An air pilot and the field of broken wings

                         THE LUCKY LITTLE STIFF

                            By H. P. S. Greene


France. Mud. A khaki-clad column of fours slogging along to the rhythm of
their own muttered but heart-felt blasphemy--a common enough sight in the
winter of 1917-1918.

But in one particular this procession of sufferers was unique. On the
shoulders of each performer shone bright silver bars, and their more or
less manly chests were spanned by Sam Browne belts. A casual observer
would have taken them for officers. But no, on each breast was a pair of
silver wings, and their uniforms were of well-fitting but variously
designed whipcord. The pot-bellied little person in the indecently short
yellow serge blouse who led them was an officer; his followers were flying
lieutenants.

They were a part of the personnel-in-training of the great American
aviation field of Issy-la-Boue, the advance guard of the ten thousand
American bombing planes which publicity agents said were going to blast
the Huns out of Berlin.

The column passed between two long barracks, one of which, filled to
capacity with double-decker bunks, yawned thru an unfinished open end.

“Squads right!” shrilled the pot-bellied one with the captain’s bars in a
startling tremolo. “Heh!”

The men behind squads-righted in a dispirited fashion and came to a halt
in straggling lines. The squawky voice continued:

“I want to say that you are the most undisciplined body of men I ever saw.
That--er--mélée you staged when you were unwittingly marched
into--er--contact with a body of enlisted men was the most disgraceful
exhibition on the part of officers so-called I ever saw in my life.
I--er--want to say you are a disgrace to the service. That’s all I want to
say. Oh, I--er--believe Lieutenant Crosby has something to say to you.”

Flying-Lieutenant Crosby stepped forward and cleared his throat. He was a
born Babbitt, a destined getter-together.

“Men,” he began, and then hesitated. Perhaps he should have said
“officers,” but that wouldn’t have sounded right either. He rushed on, “I
want to remind you that Happy’s and Sam’s funeral is this afternoon. All
flying is called off as usual. There wasn’t much of a crowd out for poor
old Bill yesterday. I know it’s a long walk and all that but we want to
get a good crowd out this afternoon. The cadets are going to try to get a
good crowd out for their fellow who got bumped, and we want to get a good
crowd out too. That’s all I wanted to say.”

He retired to the ranks. The fat officer shouted “Dismissed!” Then he
changed his mind.

“As you were. The commanding officer wanted me to announce that quarantine
to the post is on again until the perpetrator of the outrage of stopping
the Paris Express has been discovered and punished. Dismissed!”

The half-broken ranks scattered in the direction of their barracks. Toward
the one with the unfinished end went three oddly dissimilar figures. They
were always together, and of course some one had already thought of
calling them “The Three Musketeers.”

One was short, dark and slim, with pathetic eyes and a dispirited
mustache. Another was tall and lathy, with a long lugubrious countenance.
The third was blond and almost corpulent.

“I knew it, Tommy, I knew it,” said the tall man. “How come you and ‘Fat’
to pull such a stunt, anyway? Ain’t such a joke now, is it? What’re you
going to do about it?”

The three entered their barrack and sat down on a bunk near the open end,
well away from the crowd huddled around the stove in the middle. The
little man gazed sadly before him.

His mustache drooped dolefully. Some observant person had remarked that he
could read Tommy by his mustache. When it was freshly waxed and pert, he
was just going on a party. When it was sorry and unkempt, he had just been
on one.

“You know we didn’t mean any harm,” he said. “All that stuff the frogs put
out about our trying to wreck the train was a dish of prunes. As if it
wasn’t bad enough to miss the truck and walk out here twelve miles from
town without having all this on top of it. When the quarantine for the
itch was taken off, and Fat and I got those “thirty-six hours on condition
you don’t go to Paris” passes, we got by the M. P.’s at the _gare_ in
Paris all right.

“We went out through the baggage-room. I wasn’t in the Ambulance for
nothing. We came back into the station the same way, and once we got on
the train we went right to sleep. They sure do put up a good champagne
cocktail at Henry’s, and then all those beers at the Follies!

“Well, when I woke up we were at a station. I looked out and the sign on
it said Chateauroux. I knew where we were all right because I’ve flown
over the place. We’d passed Issy. So I woke Fat up and pulled him off the
train. There was another train standing in the station, and I asked a frog
where it went to and he said it was the Paris Express. So I knew it would
take us back to Issy again, and we hopped on.

