You gather, I take it, that the affair made an impression on me.
My observation of the episode started one steaming July morning in McMullen, Texas. Mr. P. Enoch O’Reilly and myself were members, in good standing, of the McMullen flight of the Air Service Border patrol. There were a dozen flights, consisting of ten or twelve flyers and observers, scattered along the Border from Brownsville to San Diego.
The duty of the blithe young men was to pilot DeHaviland airplanes up and down that squirming trouble area, taking peeks at any little matters such as smuggling, rustling, or a little plain and fancy banditing. We aimed to be a sort of Texas Ranger outfit, riding airplanes instead of horses and, in some cases, if I do say it myself, the boys did pretty well. Well enough to make the roar of an airplane motor like the voice of doom to many a frisky outlaw.
Eleven o’clock was the hour for the mail to arrive. I’d just got back from the western patrol to Laredo and stalked into the office with my helmet and goggles still on. It was only a gesture—I never get any mail.
Sitting on the edge of a desk in the operations room, underneath the mailboxes, was Penoch O’Reilly. He was holding a letter in his clenched hand, and his eyes were gazing out of the window with a look in them which was not good to see.
Enthroned in the inner office, at their respective desks, were “Pop” Cravan, our adjutant, and Captain George Kennard, our C. O. Pop was round and obese and bald-headed, with a fiery temper, a nasty tongue, a soft heart and a keen mind.
“Hell!” he snorted loudly. “Another of those reserve officers ordered here for three months active duty at his own request! I suppose he’ll crack up three ships and be more trouble than a case of hives.”
“Who is he?” demanded the stocky, spike-haired little captain in his raucous voice.
“Name is Ralph Kennedy, and he’s a shavetail in the reserve.”