fog, lower still. How he loathed it! His instruments glowed dully, their phosphorescence wavering a baleful greenish-yellow up at him from the crowded dashboard. It was bitterly cold, a miserable, soggy October day, and yet his veins grew more heated. The more he scanned the empty sky the more his chagrin grew. If only he had not got mixed in the mists.
Suddenly he swung crazily on a wing tip and dived wide open with wires tautly screaming. Just across the lake, a lone Fokker was streaking homeward. It had probably fallen away from the fighting and was trying to avoid meeting more of the enemy.
Jimmy squeezed trigger and the sharp crackle of the twin Vickers broke high above the crescendo of the engine’s roar. The lightning trail of tracers shot from between the propeller blades like a succession of red-hot needles. They reached the fuselage of the red plane, and it swerved adroitly so that the smoking path of the incendiaries was without a target.
The German was a master flier. His Fokker behaved like a thoroughbred, swooping, climbing, rolling, banking, and zooming, but Jimmy’s nimble Camel was swifter in evolution. Gradually he gained advantage, reached a deadly firing position. Only a few bullets had snapped near him, and he wondered if his adversary were waiting for close-in duelling. If he were, he should have his chance. Jimmy was vengefully resolved not to miss his quarry. At the same time, through all his rage and determination, something whispered to Jimmy that his foe’s manoeuvering was not according to Hoyle. The red machine was not crippled in any way, was clearly handled by an expert, yet it did not try for positions as all other Fokkers did.
One more breathtaking zoom. Jimmy was as taut as the wires of his plane. Up, up, and then his guns were spitting venomously, raking the struts and fabric of his red enemy.
Up, around and over—there was the red devil, billowing smoke, dropping earthward. And even as it broke into flame Jimmy guessed the reason that his victory had been safely earned. Once before he had seen such a happening, one of his own comrades trying every stunt of flying, every possible trick, doing everything but shoot—because his guns were empty!
There was no doubt about it. The delirious dogfight had been a prolonged affair, with the Germans trying desperately to best the quartet of Camels, and his victim had used up all his ammunition, then had broken away from the fighting in an attempt to sneak homeward. His reserve, fired as Jimmy first dived on him, had not exceeded one dozen rounds. It had been a “cold meat” kill.
***
That night Jimmy sat uncomfortably silent in the mess while wine-loosened tongues chattered around him. He was listening, trying to learn whether or not his fellows thought he had dodged purposely from the fight. It did not seem possible that they would, and yet…This new man, this Jarvis, seemed a sinister influence. Jimmy did not like him.
He knew, as he tried to eat, that it was mostly his own fault that he was feeling so miserable. If he had talked out straight as soon as he reached the ’drome it would have been different. He knew he should have told then and there just how he had got lost in the fog, how he had swerved and dived and swooped about in the mists until he had got clear away from the combat. They would have believed him, then, and the confession would have been a wonderful help. A dozen times he had been on the verge of telling the others about his weakness, and yet he had never done it. Some foolish pride, or fear of pity, had stricken his tongue.
Jarvis accepted his terse report without comment, and had not spoken to Jimmy after. He was giving all his attention to Willow, an officer of his own type. Each moment became more unbearable to Jimmy. He could not eat. Some instinct told him that Jarvis had talked about him, or that Hart and Barry had told how he had disappeared. It was possible that he was a victim of his own imagination, but he did not think so. He put down his knife and fork, gave up all pretence of eating.
The door opened. He jerked around nervously. It was Captain Hendricks, their squadron commander, who had been called away on a message. He seemed excited and he headed straight for Jimmy’s chair.
“Murdie,” he called jubilantly. “Congratulations. Your work caps the day. This squadron is making a name for itself. Old Heinie will be shivering each time he sees these old black boats of ours in the air. That message was from brigade headquarters and they have a full report from artillery observers at Zillebek who watched your fight with Captain Karl Allmeder….”
“Allmeder! The ‘Red Devil’!” Every man in the mess was shouting excitedly.
The squadron commander nodded. He help up his hand. “Listen, gentlemen,” he called. “Murdie was very modest this afternoon. He didn’t report that when he left your flight he was chasing Allmeder. The artillery chaps saw them break from the clouds just over Zillbeke Lake and they say the red machine was full out for home, streaking it like a pigeon trying to get away from a hawk. Murdie headed him and out-manoeuvred him and shot him down. Three of the artillery officers witnessed the whole affair and they’ve sent in all the verifications needed….”
Every officer jumped to his feet. Murdie, flushed scarlet, perspiring, his throat full, could not make an explanation, was not given the chance. Jarvis was leading the cheers.
