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Crash on Delivery chapter 4

Night flying was not considered good for the health in the days of the Big Fuss. That was before we had radio beams and robot pilots. All a man like Phineas Pinkham had were a stick, two Vickers guns, and a prayer.

And now the flyer from Iowa was cruising high over the heads of both armies, his eyes trying to spot the telltale fiery phlegm of a snooping Hun’s exhaust.

“They are very stingy with the moonlight, ce soir,” Phineas muttered. “If the Heinies hadn’t tried to kiss me twice with archie, I would swear it was Scotland I was flyin’ over. Huh,” he mused, “all that Kraut dough and me not gettin’ a smell. I could get even a better price for them marks, I bet, if they was mine. I could make enough to buy that pool room up over the Greek restaurant back home in Boonetown. I could even buy a flivver an’—oh yeah? Sneak over, will ya, ya square-headed Boche!” He kicked right rudder, described a semicircle in the murk, and booted his Spad toward a higher sky shelf. The drone of a Mercedes power plant had trickled through his leather helmet and had seeped into his big sound detectors than which there were none larger in all France.

Phineas had picked himself a tartar. He found that out after he banked, dropped down on the nocturnal Kraut, and missed with a couple of bursts. The Boche crate seemed capable of doing as many tricks as a wasp when it finally got down to business.

“It’s a lie,” the lone Yank gulped. “Nothin’ can fly like that. I am asleep in my hut, or somethin’. Bump, wake me up, you bum, before I get killed. Ow-w-w-w-w!” A tracer bullet streaked the length of the Spad’s top wing and the smell of burning dope stung Phineas Pinkham’s nostrils. Spandau slugs took bites out of the Spad’s shortribs, singed its scalp, and played havoc with it in general from prop boss to tail skid. Phineas managed to get down to five hundred feet, then the Hisso sat down and demanded shorter hours and more gas. There was no way out of the mess but straight down, so the quaking pilot let his Spad pick its own landing field while he closed his eyes and speculated as to whether his next C. O. would wear horns or big white wings.

BLOOEY! Phineas had his safety strap unhooked and was half out of the pit when the fifteen thousand dollar Yank investment went into the red amidst the green branches of a Frog tree. The Boonetown bat flyer woke up ten minutes later with his face in a bird’s nest. His prop boss had ruined the careers of four feathered creatures before they had even gotten a good start in life. The aroma-de-egg brought the Yank back to consciousness whereupon he got his legs and arms untangled carefully and started to lower his bruised fuselage down through the branches.

“Ugh!” he sniffled. “I am sure glad it was not an ostrich’s domicile that I broke up.”

Once on terra firma, Phineas looked around him. Not fifty yards away he made out the outlines of a big Frog chateau. A single light was burning in a window and toward that haven Lieutenant Pinkham limped, hoping that somebody had left a snack or two in the ice box. When he walked up the big stone steps he saw that part of the place had been bitten out by a hungry shell and he wondered what manner of Frog citizen dared hold his ground so near the palpitating lines.

In response to Phineas’ loud pounding accompanied by his loud yip—”Who is in chez maison? Annybodee dans ze chateau, oui?”—the door finally opened. A non-descript individual with a long white beard that brushed off his shoes as he walked, peered out at the Yankee pilot. Phineas thought that by comparison to this old Frog, Rip Van Winkle should have worn rompers.

“Bong sour,” he chirped to the hermit. “It is succor I want.” To himself he muttered, “I hope he is one, haw-w-w-w!”

“Entrez” squeaked the bewhiskered Frog. “Vous avez ze marks, hein?” He rubbed his bony hands together like a miser who has found a stray nickel.

“Marks?” Phineas gulped. “Why—er—oui oui! I have eet some. Brand new ones that—er— Heinie treasury just issued. Bet you never saw ‘em before. Uh—er—you read it ze Engleesh, mawn amy?”

“Mais non. I only speek a bit of Anglais, oui. But ze marks. I geeve ze francs for zem. Come, mon ami.”

Phineas followed the aged Frenchman into a big room that was half smothered with cobwebs. The windows had been boarded up and only a single candle burned on a large table. Where the light was none too good, Phineas dug down into his pockets for a small bunch of greenish certificates and tossed them out.

“Sacre!” exclaimed his host, “Mes yeux—my eyes, zey are not tres bon,” he went on, “mais thees eez ze argent, I know. By ze feel of ze papair—”

“Oui, sure,” Phineas hastened to say. “It took me a year of smokes to save—er—I mean I had to stop smokin’ so’s I could save the dough— argent—up, haw-w-w-w! For ten francs it’s votre sugar, mawn amy. Listen, monsoor, why ees you save ze Kraut money, non?”

“Pourquoi?” the ancient Frog wheezed. “Jacques le Bouillon, he do not make eet ze same mistake deux temps, non” He shook his head from side to side as he went on. “In 1870 I theenk ees ze French who win ze guerre an’ I buy zem all ze francs. But ze Germans zey win! NOW I theenk ze Germans win ze guerre aussi—so eet ees ze marks I buy.”

