“When you buckoes have washed out these planes,” he said, “the Old Man will see the error of his way and send us up to do the real flying. What’s left of this gang will then be put to ferrying. Did any of you ever see a Spad or Nieuport before?”
Yancey, standing well over six feet, looked down on him pityingly. “Did you say your name was Smoot, or Snoot? Smoot, eh. Well, transportation to the rear is waitin’ for you at headquarters. Don’t let me keep you waitin’. I’m surprised you’re not pushin’ a wheelbarrow in a labor battalion, the way you set that Nieuport down a few minutes ago. Clear out, 68 soldier! This squadron is gettin’ ready to do some plain and fancy flyin’. I don’t want you to have heart trouble.”
“Humph! You’ll have heart trouble the first time you try to land one of those Spads. You’ll think you have been trained on a peanut roaster. Who’s the Britisher over there snooping around with Cowan?”
“Name’s McGee. But he’s not a Limey; he’s an American. I’m told he won a coupla medals in the R.F.C., and has sixteen Huns to his credit. He must be good–though he doesn’t wear the medals to prove it. Not a bit of swank.”
“What’s he doing here?”
“He’s an instructor,” Yancey replied without hesitation.
“Oh Ho! So you still need instruction? I heard that Cowan knows it all.”
“Naw, he only knows half, and you know the other half. Too bad both sets of brains wasn’t put in one head. In that case somebody would have been almost half-witted. Better toddle along, soldier. The animals are goin’ on a rampage in a minute.”
“Yeah? Well, turn ’em loose. I’m something of a big game hunter myself. What sort of a flyer is this instructor?”
“Dunno. We’ll see in a minute, maybe. He’s crawling in that Spad. Yep, they’re turnin’ her 69around. Don’t go now. You can learn a lot here.”