[legendsport]

November 20, 1917 - Suresnes, France:

Jimmy Barrell rubbed a hand across his chin, unconsciously mimicking his father's mannerism when deep in thought or observation (Possum Daniels had once told Alice Barrell, "when I see Rufus rubbin' his chin, I reckon that birddog done found his pigeon.")

It was much the same for Jimmy as he eyed one of the Nieuport 24s the French had provided the U.S. Army Air Service as trainers. As good as his word, Bill Merlon had wrangled a transfer for Jimmy. Sergeant (recently - and quickly - promoted) Barrell was now one of the mechanics assigned to the just-arrived-in-France 94th Aero Squadron. Lt. Merlon was one of the squadron's pilots.

Jimmy had opened the cowling and was peering into the engine when, intent as he was, he was startled by a voice in his ear, "Getting some ideas, are we, Jim?"

Turning, Jimmy sighed in relief and said, "Bill! You nearly scared me to death."

Merlon slapped him on the shoulder. "Too bad we don't have any flying machines of our own, considering it was Americans that invented these contraptions."

Jimmy nodded, "Yes, I know. And yes... I know you met Wilbur Wright back in Ohio."

Merlon grinned. "Yes, sir. Interesting fellow, too. But that's neither here nor there." He pointed at the engine. "So... impressions?"

Jimmy rubbed his chin again. "Well, I heard that some of these aeroplanes had engines based on the Hispano-Suiza V8, but this here's not one of 'em. Which means it's probably too underpowered to deal with what the Germans are flying these days."

Merlon raised his eyebrows. "You ever drive a V8?"

Jimmy nodded. "Sure. Lots of power - better than an inline, for sure."

Merlon grinned in a predatory way and said, "You know they got the boys back home working on a V-12 engine. They're calling it the 'Liberty Engine' and the idea is to put it in an aeroplane of our very own. But with all the red tape, even if they work it out, lord knows when it makes it over here."

"Mmmm, yeah." Jimmy closed up the cowling. "Still, this thing's just for training anyway. No Germans around here." The base was just west of Paris, theoretically in range of some of the German bases, but the French aeros were thick over the lines, so getting to Paris itself would take a minor miracle, let alone past it.

Merlon said, "I'm going up this afternoon, want to come along?"

Jimmy pointedly looked at the single seat. "I'm not sitting in your lap, Bill."

Merlon laughed. "No, no. Not in this. I can scare us up a Model 12 and you can ride in the back."

Jimmy's face lit up in an ear-to-ear grin. "Hell, yes!"

-------------------------------------------------------

Three hours later the pair were back on the ground. Flying had been everything Jimmy had dreamed it would be, and more. Though he had only just (and with Merlon's help) secured an NCO rank, he wanted to be a pilot - and that meant becoming an officer.

"It's not going to be easy. You're a kid, remember?" Merlon warned him when he brought it up for the umpteenth time.

"If I'm old enough to be here, I'm old enough to fight and that means I'm old enough to fight in an aeroplane too."

Merlon raised his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not the one you need to convince."

Jimmy frowned and nodded.

Merlon pointed across the field. "Maybe he is."

Jimmy turned and looked in the direction his friend had pointed. Jimmy's good eyesight (a boon all the Barrell brothers enjoyed and one which helped them in their athletic endeavors), enabled him to spy the officer in the distance. He was busy kicking the fender of his staff car.

"Who's that?" Jimmy asked.

"That there is Colonel Mitchell."

Jimmy shrugged and said, "OK... and?"

Merlon said with a half-grin, "I thought you NCO's were supposed to be smart? Only in wartime could a kid like you get a third stripe so fast." When Jimmy didn't rise to the bait, he added, "OK. I'll tell you this: he was once the head of the Aviation Section, but got bounced because he wasn't a pilot. And the Army wouldn't train him to be one, because he was already a Major. So he went and paid fifteen hundred bucks out of his own pocket to learn to fly. And now he's likely to be heading up the Aviation section again pretty soon because he's a hard-pushing, aggressive type and Pershing reckons that's what we need. He was also the first American to fly over the German lines back in April, even if it was with a French pilot in a French plane. So he's definitely a guy you want to impress."

Jimmy nodded but he was still frowning as he watched the colonel. "Why the heck's he kicking his car?"

With a shrug and a small shove in Jimmy's back, Merlon said, "Dunno. Go ask him."

So Jimmy went over, saluted and asked Lt. Colonel Mitchell if he could be of assistance.

Mitchell was angry, that was plain. He spit out a string of expletives, but added, "You're a mechanic, right? Can you fix this thing?"

Jimmy could - at one point running to the machine shop and returning with a bearing which got the Colonel's car moving again.

"You fix that up yourself?" Mitchell asked.

"Yes, sir. It's just some babbitt metal I put in a sand mold. I have a way with automobiles, raced 'em back home and lots of times you have to fix 'em yourself too, uh... sir."

Mitchell slapped the hood. "That's some good work, Sergeant." He narrowed his eyes. "Racing driver, you say..."

"Yes, sir."

"What's your name, sergeant?"

"James Barrell, sir."

Mitchell nodded and said, "I'll have my eye on you, Sergeant Barrell. Keep up the good work."

Jimmy swallowed and said, "Thank you, sir. I will, sir."

As Mitchell drove off, Merlon sauntered over.

"Went well, huh?"

"Sure did," Jimmy replied with a big, stupid grin on his face.