“Here’s to the man better than Allmeder,” he called. “Everyone drink to our own Hun-killer, our Johnny Canuck.” The cheers were generously given. It was an opportunity for everyone to relax nerves that the afternoon had tensed. They shouted cheers until the dishes rattled, they whooped their praise. Allmeder had been a dread name among all fliers of the Twenty-Seventh.
Just as the shouting died Jimmy regained partial control of himself, and the humour of the situation reacted on his suspense-ridden nerves. Before he realized it he had thrown back his head and was relieving himself in a whole-souled shout of laughter—and at that very moment the rest of the mess had stilled.
Each man had stiffened and all heads turned toward the doorway. There stood a stout, bristly moustached major, with a protruding stomach and a protruding sense of importance. Behind him a pair of red-tabbed satellites stood in respectful attitudes. Jimmy’s laugh seemed to re-echo, then there was absolute stillness. The major’s face was a brilliant red.
“Who,” he barked, “is that damned laughing jackass?”
The CO hastened to explain that someone had just told a very funny joke, but it was difficult to soothe their visitor. He had evidently had a bad day somewhere and had come to the 27th to release some of his venom. He snarled and raged and tramped about and declared that he was sure that the laugh had been at him.
“Murdie,” said Captain Hendricks, after the major had gone. “That old bull was in a bad humour and I’m afraid he may turn down the recommendation I’m sending in. What in the world made you laugh like that when he was coming in?”
It was the chance for Murdie to explain everything, but at that moment Jarvis joined them, and offered personal congratulations. He talked sincerely, and Jimmy was so jubilant to know that he had impressed the man that he simply could not spoil the hour by telling about his helplessness in a fog bank. The next day would do.
The next day, however, gave no opportunity for any explanations or confidences. The weather broke clear and every hour was filled with action. For a week the Squadron scarcely knew rest or relaxation, and its record grew. Berry downed three Fokkers in three days and Jarvis added a couple to his record. Then Hart was shot down in flames after a terrible battle with overwhelming odds. Jimmy’s flight almost lived in the air in the week that followed, and they took a toll of six black-crossed machines to avenge the death of their mate.
Then came a day when the air was bitter cold and not a Hun was in sight. Jimmy was thinking only of the fire and warmth of the mess when he heard the peculiar flac-flac-flac of bullets hitting his machine. He swerved sharply, and saw that they were being attacked by a flight of Albatross D 5’s, powerful machines, faster than the Camels but slower in turning. In one lurid instant Jimmy was whirled into the wildest fight he had ever experienced.
Back and forth he dodged and darted, in and out and around and around and over, his engine roaring and moaning, the wires screeching madly. Diving, circling, and diving again, red planes and black ones went through all the manoeuvres known to skilled pilots, and at a tremendous speed, with each spitting death at the other. The wing of one red ship broke off and the plane went down in flames, a great torch falling far to a muddy field below.
Then a black plane lurched, side slipped, and fell after the blazing one, and Jimmy knew that Berry had met a flier’s finish. A terrible anger cooled his fighting fury, made him a calculated killer. He was determined to get a German victim.
A sudden burst of bullets ripped the fuselage beside him. Turning, he saw an enemy on his tail. He kicked his machine to the right and found he could just keep clear of the fixed guns of the slower Albatross by circling. Around and around they went. He and his enemy were alone in the world. Around and around and around. It must end.
A desperate hope flashed into Jimmy’s mind. He knew that the heavier red machine could not loop as close to earth as he could. He kept circling, but went lower and lower. After him roared the vindictive Albatross. Jimmy looped. It was a nerve-racking stunt for he was very close to earth. He shot up—behind the German.
It was a clear shot. His opponent’s only hope was to escape by sheer speed, and he could not avoid crossing Jimmy’s sights. One short burst sent him down in flames. Jimmy swerved, wheeled to rejoin his flight. It was not to be. Another red fighter had come behind him like a great hornet, roaring, spitting bullets. Once again he circled madly, around and around and around, closer and closer to the ground. Again he made that dangerous loop, so close to earth and with a bullet-riddled machine, and again he was where he wanted to be and had added another victim to his tally.
***
That night the survivors sat moodily about the mess and heard Captain Hendricks speak with strong emotion of the part they had played in preventing enemy domination of the air. It did not stir Jimmy. He felt that his whole being was numbed, deadened to any feeling. Good old Hart! A champion in any corner! And Berry! He remembered their first flight into the blue, an escort for observers. It seemed hours and hours after Hendricks was speaking that someone clapped him on the shoulder.
“Wake up, you bleary owl.” It was Jarvis, trying to speak in a bantering fashion. “Haven’t you been listening? The captain says you’ve been handed an MC.”