“We got into a third class compartment with a lot of _poilus_, and they
had _beaucoup_ red wine, and we drank to _la belle France_, and
_les-Êtats-Unis_, and when I woke up again the train was just leaving a
station, and the sign said Issy-la-Boue. By the time I realized what it
all meant we were going too fast to jump off, so I pulled that handle on
the wall, and the train stopped.

“When we saw how wrought up the frogs were, we beat it. No wonder we had
to come over and help them win the war, if they’re all as bum shots as
those birds were! Guess they thought we were bandits or spies or
something. Well, we had to walk home to keep from being A. W. O. Loose
from roll-call this morning, and never got home till four o’clock. Suppose
after flying, I’ll have to go over and ’fess up to Herman, or you birds
will never get any more passes. But I know I’ll never get one if I stay
here for the duration of the war.”

“No pass ain’t _nothin’_ to what you’ll get, boy!” said “Long John.” “Shot
at sunrise, is my bet. But I admire your self-sacrificin’ spirit.”

“Never mind, we’ll take our medicine, won’t we, Fat? And if I don’t
mention you, maybe he won’t say anything about it.”

Fat grunted dolefully. Outside a bugle blew. The three rose to go.

“It’s me and Tommy to fly the eighteen meters,” said Long John. “Where do
you go, Fat?”

“Machine-gun,” was the answer.

“Hum, too bad. I heard the guy they shot there last week croaked. The
bullet went right thru his leg, and the quack dressed the place where it
went in all right, but forgot to see if it came out. Gangrene set in and
his leg rotted off, and they had to shoot him. Now a feller your build--
say, it wouldn’t go through at all. Just stay there and fester--”

But his victim was gone.

                *       *       *       *       *

Tommy flew badly that morning. He was all in, his head ached and, besides,
he was worrying about that interview with Major Herman Krause. And then he
had to practise landings--nervous work at best in an unfamiliar ship.
Finally he blew a tire and was bawled out unmercifully by the instructor.

Luckily it was on his tenth and last trip, and he breathed a sigh of
relief when the lecture was over and he could go. He went to the barracks
and policed up. Shave, shine, but no shampoo. There was hardly enough
water for drinking and shaving, and that was brought many miles in tank
wagons. Bathing was something one went without at Issy--and felt not much
the worse unless the scabbies set in.

Once militarily clean, Tommy dragged himself to headquarters, entirely
ruining the new shine so painfully acquired. He entered the presence of
the adjutant feeling like a whipped schoolboy. He saluted and stood at
attention.

“Sir, Lieutenant Lang to speak to the commanding officer.”

The adjutant kept on writing for about five minutes at a desk stacked with
piles of reports. Then he looked up savagely and spoke with a slight
accent:

“What? Oh, yes. What for?”

“About the Paris Express.”

“Go right in. He’s waiting.”

Tommy went in and stood with trembling knees before the C. O. He was a
large florid man with beetling brows and his manner was not encouraging.

“You? Well? What about it?”

Tommy explained as well as he could, stressing his innocence. He thought
his plea must have softened an executioner, but Major Krause was
uncompromising in attitude and words.

“Young man,” he said, “you are a disgrace, sir! A disgrace to the United
States Army!” Tommy thought he had heard those words before. “We have been
having considerable trouble with the guard. Those cadets are the worst
disciplined body of men I ever saw.” Again a familiar note.

“As for you--you seem to have trouble keeping awake. A permanent
assignment as commander of the guard ought to give you beneficial practise
at it. Of course, after keeping awake all night, you will need to sleep in
the day-time. You are therefore relieved from flying duty. Report at guard
mount this evening and every evening until further orders. That will do.”

Tommy saluted and went out, his heart sinking. There were only three known
ways of getting out of Issy-la-Boue. The first was to break your neck. The
second was to fly so well that you were graduated. The third was to fly so
poorly that you were sent to Blooey for reclassification, probably as an
armament officer. Which was generally considered the lowest form of life
so far discovered in the air service.

All these methods were dependent on flying. Once a man was taken off
flying duty, it took an act of Congress to get him away from the place.

The little man wended his way back to the barracks. His comrades were
sitting on their bunks, and he poured his tale of woe into their receptive
ears. Being beyond words, they accorded him silent sympathy. Finally Fat
spoke:

“Well, I’m lucky to be out of it. Say, did you hear the news? Brock was
washed out on the fifteens this morning.”

“That makes seven in a week,” said Tommy after a pause. “How’d it happen?”

“Same old thing. Wings came off.”

