Horace McCoy: Bombs for the General (Short Story)

“A great scrap,” Luf had said. And then he had looked up at the little roof and went on. “I wonder if our kids’ll read about it fifty years from now?”

And then he had laughed.

Indifferent. Hard. Cold-steel. Dorman wondered if this were necessary to greatness.

Then all of a sudden the sun popped out and drove a vermillion shaft through the window.

Everybody shouted. They knew what that meant.

“There it is! Up and at ‘em in a minute, lads!”

Correct. With the scattering of the mists there was hunting to be done and in an hour the group was off in echelon formation. They took three new replacements over with them, just three. Too many new hands on one sortie limited the poaching and made the responsibility too great.

Dorman stood at the tarmac and watched the flat-winged birds drive their way over the Woevre, his heart pumping torrents of blood against his temples and his palms wet with sweat. He felt that he was pretty close to something.

He stared into the sky, his thoughts off in the blue, unaware of anyone within a thousand miles. Then, suddenly, he looked around and there was Saufley, the little sergeant, first class, who could spot motor trouble before the landing gear was on the ground.

“What?” asked Dorman, for he was dimly conscious that Saufley had said something.

Saufley grinned. And when he spoke you knew he had done duty with the British.

“Bloody fine hunting they’ll have,” he said, looking up at the specks. Sergeants, first class with combat units, had a queer way of feeling when new replacements needed information. “J-2’s across the line.”

“Oh,” Dorman said. He didn’t know exactly what J-2 was. Saufley knew it.

“The Fifth group of the Fifth German army,” he went on, kicking the dirt with his toe, as if to say he didn’t envy the Ninety-Fourth’s men. “The best, now that the bloody Baron has gone, I guess.”

Dorman, however, was not awed. He said with elaborate contempt, “The bigger they are the harder they fall.”

Saufley looked at him and grinned.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dorman said. He drifted his eyes inside the hangar and saw three trim Spads in the shadows. “Those guys can’t match Spads.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Saufley said. “That kind of thinking’ll get you hurt. Never done combat, have you?”

Dorman shook his head.

“I’m going over this afternoon,” he said. He went on, “but I think I can handle myself all right.”

“Sure, you can. But don’t ever forget the other guy is pretty good or he wouldn’t be up there. Lissen, I ain’t one of these smart alecs who think it’s clever to buddy around with the officers. But I wanna tell you not to underestimate the Boche. Them Germans ain’t dummies.” He shook his head and added, as if to himself, “Not by a damn sight.”

“I know it,” Dorman said, “just the same I’m anxious to get over with eight-one-nine.”

“Good bus,” Saufley said. “She’s only had twenty hours and got the original linen on ‘er. But the left gun is sorta temperamental.” He started off inside the hangar and Dorman followed him.

A battle plane was life to Dorman, a bridge by which the distance to Elysian fields could be spanned, and he touched his Spad as if it were a living thing which could understand his fingertips. Once or twice he was stricken by self-consciousness as Saufley looked at him swiftly. Dorman was suddenly aware, for no reason, that he should be more dispassionate. After all, it was a war.

For an hour then he milled around the great drab hangar, frankly alive; cognizant that out there was fighting. It seemed different somehow, for back in school this was what they all lived for. Up here it was more serious; there was less laughter and derision of the enemy. Back in the school the Huns were a lot of stumblebums who didn’t know what it was all about, but up here the men who had been over and met them knew differently. They were highly prized as foemen.

Then it happened. So swiftly, so suddenly Dorman was never able to get it straight.

There was a deep drone from up above and he first thought the group was coming back. But there was confusion in the hangar, for the mechanics had recognized the hum of the motor.

“Jerry!” they shouted, and got out into the open immediately. They thought bombers were in the air.

Dorman dashed for the door and looked up. There they were, a scant three hundred meters up, daring the Archies—two Fokkers, in a dive with their Spandaus spitting. The Maltese crosses glared ominously; it was the first time he had ever seen the enemy in full flight.

And then it dawned on him that they were far back behind the Allied lines; and the blood surged again.

This was his chance and he knew it.

“Hey!” he shouted at Saufley. “Hey!”

Saufley turned around and looked.

“What the hell?” he cried.

Dorman cupped his hands.

“Gimme a hand! I’m going up!”

Saufley turned his eyes upward. One of the Fokkers had been scared away by Archie fire. It was breaking all around him and he had turned and was thundering back. But the other was coming through a literal wall of steel. Saufley ran back over to the hangar.

Dorman grabbed him. He was excited.

“Roll out eight-one-nine! Load up those guns!”

“Lissen, Lieutenant,” Saufley said. “You better—”

“Beat it!” Dorman said. He slanted his head upward and saw the Boche strafing the road that led to Toul. The enemy was having a great time. Dorman raced over to the cubicle and dashed inside. He grabbed his helmet and his flying coat and was putting them on as he came out. Lufbery was at the side of the house, staring interestedly at the proceedings.

“Where the hell you think you’re going?” he yelled.

“To teach Jerry a lesson,” Dorman flung over his shoulder.

“Wait a minute—”

But Dorman was across the field The mechanics had rolled out his Spad. He jumped and caught his foot in the stirrup, crying to Saufley: “All set?”

“Yes, sir,” Saufley shouted. He was infected with some of the enthusiasm of the tall Texan.

Dorman swung down in the seat and a mechanic grasped the prop.

“Coupez!”

“Coupez!”

The mechanic centered the blade.

“Contact!”

“Contact!”

He adjusted his goggles and put on his gloves. He reached out with his hands and touched the feed blocks on his guns. They were loaded. His gasoline line cocks were turned right; there was his signal pistol and four cartridges. In his box were pencil, paper, some cigarettes, a flash and two bars of chocolate.

His feet were on the rudder bar; his hand raced along to the throttle. The motor spluttered and caught, he jiggled the lever and eased it open. Dust and pebbles threw up the backwash and bounced against the stabilizers.

Saufley twisted his shoulder and head to brace himself and protect his eyes from the slipstream and came running around to the cockpit.

“Has the lieutenant any papers on his person that would be of value to the enemy?” he yelled.

Dorman shook his head. He pulled his throttle shut, then opened it and waddled out. He got his windage and had a final look around; there was the Fokker just about over headquarters of the General commanding the Air Service. It looked as if he were in a dive, tiny puffs jumped from the Spandaus as he sprayed the roof with lead.

Dorman kicked his ship around and gunned it; and it got away in a flutter of wings. He slipped wide around the hangar and went after the Boche.

His finger slipped up onto the trigger and he squeezed it. He saw the crank arms jumping and could dimly hear the rattle of his guns. Well, thank God, they were all right. He settled down a little more so he could get his eyes on a level with the ring sights. Now. This was something like. Would this be a thrill for the lads back on the ranch or not?