McGee saw the planes of another American squadron working up toward the front on his left. High above his flight was a large group of French Spads. He watched them, turning his head aloft from time to time. They seemed to be hovering over him and following his course. Far ahead, and below, he could see enemy observation balloons straining at their cables. Black geysers of earth, sand, and mud, were spouting from the tortured strip along the river. The earth below was an inferno of flashing, thundering shells. The front! And the drive was on!
He glanced up again. The French Spads were still above, a trained, experienced group of war hawks sent up to take care of the “upstairs” fighting while the Americans did the dirty work below. Cowan had not mentioned this. Perhaps he did not know of it. McGee knew that in big operations, and especially in such emergencies as this, orders were issued without disclosing the whole plan to all participants. If 193each unit obeys and carries out the orders received, then all goes well.
So far, all was well, and McGee was extremely grateful for that protecting flight of Spads.
He determined to cross the river west of Dormans, make a thrust well back of the lines, cut out again over Dormans and then, if luck were with them, repeat the performance. No need to lay plans too far in advance. Too much can happen in the tick of a second–things that knock plans and the planner into a cocked hat.
Below them now was a far-flung battle of raging intensity. German troops could be seen moving along toward the river, and a little farther inland McGee spotted a long line of infantrymen along a road paralleling the river. But they were moving westward, in the direction of Chateau-Thierry, instead of toward the bridgehead at Dormans. And in addition to the marching men, the road was choked with artillery, caissons, ammunition wagons, and ambulances.
Here was an opportunity made to order, and just as McGee was preparing to give the signal, he saw Yancey cut out and dive toward an observation balloon that was being rapidly drawn down by excited winchmen. No use to try to signal Yancey; that wild Texan was off on his joy-ride.
Archies and machine gun fire tried vainly to stop Yancey’s wild dive. Flaming onions began surging 194upward in their terrifying circlets, but Yancey was as scornful of them as is a Texas steer of a buzzing deer fly. His guns rattled in a short burst and the balloon exploded with a terrific blast of flame and smoke. Yancey’s plane rocked perilously. His inexperience in “busting balloons” had come near being his own undoing. But he righted his plane, somehow escaped the hail of shot and steel all around him and came plunging back down the road filled with fear-stricken men and plunging horses, his guns rattling joyously.
McGee, followed by Siddons, Porter and Fouche, swooped along the road from the opposite direction, scattering the troops like chaff. With death raining down on them from opposite but converging points, the German infantrymen broke wildly for cover. Their less fortunate comrades, the cannoneers and drivers of caissons and supply wagons, stuck to their posts, trying to calm the rearing, plunging horses and cursing the inexorable wasps that sent stinging death down on them.
Yancey, in particular, seemed to be in his glory. Half a dozen times he swung around, gained a little altitude, and again went plowing down along the road, his guns jumping and smoking in fiendish delight.
Harass the advancing enemy, eh? And the line of supplies? A job exactly suited to Yancey’s heart and spirit.