Horace McCoy: Bombs for the General (Short Story)

HE WAS aware too, that on the ground below there was some confusion. Men were swarming around in the darkness, pocket flashes glowed beside a great brown monster that was the hangar. Then he saw a smudge of light as the door opened and a little moth came rolling out; behind it was a second.

Dorman swore aloud into the wind.

Two of the squadron were coming up. They were going to give him a hand. Like hell they were!

Then, in a second, the flashes from the exhaust of the two ships below spat out as they got away. The lumbering Gotha was making straight for the hangar.

It was not difficult to divine their motive. They were racing to destroy the hangar before the American bullets ended their career, and Dorman’s brain leaped under the inspiration and he banged his throttle ahead and nosed down.

He had to get the bomber before it got the hangar.

Already the men below had sensed the same thing, for the lights went out and there was blackness. But the Gotha bombing crew already had the hangar spotted.

Dorman didn’t know exactly his range, but he marked the light exhaust of the Boche machine and opened his guns at four hundred yards. He held them open and slowly nosed down, certain that in that broad sweep he would find his target.

Then before he knew it he was directly over the big machine. It seemed that all hell had caught fire below him; two tourelle guns got into action and he felt the whine of the German lead ripping and tearing through his plane. In half a dozen places in his legs it felt as though someone had jammed hot needles into his skin; and he swore at himself again and circled back to get his victim before the two men from the ground could maneuver into advantageous position.

He came around fast and saw the Boche gunners firing wildly at the point he had disappeared over at the right, and then he dived and fired again. He was so close now he could see a twin stream of fire pouring into the heart of the big fellow; and he zoomed just in time to save his undercarriage.

He climbed on off, his legs stinging like the devil. He could feel something warm inside his pants’ leg trickling down... and he swung over in a quick Immelman and got ready to come back. He caught sight of the black form below him and went down after it like a hawk.

He had no idea he was close to the ground. Then there was a terrific explosion and a white sheet of flame that seemed to cover the earth. His Spad was caught in the midst of it; it seemed to balloon upward and then he was conscious that both his wings had snapped off.

He threw up his hands to protect his face as his eyes closed.

It was dark. Gradually a light gleamed far away... and came on with the speed of a falling star. Big George Dorman blinked his eyes to clear the mists and made out faces. One of them was Chick Lancaster’s. He dimly remembered the other one...

He tried to move his legs, but they felt funny. His head ached. His mouth was dry.

“Easy,” said Lancaster. He moved closer. “You had a hell of a spill.”

Dorman smiled.

Another face came close. He fought with his brain to tear away the obscurity... and then atop the head that was close to him he saw a silver star gleaming from the little cap.

Then he knew.

That was General Mitchell.

“How do you feel, Dorman?” he asked.

George Dorman licked his lips.

“Okay, sir. I’m okay. What happened?”

The General grinned.

“The Gotha crashed and its bombs exploded. You were a full fifty feet above and got the repercussion.”

“Oh,” Dorman said. He moved his head. “Feels like I been here ten years. Is the war over yet?”

He looked at General Mitchell queerly.

“Not yet,” the General said. “I think it’ll last long enough for you to get in. As soon as you’re in shape you’re coming back to the group. I’ll hold a place for you.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Those Gothas,” Mitchell went on, “had bombs for the General.” He leaned over and whispered. “I’m recommending you for the D.S.C.” He smiled and bit his lip and went out.

Lancaster sat down on the edge of the bed.

“By God,” he said, “you must have been born with a horseshoe in your mouth.”

Big George Dorman grinned and thumbed his nose at him.