McGee made the decision which is always reached by an airman who finds himself in unhealthy surroundings: he would simply high-tail it away from there until “the shouting and the tumult” subsided. He swung into the dark sky to the north and then dived down until he felt that any less altitude would be extremely likely to bring him afoul of some church steeple or factory smokestack.
One of the German pilots decided to take a chance and release his bombs. Their reverberating detonations were terrifying enough, but aside from the ugly holes they made in the open field, some five hundred 92yards away from the ’drome, they accomplished nothing in the balance of warfare. The other planes, finding the welcome a bit too warm, took up a zig-zag course toward the Fatherland, but in a general course that would take them back over Nancy, where they could find a larger target for their bombs.
McGee, looking back, could see the searchlights sweeping eastward in their efforts to keep the fleeing planes spotted. But their luck had already been great indeed, and now they were again feverishly searching the black and seemingly empty sky.
“Good time to tool this baby home,” McGee thought as he swung around and headed for the ’drome, its location still well marked for him by the flickering flames of the fallen ship.
“Poor old Nancy!” he said aloud as he realized that the thwarted bombers would likely spew out their hate on that sorely tried city. “I’m sorry to wish this off on you, but you are used to it and these lads are not. Talk about luck! I wonder what good angel is perched on my shoulder.”
Back over the ’drome he signaled with his Very light pistol for landing lights, his take-off having been too sudden to permit of thinking of ground flares. He circled the field, waiting for the lights. No response. He signaled again. Still no response.
“Too much excitement, I guess,” he mused. Then he flew low over the remains of the burning plane, 93around which had gathered a large group–large enough, McGee thought, to include every man of the squadron from the C.O. down to the lowliest greaseball.
“Humph! A fine target you’d make!” Red snorted, and felt like throwing his Very pistol into the group. “Well, here goes! I’ve made darker landings than this. And if I crack up–” he smiled as a grim Irish bull flashed through his mind–“it will be a good lesson to the ground crew. Nothing like Irish humor at a time like this.”
2
If one who stands less than five feet six and is freckled of face and red of hair can command hauteur and dignity, then it can be said that a few minutes later McGee, with hauteur and dignity, strode into the excited, gabbling group that surrounded the burning German plane. For a moment none of them recognized him. With hands on hips, arms akimbo, he stood watching them. He was still just a little too mad to trust his tongue.