Just as he had finished with one, and had rolled it into a neat ball, a
motor cycle came popping into the yard. Buzz looked at Red inquiringly.

"Wonder what that is?" he asked.

The downstairs front door opened; heavy hobnail shoes sounded on the
stairs.

"Dunno," McGee answered, looking at the puttee roll in his hand. "But
I'll wager it's something that will force me to put this thing on again.
I never got an order from headquarters in my life when I hadn't just
finished taking off my putts."

A heavy knock on the door.

"Come in."

An orderly entered, saluted smartly, and handed McGee a folded paper. "A
note from Major Cowan, sir. He said there would be no answer."

"Very well. Thank you, Rawlins. For a moment I thought it might be
orders for the front."

"No chance, sir. We're the goats of the air service. The war will be
over before we get a chance. I say they'd as well kept us at home where
we could get real food and sleep in real beds instead of these blasted
hay mows us enlisted men sleep in."

"Right you are, Rawlins. I'll speak to the Commanding General about it
to-morrow. In the meantime, carry on, Rawlins."

"Yes, sir." A smart salute, a stiff about face, and he was gone. They
could hear him grumbling as he went down the stairs.

McGee looked at the folded paper. On it, in Cowan's hand, was written;
To Lieutenants McGee and Larkin.

"What is it?" Larkin asked, impatiently.

McGee unfolded the sheet. Scrawled across it were these electrifying
words:

"Just finished talking over the phone to Wing. They inform me that
orders have been received approving your application for repatriation.
The order will come down in the morning. Congratulations. Cowan."

Red slapped Larkin on the back with sufficient force to start him
coughing and then began tousling his hair.

"There, you old killjoy!" he was shouting. "Now stop your worrying. What
do you think of that?"

Larkin began a clownish Highland fling that eloquently spoke his
thoughts. At last he came to rest, snapped his heels together, saluted
smartly and said:

"Lieutenant Red McGee, U.S.A., I believe. How do you like that--you
little shrimp?"

"Maybe we'll be buck privates, for all you know."

"No, same rank," Larkin answered. "But believe me, I'm free to confess
now that I'd rather be a buck in Uncle Sam's little old army than a
brass hat in any other. Boy, shake!"

4

Sometime after midnight, at least an hour after sleep had at l