XVI
Captain Elijah Franklin stuck out his hand. 'We're going to miss you here, Moss,' he said. The pilots and observers in Jonathan Moss' squadron all nodded. So did the mechanics. Moss knew why Lefty would miss him: no more easy pickings at the poker table.
'I'll miss you, too, sir, and everybody else here,' he said. 'But I've been sort of a fifth wheel ever since Percy got hurt, and when this chance to transfer came along, it looked too good to pass up.'
'Fighting scouts? I should say so,' Stanley McClintock said. He twiddled with one of the waxed spikes of his mustache. 'You never did like the idea of company in your aeroplane, did you?'
'Why, darling, I didn't know you'd miss me that way,' Moss said archly. The laugh he got let him slide over the fact that McClintock had a point. He'd been the one who'd complained longest and hardest about the introduction of the two-seater Wright 17s. In the old Super Hudsons, you had nobody but yourself to blame if you made a mistake up there. The new fighting scouts were like that, too. You did what you did and, if you did it right, you lived and you got to keep on doing it. If not, it was your own damn fault, no one else's.
People crowded round him, pressing chocolate and flasks of brandy and whiskey into his pockets. They slapped him on the back and wished him luck. McClintock wasn't the only one who looked jealous. If you did your job in a two-seater, your observer took his pictures and you came home and got them developed. If you did your job in a fighting scout, you shot down enemy aeroplanes, and soldiers in the trenches shouted their heads off for you. So did reporters. If you shot down enough enemy aeroplanes, people back home shouted their heads off for you.
'Come on, let's go,' Lefty said. Moss shouldered his duffel bag and climbed into the Ford that did duty as squadron transport. Unlike models that came off the assembly line, this one had been modified to boast an electric starter button on the dashboard. Lefty mashed it with his thumb. The engine thundered to life. As they rolled away from the aerodrome, Lefty handed Moss a pair of dice. 'You ever get in a hot crap game where you need some sevens in a hurry, these are the babies to have.'
Moss stared down at the ivory cubes in the palm of his hand. Lefty doubt less meant them for a thoughtful going-away present. They made him thoughtful, all right. He thought about what a profitable time Lefty had had ever since the squadron went into Canada.
As if reading his mind, the mechanic said, 'I never use 'em myself, and nobody'll ever be able to prove I do. Same goes for poker, Lieutenant, in case you're wondering. Know what you're doing and you'll never need to cheat.'
By which, he was saying Moss didn't know what he was doing at cards or dice. He probably knew what he was talking about, too.
The Ford rattled along. The road was nothing to boast about, which made the motorcar's big wheels and high ground clearance all the more valuable. Nothing in American-held Ontario was anything to boast about, though. Every inch had been fought over, every inch wrecked. What had been little farms by the side of the road were now cratered ground and rubble, with hardly a house standing. Here and there, skinny people came out of ruins to glower at the automobile as it rolled past.
Lefty pulled off the road and onto a new track made by U.S. vehicles after the war had passed this stretch of Canada. The fighting scouts, having shorter range than the observation aeroplanes, were based closer to the front. The strip on which they took off and landed had so much fresh dirt on it, it had pretty obviously been shelled not long before, the land then releveled by trac tors or more likely by lots of men working hard.
Alongside the strip sat the Martin single-deckers. Next to the bulky Wilburs he'd been flying, they looked little and low and fast. Next to the Cur tiss Super Hudsons, pushers with more wires and struts than you could shake a stick at, they looked like something out of the 1930s, maybe the 1940s, not merely next year's model.
'You got to hand it to Kaiser Bill's boys,' Lefty said, stamping on the none too effective brake to bring the Ford to a halt (when you needed to stop in a hurry, stamping on the reverse was a better idea). Puffy summer clouds drifted lazily across the sky. 'They know how to make aeroplanes, no two ways about it.'
