Air Stories, April 1936 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

AIR STORIES bed-spread composed of the Iron Cross strip torn from a German top plane. It was even recorded that a youngster who had never yet crossed the line returned to the aerodrome one bright morning in an A.S.C. lorry (having taken-off an hour previously in a perfectly good S.E. 5) with a broad grin on his face. He had wiped off the undercarriage of the S.E., but, by way of compensation, he was leading by the hand a big blonde Prussian pilot—the most indignant pri- soner that ever called ‘‘ Kamerad.’’ That was another unique feature of the system—and one which recom- mended it strongly to humanitarians : the fact that the German victims, generally speaking, suffered no greater hurt than a severe shaking-up and chronic loss of temper. Only one death was recorded, and that was when the van- quished pilot pulled an automatic. In the struggle that ensued, the only brains that were blown out were his own. You can see for yourself, then, that the Funk-Hole System was no ordinary system. | ‘‘And it’s so simple, my dears! ’’ exclaimed ‘‘ Woggy ’’ Wane (our dud- dest pilot but two) in his famous imitation of his elderly Aunt Jane. ‘‘No more dust !| No more dirt !| No more tiresome scrubbing—I mean, shooting—with a machine-gun ! Victory just falls into your lap ! Oh, I am grateful to Sergeant Westringham ! Such a clever young man !’’ Yes, the Funk-Hole System was unique. . And it all originated one morning in September—in no very pleasant manner. DON’T know what had gone before. I heard no word spoken. But when I put my head round the door of the Intelligence Hut the two of them were standing there facing each other like a couple of statues. Moldred, his big puffy face pale with rage, seemed to have forgotten that he was supposed to be an officer and had drawn back his fist as though to strike. I swear it was only the freezing contempt in Sergeant West- ringham’s eyes that kept him back. Mind you, they didn’t say a word in my presence—either of them. It was just their: attitudes—Moldred, the officer, out of all control of himself ; Westring- ham, the N.C.O., standing stiffly to attention. ‘‘ Bah !’’ Moldred’s eyes seemed to snarl. ‘‘Call yourself an aristocrat, do you? You’ll be a sergeant for the duration if I have anything to do with it!’’ And Westringham’s eyes made answer in the same unspoken language. I have never seen a man express such contempt—just with his eyes. It was a queer state of affairs to burst in on unexpectedly, because Stephen Moldred was senior subaltern in our squadron, and Westringham, the N.C.O. pilot, was—if you had time to give him his full name and lineage—Sergeant The Honourable Charles Edward Albemarle Delmar-Westringham, second son of Major-General the Earl of Marsden and Frore. All that. Well, an officer senior to me quarrelling with an N.C.O. was no affair for me to interfere with—even though that N.C.O. was my friend. So I quietly withdrew my head and shut the door. I had only gone into the hut for a quiet smoke anyhow. But that glimpse I had had certainly came as a shock. Moldred was a coarse, red-faced lout I had never cared for ; he was too boastful and noisy for my tastes. But Westringham I liked very much. It had taken me a long time to get to know him, partly because he was in the Sergeants’ Mess, of course, and partly because of his habit of burying himself away Always fellow. | I smoked my cigarette outside, saun- tering as far as the armoury and back. Then, seeing Moldred come crashing out of the door and go striding off towards the hangars, I strolled back to the hut. It was a bit of an institution, the Intelligence Hut, and was shared by the three squadrons on our ’drome. Major Tignell-Wingate, our C.O. (‘‘ Tiggy- Wiggy ’’ when out of earshot), liked his flying officers to spend a certain amount of time there, so we had to humour him. inventing new gadgets, that 292 in the repair hangar. | GOMIGIOO SJ (SO)