A bugle called. Most of the flying lieutenants went outside and, joining
others from near-by barracks, formed in line. A few commands, and they
were in one of the rivers of mud which served as roads at the field.
Presently they were halted behind three long two-wheeled pushcarts; each
cart bore a long box covered with an American flag. The mourners stood in
the mud for half an hour waiting, and then a dispirited looking band
appeared. Its bass drum echoed _boom-boom-boom-boom-boom_, and the
procession started.

Through the gate of the camp it went, and out on to the main road, while
the drum kept up its sad, hollow sound. Yard after yard, rod after rod,
until the cortège had walked two miles. Then it turned into a young but
flourishing cemetery, with red, raw mounds in orderly lines.

The men were formed around three fresh graves. A pale-faced Y. M. C. A.
man stumbled through the burial service. A red-faced Knight of Columbus
did likewise. A Frenchman flew over and dropped some dessicated roses.
Then they all marched away again; only the boxes and a small burial party
remained behind.

The band struggled with its one tune, a lively quickstep, according to
regulations. Two old peasants drew their cart to one side of the road to
let them pass.

“_Comme ils sont trists, les ’tits Americains!_” said the woman.

“_Quelle musique!_” answered her spouse.

                *       *       *       *       *

The three chums went back to their bunks.

“Do you birds know anything about being the commander of the guard?” asked
Tommy with some concern.

“No,” replied Fat.

“Sure,” answered Long John. “I was chucked out of the first training camp.
First, you have to have a gun.”

“A rifle?” asked Tommy.

“No, you little sap. Officers don’t carry rifles, or flying lieutenants
either. A pistol.”

“But I ain’t got a pistol.”

“Borrow one then. Do you know the general orders?”

“I don’t know any generals, orders or debility either.”

“Never mind trying to be funny. You may find out it ain’t no joke about
generals. The Old Boy himself and the Silly Civilian are going to inspect
the post tomorrow. I saw the orders over at the operations office for
every machine to be up that can get off the ground. I suppose that means a
lot more long walks. But it’s most time for guard mount; you’d better run
along and find a gun.”

Tommy disappeared and finally returned with a regulation web belt and
holster in one hand, and a .25 caliber automatic in the other.

“What are you going to do with that popgun, you idiot?” asked Long John
disgustedly. “Are you going hunting canary birds, or what?”

“I couldn’t find a regular gun, and a cadet loaned me this. He said
officers had taken it before and put a dirty sock or something in the
holster so the butt would just show, and got by all right.”

“Very well, then, take one of Fat’s socks. The smell may keep you awake.
Is the blamed thing loaded? Look out you don’t shoot yourself. There’s the
call, now. Put on your belt. You fool! How many belts are you going to
wear? What do you think you are, a past grand master of the Holy Jumpers?
Take off your Sam Browne. There--get going, now.

“Well, away he goes, and he doesn’t know whether Julius Cesar was stabbed
or shot off horseback. Did you ever see the like, Fat? But I bet he comes
out all right some way, the lucky little stiff. I never knew it to fail.
Well, let’s go up by the stove.”

But Tommy wasn’t such a complete fool as he appeared. He knew the old Army
advice for shavetails, “Find a good sergeant and stick to him.” The
sergeant of the guard was a grizzled old sufferer who had been through it
all many, many times. He engineered the guard mount and posted the guard.
Then Tommy drew him to one side.

“What do I do now, Sergeant?” he asked.

“Well, the lieutenant has to inspect the guard three times, once between
midnight and six o’clock in the morning. First ask them for their special
orders, and then for their general orders. If they make a mistake, I’ll
nudge you and you say, ‘Correct him, Sergeant,’ and I’ll fix him up. It’s
getting dark now. Would the Lieutenant like to make his first inspection
before supper?”

Inspection was a hectic affair. The guard was composed of cadets who had
joined the Army to fly and remained in it to mount guard, and it was their
intention to make it as interesting as possible for all concerned,
especially their superiors. But the old sergeant was equal to the
occasion. He steered Tommy by the traps planted for him, and then showed
him the guardhouse.

There the commander of the guard ate his slum and then returned to his
barrack. Long John grabbed him by the arm as he entered.

“That frog was around again today, and he brought a lot of stuff,” he
whispered. “You’re in on it. Doc is goin’ to make punch. Be around at nine
o’clock.”

                *       *       *       *       *

Tommy was there at the appointed time. At the far end a crowd was
gathered. Men were perched as closely as possible on the double-deck
bunks. In their midst Bacchanalian rites were in progress. “Doc,” a stout
man with a red, satyr-like countenance, was beating a huge bowl of eggs.
Before him within easy reach and frequently applied, was an assorted row
of bottles. Tommy read some of the labels--Cherry Brandy, Martell, D. O.
M., Absinthe.

