Then the Skipper told the story of Jimmie Dugan and his adventures, and they found out at last why Jimmie Dugan never came.
Jimmie, though an American, had joined the Canadian army. From the first he had disliked carrying a rifle and had got a transfer into a unit of sappers. It was their job to dig tunnels far out under the lines, pack them full of explosives, and when they thought the enemy least expected it, touch them off from a safe distance with an electric fuse.
This form of amusement Jimmie had soon tired of and felt that he needed a little more action out in the open air; therefore in due time he became a dispatch rider, and sped over the highways and byways of France on a motor-cycle.
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Getting a taste of speed, Jimmie looked about him for something better, and, as he expressed it, “Having worked under the ground and on the ground, I thought, why not try the air?”
His commanding officer, having in mind Jimmie’s smashing destructiveness with motor-cycles, had some misgivings about transferring him to the Flying Corps. There the possibilities of damage were increased a hundred fold. However, Jimmie made his officer’s life miserable until it was accomplished.
Jimmie had learned to fly with only the usual few crashed undercarriages, and had been hurried out to the front during March of 1918, when pilots of any kind were in great demand.
Arriving at a squadron near Bailleul, Jimmie had been plunged into the war in the air without the customary few days in which to get acquainted with the lines. Almost miraculously he had done his work and escaped injury during the hectic days that followed upon the enemy’s break-through in March.
Because of the terrific losses in pilots and planes during those days, Jimmie found himself a veteran of the squadron within three weeks. Time passed quickly. Every one was living his life to the hilt, resting his jangled nerves as best he could during the days it rained or clouds were too low for work aloft.