The two replacement ships didn’t come in that afternoon. Nor the next afternoon. The fog continued to hang low and thick. Most of the pilots sat on the ground, worked on their ships, lined up guns. One morning of the third day the fog lifted a bit and the two replacement Nieuports were ferried in from Colombey. Lieutenant Schafer drew one and Tex Langdon drew the other.
Tex worked over his Browning, got the ship off for an hour’s hop back of the lines before dark. She handled well, and in a couple of bursts at the ground target south of the Sixteenth’s field he didn’t do so bad. But he almost cracked up setting her down, making a fast landing. He taxied her into one of the camouflaged hangars, gave the ground-crew sergeant his o. k., and moved toward his coop in the barracks.
An orderly was waiting for him; he was wanted at the C. O.’s office. He
washed up, hurried over. Captain Jones frowned up at him.
“Lieutenant Connors reports sick. Looks like a touch of flu. We’re short pilots, and Brigade is howling for defense planes. Enemy ships are flooding the Sector air. Is your new ship all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Tex replied quietly.
“Take her over until dark,” the C. O. ordered. “Lieutenants Harrington and Adams are out. Head for Hill G.8. Some Fokkers are raising the devil up that way. The French may get some ships across, and you might help some in a dog fight. Pull back here before dark. That’s all. Get me a report as soon as you get in.”
Tex nodded, saluted. He went to his barracks, got his helmet and goggles, headed for the Nieuport again. The ground crew pulled her out. Adams across the line! Tex smiled grimly. That lieutenant was getting plenty of work. So were they all, for that matter.
He climbed into the cockpit, revved up the little ship’s engine for a few minutes, nodded his head for the blocks to be pulled away. The pursuit plane rolled out across the soggy field, climbed into the sky. Tex headed straight for the front. As the Nieuport gained altitude, he stared over the side. From the northeast, clinging low to the ground, white fog was drifting.
Tex Langdon groaned. For a brief second he thought of banking around, turning back. The C. O. was not pleased with his work. And he was winging toward the front with darkness and fog coming to obscure the Squadron field. If he cracked up again—