“Battier than a belfry,” Phineas muttered to himself. Then to Le Bouillon: “That’s smart, monsoor, haw-w-w-w! Vous avez ze beaucoup francs, huh?” 1

“Mais oui, I have ze barrel fill’ up, oui. I buy heem all marks I can. Hark, mon ami! Ze guns, ze Boche guns zey geet moch near all ze time, oui?

Sacre, I go’n be tres rich homme.”

“Ah—er well, I must be gettin’ home now,” Phineas stammered, his brain doing spirals. “I am ze Lieutenant Pinkham an’ have eet ze airdrome to find encore. Adoo for now, grampa. I weel geet eet more marks pour vous. Bong swore!”

“Vous breeng, I buy, merci” cackled the old Frog, showing Phineas to the door.

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Crash on Delivery chapter 3

Now over in Alsace-Lorraine, in a Heinie stronghold, a monocled Herr Oberst was pawing the dew of concern from a brow that was as wide as a garden gate. “Ach, mein Herrs,” he gutturaled wearily, “der Marks ve moost haben. Alreadty yedt der Marks dey ben lower by der Cherman Banken. Der troops by der groundt vill lizzen vhen der promise cooms, but der flying Offiziers, ach, smardter yedt dey ist, hein? Ein, drei Staffels dey say dey moost get der back pay— oddervise dey dondt fly! Und Staffel Noomber Sieben ist der besser by der front. Ach, der Dumkopfs know der Marks ve moost haff zo ve buy der bullets mit shells to shoodt, und yedt der Marks dey vant alzo! Donnervetter, first der Marks und den der Vaterland. Idt vas like dis nefer by 1870!”

“Nein, nein,” a bespectacled Junker shook his head mournfully. “But don’dt haff der vorry, Herr Oberst. I haff der Marks in zwei, drei Tags, you see. Ofer der lines ist vun Frenchman—zo agent K-4 he giffs me der vord—und der Frenchman he helps der Kaiser efen if he does nodt vant to. Enough Marks he has, mein Freunds, to pay idt der Fokker und Albatros flyers, ja I look for der vord from K-4 any minute, Herr Oberst.”

“Gut! You gedt idt der Marks, Kapitan Schlushwig, und it giffs some of dem to you alzo, ja.”

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Crash on Delivery chapter 2

Even so, the brass hat had been somewhat careless with the truth, though it would not be polite to call him a liar. In the presence of Phineas Pinkham he had told Garrity that what he had to say was not a pilot’s business. But after he was gone, the Spad flyers of the Ninth found out that every last one of them fitted into the word picture that the Colonel had painted.
“Why the big bum!” Phineas snorted when the C. O. enlightened them as to the orders that had come from the Wing. “Bat flyin’ he wants, huh? Awright, see if it bothers me. You heard what he said—that it wasn’t none of my affair. That lets me out. I got a witness, haw! It’s you, Major! The brass hats sure are a panic. They are like the managers of the pugs who say ‘Go out an’ slug, kid. He can’t hurt us!’”
“Are you all through?” Garrity inquired with a pent-in restraint that sent his blood pressure up to the explosion point. “Well, in just twenty minutes you take the first hop over the lines, Mr. Pinkham. How do you like that for apples, you freckledfaced baboon?”
“I always do my duty,” Phineas retorted loftily. “A Pinkham never questions orders. No sir! I will find out why the Heinies are tryin’ to land a crate behind the lines near Souilly—as well as knock any of them knockkneed who try it. If a very young Jerry spy is waiting to get picked up, he will have hardenin’ of the arteries and no teeth by the time it happens. I will solve the mystery, Major. Watson, my violin! I feel like a bar or two of Choppin before I get in the mood.”
“Yes,” Garrity cracked, ignoring
Phineas, “a Hun ship was seen in the vicinity of Souilly three nights ago. It was flying low, heading for Germany, and it may have dropped a spy for some reason or another. If they did drop one, they’ll have to pick him up.
That’s logic.”
“Haw-w-w-w-w! I dropped a dame once,”
Phineas chortled. “She is still where I tossed her, for all of me. It is not sense. Well, adoo, bums. I go—but I will be back, cur-r-r-rses! The next time I will git the mortgage, haw-w-w-w!”
“I will do it yet,” the Old Man kept yelling even after Phineas had taken a Spad off the tarmac and was flying toward the muttering lines. “I will kill him! I will take the consequences with pleasure. I can stand just so much! I can—I’ll—Crr-ripes!”

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The Specter at the Feast chapter 5

About Pat,” he answered, and I saw
Harlan start and clench his teeth, “they found her at the bottom of that embankment near Merrick’s corner this morning in her wrecked car—dead ! Her mother called me about a half an hour before they found her. She asked if I knew where she had gone for the night. She said Pat had decided suddenly around eleven o’clock last night that she had behaved foolishly about refusing to go to the party and had climbed into her roadster, chuckling over the surprise she would give us when she walked in time for the banquet. Her mother seemed to have a premonition of what would happen for she said it had been drizzling when Pat left and she had cautioned her against driving too fast on the slippery road. I—I hadn’t the heart to tell her we hadn’t seen Pat. I was afraid, too, so I dressed and went out—but they had discovered her body. Poor little Pat,” he finished with a sigh.

