“Easy, Lieutenant!” he had shot back coldly. “Where I come from that’s right bad talk!”
And then Adams had laughed. It had been a nasty laugh. And when he had finished laughing he had shot more words at the big Texan.
“You’re not where you came from, unfortunately! But you’ll get there, Lieutenant. The first Boche that gets on your tail will send you back to where you came from!”
Tex had got to his feet, after that. There had been no color in his face; Lieutenant Adam’s meaning had been unmistakable. Ben Chapin had grabbed him, and the old-timer had turned his back and moved from the mess-room.
Lieutenant Chapin listened for the roar of a ship’s engine, heard nothing but the distant rumble of guns, muffled by the fog. Staff had pulled a boner, in picking the locality of the Sixteenth Pursuit’s field. Every five or six days the ground fog was so bad that ships didn’t get in. Once or twice they hadn’t been able to get off.
The pilot turned back toward the barracks. He shook his head slowly. Somewhere in the sky, winging back toward the squadron, most probably, were Lieutenants Adams and Tex Langdon. Quite often two pilots, one winging in from the north and the other from the south patrol of the front, would meet over Chalbrouck, fly back to the Squadron together. Perfectly synchronized wrist watches helped such a meet in the air. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer. He knew about fog; knew where it was likely to hang and where the ground might be clear. If the two ships met, he could guide Tex Langdon in. He could; but would he?
Ben Chapin swore again. He shook his head. It looked like a tough break for Tex. One more smash and he’d go back toward Blois. The Squadron needed ships too badly. And now there was fog, heavy fog. And the only pilot who could help Tex was Lieutenant Adams. Ben Chapin’s lips moved slowly as he moved along the corridor toward his tiny coop.
“If Tex rides this one into the corral,” he muttered grimly, “he’s good! More than good, I’ll say—he’s perfect!”
Nine miles east of the Sixteenth Pursuit Squadron’s fog-shrouded field, ten thousand feet above the front lines, two ships zoomed and dove, twisted and spun in the sky. The two ships had been engaged in combat for more than three minutes, and the battle was a tough one. One plane was a baby Albatross, very well camouflaged. The other was a fifteen-meter Nieuport, not so well camouflaged. In the narrow cockpit of the Nieuport was Lieutenant Tex Langdon. His blue eyes were rimmed with red, his lips were pressed tightly together as he handled the American ship, trying to get in position for a machine-gun burst at the enemy plane.