“But, Sciples,” the sergeant said. “It’s the same old story. The same thing that I’ve been up against for three years. And it makes me mad, Sciples. Hell, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never lose this desire to fly. It’s different with you, you old decrepit”—the sergeant was never entirely tongue tied himself—“You don’t care about flying. The bug’s never grazed upon you. You don’t know the hell and pain and longing that an egg like me faces, Sciples. Why, Sciples, this thing of giving a right arm for something is nothing. I’d do another stretch in this damn’ Army if I really thought that I’d aviate. And that is what I call bravery.”
“Crazy as a loon!” Sciples exclaimed. “Why you—you don’t know enough to—”
“And this was the most cruel thrust of all, Sciples,” the sergeant went on, “this thing that came off half an hour ago, why—” The hangar’s telephone rang, and Sciples, with the sergeant still talking, strolled toward the instrument—“why, there I was all set to take off with Black. Had myself nicely planted in the rear seat, and who comes out and robs me but my ex-cook, that rotten cook, Shane, and—” There were tears in the thick voice.
For a minute Sciples talked over the line. In the end he said, “Well that’s hell,” and hung up.
“What’s hell?” the sergeant forgot his own troubles long enough to ask.
“Cadet Shane,” Master Sergeant Sciples said, “Shane, the man who unseated you, Shane and Black spun into the ground ten miles from here. They both burned to death.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 15, 1928 issue of Adventure magazine.