'Yeah,' Moss said with a small sigh. The Wright brothers might have flown the first aeroplane in 1904, but the machines had evolved faster in Europe than in the USA. The single-decker was a straight knockoff of the Fokker monoplanes now flying above France and Belgium. Also a knockoff was the machine gun mounted above the engine, almost the only bulge marring the smooth lines of the aeroplane. 'Good to know somebody finally figured out how to build a decent interrupter gear. Even if it wasn't us, we get to borrow it.'
'That's right, Lieutenant,' Lefty said. 'Chew the hell out of the Canucks and the limeys for me, you hear?' He stuck out his hand. Moss shook it, then grabbed his duffel bag and jumped down from the Ford. Lefty took his foot off the brake, gave the motorcar more throttle with the hand control, and putt-putted away.
Shouldering the bag, Moss made for the canvas tents that housed his new squadron. Such arrangements were all very well now, with the weather warm, but could you live in a tent in the middle of winter? Maybe the war would be over and he wouldn't have to find out. He clicked tongue between teeth. He'd believed nonsense like that the year before. He was a tougher sell now.
Somebody came out of the closest tent and spotted him. 'Moss, isn't it?' the man called with a friendly wave. 'Welcome to the monkey house.'
'Thank you, Captain Pruitt,' Moss said, letting the bag fall so he could salute. Shelby Pruitt lazily returned the gesture. Moss had already gathered he'd have to get used to a new style here; Captain Franklin, his CO since the start of the war, had been the sort who dotted every i and crossed every t. Pruitt didn't seem the sort to make much fuss over little things, as long as the big ones were all right.
Now he said, 'Come along with me. We'll give you someplace or other where you can lay your weary head.' He didn't particularly look like a flier — he was short and dark and on the dumpy side-and his south-western accent made him sound almost like a Reb. When you watched him move, though, you got the idea he always knew exactly where every part of him was at every moment, and that was something a pilot certainly needed.
He led Moss along the row of green-gray canvas shelters till he flipped up one flap. 'Ah, thought so,' he said. 'We've got room at the inn here.'
Peering in, Moss saw the tent held four cots, the space around one of them conspicuously bare and empty. One airman sat on the edge of his bed, writing a letter. He looked up at Moss and said, 'You're the new fish, are you? I'm Daniel Dudley-they mostly call me Dud.' He shrugged resignedly. He had a pale, bony face and a grin that was engaging even if a little cadaverous.
'Jonathan Moss,' Moss said, and shook hands. He set his gear down on the empty cot. Pruitt nodded to him, then went off on whatever other business he had. Moss understood his offhandedness: he wouldn't really be part of the squadron till he'd flown his first mission.
Dudley made a small production out of sticking the cap back onto his fountain pen. That let him effectively do nothing till Captain Pruitt was out of earshot. Then he asked, 'What do you think of Hardshell so far?'
Moss needed a moment to grasp the nickname. 'The captain, you mean?' he asked, to make sure he had it right. When Dudley didn't say no, he went on, 'He seems all right to me. Friendlier than the fellow I'm leaving, that's clear. What do you think of him?'
'He'll do, no doubt about it.' Dudley took a panatela out of a teakwood cigar case. He offered the case to Moss, who shook his head. The pilot bit off the end of his cigar, lighted it, and sighed with pleasure.
'Who else sleeps here?' Moss asked, pointing to the other two cots.
'Tom Innis and Luther Carlsen,' the other pilot answered. 'Good eggs, both of 'em. Luther's a big blond handsome guy, and thinks he's a wolf. If the girls thought so, too, he'd do pretty well for himself.'
'That's true about a lot of guys who think they're wolves,' Moss said, to which Dudley nodded. Moss turned serious in a hurry, though. 'What can you tell me about the Martin that I won't have picked up from training on it?'
'Good question,' Dudley said. A wide smile only made him look more skull-like than ever, but he couldn't help that. 'We've just been flying Martins a month or so ourselves. They don't have a lot of vices that we've found: good speed, good view, good acrobatics.' He paused. 'Oh. There is one thing.'
'What's that?' Moss leaned forward.
'Every once in a while, the interrupter gear will get a little bit out of alignment.'
'How do you find out about that?'
