Horace McCoy: Bombs for the General (Short Story)

“I want to fight, sir. I want to fight more than anything else in the world.” He trembled and the Major said,

“Steady, now. Of course you do. And you will. In the meantime there are men who look to you for certain things. You aren’t giving them a break. Nobody knows what this war is all about. It’s tough to go on waiting and waiting... but it’s got to be done. Hold up your end of it. Now go on back to your barracks. There are five Spads to take up tonight.”

Dorman’s eyes widened.

“Tonight? You mean you’re sending me up after—”

He hesitated and the Major said, “After what?”

“Why, I cracked a DH—”

The Major laughed and said, “Well, did it teach you anything?” He looked at the lieutenant sharply, the trace of a smile on his lips.

Dorman inhaled deeply, “I’ll say it did.”

“Fine.” The Major got up and stuck out his hand. “Are we friends?”

Dorman took the hand and said, “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“That’s all right,” the Major said. “Just keep holding on.”

“Yes, sir,” Dorman said and went out.

He entered the barracks whistling and Chick Lancaster grinned and came over.

“What happened?” he said. “You don’t look like a little boy who caught hell.”

“I didn’t,” Dorman said.

“He didn’t decorate you, did he?”

“No, but he never said a word about the crack-up. Not a word. If he’d bawled me out I would have felt better. But he didn’t.”

“Swell,” Lancaster said. “Come on and we’ll have a snort.”

Dorman lifted up his right hand.

“Not me,” he said. “I’m off the stuff. I’m going up tonight with a convoy.”

Lancaster was surprised.

“What the Hell?” he said. “So am I.”

“Are you? Well, you oughtn’t to be boozing then.”

Lancaster was frankly amused.

“By God, he sure reformed you in a hurry.”

There was a noise at the door and a slender chap with keen eyes and short-clipped hair came in. He had a dunnage bag with him and he dropped it in the corner and squared off in front of Lancaster.

“Well,” he said, “where do I park the body?”

Lancaster said, “Better go see the adjutant,” and the keen-eyed chap went out.

Dorman watched the retreating form. He asked, “Who’s the fresh guy?”

“Kid from Arizona,” Lancaster said. “Out in your country. His name’s Frank Luke.”

That didn’t mean anything to George Dorman. He sat down in a canvas-bottomed chair and said, “The First must be short of ships. I never heard of ferrying at night before.”

“They been catching hell, all right,” Lancaster said. “It’s being talked around even back here that the drome is in for a good bombing pretty soon.” He looked at Dorman quizzically. “Come on and take a snifter.”

“Thanks,” Dorman said. “But I’m off that stuff.”

“Hell, one snifter won’t hurt. The ships haven’t gone to the test block yet. There ain’t a chance to get ‘em off before midnight.”

Dorman shook his head.

“I just don’t wanna drink, Chick, that’s all.”

Midnight. Blackness pressing in against five trim fighting ships going up on an emergency order. Five trim fighting ships in the hands of five trusted pilots... pilots eating their hearts out for a chance at action... five cogs in a mighty machine of war.

Dorman’s ears rang with the hum of his motor and for the first time in a month he was conscious of his part in the scheme of things. Major Carew had been right; there wasn’t anything to be gained by beefing. Well, from now on he’d do the best he could and trust to luck... and on and on he flew in that sea of darkness. It seemed as if he were motionless in a great void.

It wouldn’t be long, he reflected, before he’d get his chance. Every squadron in the lines was feeling the sting of the enemy. Every day some crack pilot got knocked down and it stood to reason that soon the depot at Orly would be minus several ferrymen...

Sometime later he noticed he was alone. The yellow rings from the other exhausts had disappeared, and for a moment he was chilled. He checked his compass and looked out again, and as he settled back he had a queer feeling that all was not well. But his bearings were true, so he didn’t worry.

Ahead of him there presently flared the magnesium light of the landing field. It flared only for a moment and then died; and Dorman smiled and put his nose down. Toul. The jump-off place for the squadrons.

As he cut his gun he heard a sullen thump and a great explosion of white far out in front caught his eye. In the closing glare he saw a geyser of dirt and his eyes went up.

Two great black planes hovered above—Gothas.

They had figured the arrival of the replacements perfectly; the hum of the Hispanos had drowned out the roar of their own motors, and they had marked the field by the brief magnesium flare.

With a start Dorman realized the Gothas were closing in and were just about over the neighborhood of headquarters.

There was another bath of light from below as one of the bombers dropped another, and with a shout Dorman snatched at his stick and squared his feet on the rudder bars. He leaned forward in his seat and strained his eyes through the darkness; his motor whined on a rising note and the ship leaped away into the night.

Off to the right there was a dull red puff and the village lighted grotesquely like a toy town in a Christmas window. That would be the Archies.

Dorman climbed until the drone of his motor told him he was nearing a stall, and then he leveled off and picked out the flashes from the exhaust of the Gotha. The big ship was banking wide to evade the Archie fire, but Dorman nosed over and tried his guns.

The crimson and yellow flashes spurted over his hood; he took his finger off the trigger and picked out the Gotha. The gunners of the Boche had located him and he could tell from their fire they were slowly getting him into their range. He banked wide and in a moment the huge black moth was in his nose. His finger raced forward to the trigger and his guns chattered.

Whether he had hit or not he couldn’t tell. The flashes from his guns half-blinded him, so after the first burst he pulled his stick and zoomed. Down below a battery of Archies began their bombardment and bursting shells filled the air.

“You damn fools!” Dorman shouted. “Lay off!”

Both Gothas were below Dorman now, and one of them turned loose with his swivel gun and Dorman saw he was out in front and evidently was headed for home. He came down again in the darkness, figured the speed of the Gotha and his own bus and fired when he thought he should have the bomber centered. He was firing from dead reckoning, but in a moment there was a flame from the big ship. It fanned out and reached along the fuselage hungrily; and made a perfect target out of the enemy.

The Gotha crew evidently realized it was their last stand, for two men could be seen in the front nacelle wrestling with a mounted gun. It spit fire up at him, but he rolled over and got altitude.

The fellow was doomed. Dorman wanted the other one.

He went up to two thousand meters and looked out. The Gotha was blazing through the middle and around its edges he could see the outskirts of Toul. There were many white spots against the black ground; they would be faces.

But where was the other Gotha?

The Gotha itself answered the question. From the left came another blinding white glare as it dropped its bombs, impervious to the fate of its sister ship.

Dorman grinned and kicked his rudder around and was off like a streak for the second bomber. The wind screamed through his wires and tore at his eyeballs. Through his little windshield he could see the tips of his propeller dyed in a dull red circle from the burning Gotha that slowly settled behind.