“My God,” he muttered to himself, “everything but nitroglycerine.”

The party was undoubtedly a success. There were songs and dances and
stories. Finally it got to the speechmaking stage. An interruption in the
form of a volley of shots was welcome to every one except the current
performer. A trampling of feet, and then more shots followed. A voice at
the other end of the barrack shouted “Attention!” as Major Krause stumbled
in. He had evidently been running, but he tried to stalk around in a
dignified manner. Somebody whispered--

“Those damn cadets have been shooting off their guns and raising hell
again, and he’s been trying to catch them.”

The major approached the end of the barrack where the party had been in
progress. He sniffed suspiciously, but the punch-bowl had been shoved
under a bunk and the bottles into boots, and there was no evidence in
sight. Finally he asked--

“Are there any guns in this barrack?”

“No,” Tommy spoke up. “I know, because I was trying to borrow one this
afternoon to mount guard with.”

A partially suppressed titter rose and fell again. The C. O. wheeled
around furiously.

“So it’s you again, is it?” he thundered. “Carousing in here while your
superiors attend to your duties. Get out to your guard and put a stop to
that indiscriminate shooting. I swear if I see you again tonight I’ll
prefer charges and have you broke!”

Tommy stumbled out into the darkness and headed in what he thought was the
direction of the guardhouse. His head was buzzing painfully. A volley of
shots sounded somewhere in front of him. He felt vaguely that he ought to
do something about it, and ran in that direction, only to fall over the
guy-rope of a hangar and fall heavily. More shots behind him. He got up
and staggered on. Suddenly there was a flash and a report right before
him. Then a voice yelled--

“Halt.”

“Commander of the guard,” bawled Tommy.

A dark figure loomed up vaguely in the murk. He struck a match and saw a
grinning cadet working the bolt of his rifle and waving the muzzle around
dangerously. Suddenly it exploded and Tommy felt mud splatter over him.

“I thought I saw something moving and halted it, and it wouldn’t halt, so
I fired, but I don’t understand this gun very well, sir,” said the cadet,
still working at the bolt.

The commander of the guard turned and fled. He was getting dizzier every
minute. Finally he tripped over another guy-rope and fell, to rise no
more.

When he woke, it was with the consciousness of having been annoyed for a
long time by a rasping noise which was still going on. He tried to pull
himself together and think. He could vaguely discern the bulk of a hangar.
There was a queer, unexplained rasping. Filed wires--Wings coming
off--Funerals--

The noise stopped, and presently a dark figure crept out through the
hangar door and started to steal away. Tommy drew the little automatic
from its holster and fired. The next thing he realized was that there were
flashlights and men everywhere. The sergeant of the guard. Major Krause.
Calls for explanation. Tommy tried to explain. A voice said--

“You fool, you’ve shot the adjutant!” Strong hands seized him and hustled
him away.

                *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, when a detail came to the guardhouse, Tommy was still in a
daze. The leader told him to police up, as he was to go before the C. O.
He was still confused when he was led into the office at headquarters.

The commanding officer was there, and Captain La Croix, the French officer
who advised as to instruction. Also a large, fierce man with stars on his
shoulders, and a little civilian with glasses and a trench coat several
sizes too large for him. Tommy’s legs seemed to be made of butter.

Major Krause was speaking, and strange to say, his voice was not unkind.

“Lieutenant Lang,” he said, “I revoke everything I said yesterday. You
have done a great service for your country. I regret to say that a small
file was found on the body of the adjutant, and that some of the ships
were found to have been tampered with--so skillfully that detection was
very unlikely. Inspection of the adjutant’s papers brought out evidence
that he was an Austrian citizen. Tell the general and the secretary how
you came to discover what was going on.”

“Well,” blurted Tommy, “it was this way. I was dizzy and fell down two or
three times and finally I decided to go to sleep. Then some guy kept
making a filing noise and waking me up, so I shot him.”

                *       *       *       *       *

That evening three flying lieutenants were finishing an illicit meal of
chicken and champagne at a little French inn about three miles from the
field, and the smallest of the trio was finishing a story.

“There was a long argument,” he said, “and the general and the major were
all for preferring charges, but Captain La Croix stood up for me and said
I was a good pilot, and finally they agreed to let him get me transferred
to a French observation squadron at the front.”

The tall man and the fat one looked at each other and at their little
companion. Then they ejaculated as one--

“You lucky little stiff!”

                                 THE END

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1, 1927 issue of
_Adventure_ magazine.]