“No, same rank,” Larkin answered. “But believe me, I’m free to confess now that I’d rather be a buck 116in Uncle Sam’s little old army than a brass hat in any other. Boy, shake!”
4
Sometime after midnight, at least an hour after sleep had at last overcome McGee’s and Larkin’s joyous excitement, a sleep-shattering motor cycle again came pop-popping to their door. The dispatch bearer hammered lustily on the barred front door until admitted by the sleepy-eyed, white robed, grumbling Madame Beauchamp, and then clattered up the stairs, two steps at a time. He pounded heavily on the door of the sleeping pilots.
McGee fumbled around on the table at the side of the bed, found the candle stub, and as the flaring match dispelled the shadows, called, “Come in! Don’t beat the door down!”
Rawlins fairly burst into the room. “Major Cowan’s compliments, sir, and he directs you to report to the squadron at once.”
“Good heavens! At this hour? What’s up, Rawlins?”
Rawlins smiled expansively. “Orders for the front, sir. They’re taking down the hangar tents now, and trucks will be here in the next hour for baggage and equipment. All the ships are to be on the line, checked and inspected an hour before dawn. 117The C.O. said to make it snappy. He said a truck would come after your luggage. It’s a madhouse over at headquarters, sir.”
Both pilots sprang from the bed.
“Do you know where my orderly sleeps, Rawlins?” McGee asked.
“Yes, sir.”