Harlan had slumped into a chair and sat staring into space. I motioned Bob to follow me into the studio, and without a word we took the thing of bones and replaced it in its corner. As we turned away, I noticed a strand of hair caught in the bony fingers of the left hand!
“Probably Sally’s—last night,” Bob said, “She was nearest, wasn’t she?” I didn’t answer but I felt cold all over as I walked away.
I have never told anyone of the dream Harlan so vividly related to me that morning. I’d merely be thought an impressionable fool if I did, I guess.
To the rest of the world, Pat was just a member of the reckless younger generation, speeding in typical fashion on a slippery night road to join a party of waiting friends and ending disastrously at the bottom of a cliff. Too bad, but quite a natural denouement these days!
Call me superstitious if you will, but I can’t think of the affair without having grave doubts as to its natural conclusion.
If spirits do live on, in that vague place we call the Borderland, retaining their earthly personalities, then they must indeed retain their earthly emotions as well.
Novello had loved Pat. Can death change that? Since Pat continued to love his memory, was he not, as Harlan had said, still the lucky rival ?
But he was a rival unable to defend his mortal memory from the blasphemous and unsportsmanlike treatment to which it had been subjected! Suppose this fact had taunted him into contemplating an interrupted victory—into taking Pat across the misty frontier that had intercepted their love?
Who knows?

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The Specter at the Feast chapter 2

Even if I felt as sure as they do that this is all that’s left of poor Novello,” I rejoined, “wouldn’t that be all the more reason for respecting the one thing about him that does live—our memories ?”
“False courage, Andy,” Bob came back at me. “That remnant there is our common destiny, and since its irrevocable it isn’t pretty to think about. Bitterness, even clever bitterness, in the face of that, is only the frenzied bewilderment of half-cowards before an unconquerable foe. The desperate kitten spitting at a police dog. Courage? Of a kind, yes; but it only makes you laugh, doesn’t it? I’m not especially courageous, Andy, but I’m a stingy cuss, and I hate to give my reaper a laugh,” he ended.
Novello, a promising young Italian student had worked, chatted, laughed and smoked with us but a few months ago, and now this was all——
We had liked and admired him for his genial nature and his unmistakable talent, but mostly for his courage. Unlike the majority of us who had good homes and some means, Novello had had no close relatives, had lived alone and slaved doggedly at most anything between school hours to eke out a living and continue the work he loved. With half the chances for happiness, and twice the discouragements that we had, he had never been in an ugly mood. A thoroughly likeable fellow.
Pretty little Patricia Herron, youngest daughter of old Colonel Herron, the most popular girl in the class, had singled him out when she could have had any of us. But we had been glad anyhow; at least, Bob and I knew he was in love with her—in a hopeless sort of way.
He rarely came to any of our parties. He had to work and couldn’t afford to. So Pat usually came with Harlan Ware, who had pursued her clownishly in spite of her aloofness ever since she had entered the class.
However, on one occasion Novello had joined us late and unexpectedly, to find Pat draped in a velvet portiere and a silk lamp-shade set rakishly on her bobbed head, preparing with a couple of masculine confederates wearing impromptu whiskers and protruding with pillows, to burlesque a scene from a current revival of a popular operetta. He had seated himself at the piano without stopping to remove his coat and played from memory the opening and accompanying score. Then, when Pat was wrestling vocally with her bewhiskered abductors, he had surprised us all by picking up the cue of the banished lover and coming to her rescue with mock gallantry and a rich baritone voice. After much laughter and loud applause, the rest had amused themselves with other things, but Pat and Novello had gone back to the piano together. They sat, singing softly to themselves the strains of half forgotten melodies, until Harlan with ill-concealed bad humor came to claim Pat for a dance and then took her home.
During the following weeks, Pat and Novello lunched frequently together and Harlan consoled himself with mutterings about “Wops.”
Four months later, Novello had been taken seriously ill and had been told he required an immediate operation. Knowing of his perilous condition, and that he hadn’t the necessary funds, Bob and I had called a class meeting and collected among us more than a sufficient sum to carry him through.
When I went to the hospital to tell him this, he protested at first and then in his quiet way he grasped my hand, tears came to his eyes and he turned his face to the wall.
Well—poor Novello never came through. Four of us fellows had spent the whole morning at the hospital. After the news came, we trudged slowly back to school without saying a word. He had been a real friend, and we felt his loss keenly.
The next day we learned that when Novello had known he was dying despite all that had been done for him, he had requested through his physician that his skeleton be given to the studio he had attended. He explained that he had once heard Professor Kalin say he desired the class to have one.
Whether he did this as a last act of gratitude, or whether he couldn’t bear to leave the place he had loved, and felt that in this way he could be with us still, I don’t know.
But—there it was. God, I was glad Pat wasn’t present! She had been grieved, stunned by his death and had gone to Europe with her mother shortly afterwards. I decided to inform her of the strange bequest as soon as she returned, for I wanted to spare her coming back to the studio without knowing what would greet her there. It would be hard enough for her without such a shock.