Jimmy looked up gravely. He dragged his feet together and stood up. “Thanks, ever so much, sir,” he said, as if he were speaking to strangers. Then he sat down and Jarvis went back to his seat. There was considerable pushing of chairs, and swearing, and hard drinking, but little talk the rest of the evening.
A few days of bad weather rested the squadron. Jimmy began to regain his composure, to get back his steely control. Then the captain brought information that made all the mess howl disapproval.
“The major’s coming over Tuesday night to present the ribbons,” he said. “Decorations have come through for Deane and Jarvis as well as Murdie, and he’s going to have a whale of a time making speeches to you. For the love of salt petre, don’t get his goat. I think he’s half-sorry about the way he raved when he was here last time, and probably he’ll try to act the other extreme. Be good little boys and he’ll likely trot off home by ten at the latest.”
Tuesday morning was dull and Jimmy was elated when he found he was to be excused from the morning’s flight. Then Hendricks sent for him. “I didn’t want anything to happen to you on the day you get your ribbon,” he said, “and so I’ve landed you a cushy job. You’re to go to St. Omer and bring back a new scout they’ve sent over. It’s a snappy little machine, according to reports, and you’ll have a sporty trip.”
Jimmy thanked him and hurried away. The weather might grow worse.
There seemed to be a conspiracy against him at St. Omer, a plot to keep him from getting into the air before the mist thickened. When at last he was away he was so filled with impatience that he at first lost his bearings. Veering, he ran into a fog, which seemed sweeping to meet him, a solid wave of thick grey vapours.
He dived with his engine full out, then zoomed abruptly. He had not escaped the fog and his altimeter had shown him that he was not four hundred feet above the ground. Crawling, drifting mist walled him in on every side. He could see nothing but dim greyness, above, below and all around him. Desperately he climbed, up, and up, until the fog thinned into lacy layers and at last he was in daylight.
Jimmy flew in a straight line, watching his compass, resolved that he would not lose his head and that his best plan was to outfly the fog area and land wherever he could see ground. And, once down, he would make a clean breast of everything. No matter what the result, he would explain his weakness to Hendricks.
The crawling banks of mist slipped under him endlessly; the mist seemed to extend in every direction. He dived at last, watching his altimeter. Down, down and down, until he was dangerously near the earth. He soared up again. Tree tops or telegraph wires were treacherous things to hurdle. On and on and on he flew. He began to have dreadful thoughts. How far had he flown?
If he were drifting to the eastward he would be over the Hun lines before he knew it. Or it was possible to get over the water, the Channel. What lay under that floor of mist? A feeling of sheer helplessness seized him, gave him wild impulses. He wanted to dive straight down, to crash any old way so long as he was on solid earth again. The mist had become a deadly thing, a maddening, terrifying thing; something he must escape, outwit.
Calming himself with effort, he nosed downward, plunging and flattening out, watching his altimeter. At last he shut off the engine and went down in a long glide. Five hundred, four hundred, three, down to two hundred feet he went, and still the swirling greyness. He opened up his engine again, so as to keep his flying speed, but shut it off at intervals and glided, straining his eyes on the vapours, listening for sound of anything but the whine of the wind on his wings and wires.
It seemed useless. He grew panicky, jerked his throttle wide open and shot up, up, suddenly, steeply, the deafening roar seeming no louder than the thumping of his heart. Then, abruptly, his panic fled. He regained control of himself. Down, down again. Down, still down, his hand ready on the throttle. This mad game could not go on forever. He must land.
Down, down, steadily, gradually, down, and down…down…down…. He knew that all depended on what sort of surface lay below him. If it were a field, well and good. He would make a half-decent landing. If it were a village, a camp, he must catch his speed again, soar up and away before he was wrecked.
Down, down…the mist must clear. Down, lower…only feet above the earth…down. A warm moistness broke over Jimmy’s body. He almost went limp. It was impossible, unbelievable. He wanted to scream, to yell so that all France could hear. Daintily his plane took ground, ran along gracefully, a perfect landing, and he sat, limp, in the cockpit. It was a miracle! He had actually landed at his own ’drome!
It was so screamingly funny that it weakened Jimmy. He could hardly credit his eyes, his senses. But there was the dim outline of the hangar, and the huts, and the broken lorry…wait…how, had that lorry been moved?
Jimmy stiffened as if he had had an electric shock. A dog came into view. It was a strange-looking, low-set creature; dachshunds, they called them. He switched on the engine, breathing fast, with whistling intakes. A man ran from one of the buildings, pointing. A whistle shrilled.
It seemed an hour, but it had not been sixty seconds since Jimmy landed. He swept over the field but his machine appeared to have lost power, response. More men appeared, and some were very close. Another few seconds…He thought feverishly, wished for a weapon. Ah, the bottle of “icicle” wine in his pocket that he had bought for Hendricks. He wrenched it free and hurled it with a swinging motion. It went over and over in a high spiral. The running, grey-clad men ducked, plunged for cover. Jimmy took the air, his plane rose gracefully. Crack-crack-crack. Rifles, somewhere, then machine guns. They were too late. He was into the mists. The last thing he saw was the dachshund running in circles.
Up and up and up. What! Sunlight. He tingled with new emotions. Perspiration dampened his clothing, but he felt as if he had escaped a precipice. And…the mist was thinning rapidly.
He throttled the engine to slower speed, watched his instruments and compass. The seething banks of vapour became more and more transparent. He dived through them, cut into them, tore them apart, drew them after him…he wanted to cheer. He could see earth.
In two minutes he had picked out his direction and in twenty minutes he had crossed the lines and was circling down to his own aerodrome. No one made particular mention of the mists, and he did not. He could not trust himself to speak about them. His nerves were so jangled that it would mean a sobbing breakdown, a holy show of himself before the crowd. Everyone was talking about the evening’s celebration, and the major.
The major liked his liquor. Jimmy, that evening, saw him empty three glasses without so much as a gurgle. He was in great good humour, and was actually smiling at Hendricks. Everything went smoothly. The three men to be decorated were seated together, and Jarvis had placed himself beside Jimmy. During the first lull he turned and smiled.
“Do you know, Murdie,” he said, “that I’d give anything to have one gift you’ve got?”
Jimmy could only stare at him. He had come to like this rather austere English chap, who surely was a master airman.
“I mean your gift of getting through those blasted fog banks and mists. I hate them, and I’m helpless in them.”
Jarvis shivered visibly. Jimmy felt a queer tension creep over him. Now was his chance to tell the truth, but if even his life had depended on it, he could not have confessed. Some inexplicable revulsion sealed his lips. He said nothing.
“I think the way you followed Allmeder through the fog over Zillebeke was one of the best stunts of the war,” Jarvis continued. “I don’t believe there’s another man in this squadron who would have even tried it.”
Captain Hendricks rapped on the table. “Attention, gentlemen,” he said. “The major has a few words to say.”
Jimmy sat as if he were rigid. His skin was burning and he had queer sensations. What a fool he was, what a consummate ass. This had been his best chance to explain himself, and he had muffed it hideously.
The “few words” were expanded to a bombastic speech. The major was proud, very proud, of his men. They were “his boys,” he loved them like a father. It gave him great pleasure to be able to bestow a few medal ribbons. He regretted there were not more, so many were deserved. The squadron was the finest in France, undoubtedly so. The Germans dreaded its black-painted machines, had reason to.
He was in splendid humour, and he finished with a humourous story. “You all need a good laugh,” he wheezed. “I’ll give you one. A German airman was brought down just at dark this evening in the Bethune sector. He had a marvellous tale about an English airman landing at their aerodrome while the mist was on and trying to set fire to it, or some such stunt. The fellow was not clear on that point. He said that they hadn’t really known what the chap was going to do, and he was discovered before any damage could be done. Now listen, gentlemen, here’s the richest joke I’ve heard. They asked the German if the Britisher shot at them, and he said, ‘No, but a bottle of wine was at the men thrown.’”
The major laughed, and all the mess joined him, except Jimmy. A thousand emotions had paralyzed him. He was seeing again that queer-shaped dog…those running men…the mists… “but a bottle of wine was at the men thrown!” Blast this pompous old brass hat. What would he have done in such a place? Jimmy’s resentment flamed within him. He saw red. Then, as if the lights in the room had changed, another feeling surged over him. He pitied the paunchy old meddler. What did he know about war, flying…mists?
“Did you ever hear anything funnier?” The major was mopping his red face. “Imagine an Englishman throwing a good bottle of wine at a beastly Hun! Pow! Haw-haw!”
The major haw-hawed and chuckled and the mess gave him considerate accompaniment, all but Jimmy. He gazed around the room at his fellow officers, watched their simulated laughter, and something seemed to give within him. A full realization of the situation struck him, prodded him. He leaned back in his seat and simply exploded hilarity, a wild, free-lunged hee-haw roar that dominated.
The major’s eyes widened but he graciously overlooked the discord. “I hear my friend, the laughing jackass,” he called good humouredly, “and I like to hear him.”
Jarvis laid a friendly hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Hold in,” he whispered. “There’s really nothing to laugh about.” Anxiety was written large on his face.
And the mess decided, after the major was gone, that Jimmy was really a bit of a jackass, for he had laughed more shrilly than ever.