Air Stories, April 1936 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

BRING ’EM BACK ALIVE! But, instead of poring over the maps of the sector that covered the walls (we already knew our own slice of the front like the cockpits of our own S.E.’s) we just stood about smoking and yarning forthe most part, and dropping cigarette- ash on the latest photographs to come in. That Intelligence Hut had developed into a kind of club-room for junior officers and N.G.O. pilots. CHAPTER II “ Follow-my-Leader ” ESTRINGHAM was standing with his hands in his pockets when I went in, staring thoughtfully at a wall-. map that showed in thick blue pencil the latest position of the line. He was slim in build, even in his rough sergeant’s uniform, and had dark eyes and a well- bred, thin, intellectual sort of face. His hands were as delicate as a girl’s, on the rare occasions when they were free from oil-stains. I believe he kept them oily to avoid attracting remarks. I made no mention of what I had seen—I knew he wouldn’t want me to— but just sat myself on the edge of the table, swinging my legs and watching him, but saying nothing at all. When you are really friends with a fellow you can do that. Sympathy is taken for granted. He turned round after a bit and hoisted himself up beside me, accepting a gasper in silence. ‘*You know, Trevelyan,’’ he said, grinning as he sucked in flame from the match I held to him, ‘‘I believe you think I have a hell of a rotten time in this squadron. You do, don’t you? ’’ ‘*Do I, Charles Edward? ’’ I asked non-committally. ‘* Well, anyway, you’re wrong, and I just hate to see you worrying about meas you do.’’ He swung his legs for a moment in silence. ‘‘I don’t. really mind about it at all, you know—I mean about being an N.C.O. It’s rather fun really. Sergeant-Major’s a decent old stick and gives me any amount of time off to work at my gadgets. And that’s all I want !”’ I grinned. Westringham’s gadgets were a byword in the squadron ; his cockpit looked more like the corner of an ironmonger’s shop than anything else. Most ingenious chap I ever saw. ‘* Now, if I were in your mess,’’ he went on, ‘‘I shouldn’t have a minute to call my own. I know the way you fellows live. Every other night seems to be a guest-night, and on wash-out days either you go in a band to smash up the Camel Squadron’s camp-beds, or else they arrive in a band to smash up yours. If you like that sort of thing it’s all right, I suppose. But I’ve no time for it myself.’’ | ‘*You’re a serious-minded sort of bloke, you know, Charles Edward,’’ I told him. ‘‘I agree with you about camp-beds, though. I haven’t had a comfortable night since two of those thugs from across the way took a flying leap on mine. But tell me, what was it that dished you for your pipe * You were at the School of Aerial Combat up at Flodden, weren’t you P ”’ ‘*Oh, that affair? Well, it’s not a long story. Ever hear of ‘ The Cock- roach P’ No, you wouldn’t, of course ; you were at Marske. Well, old Colonel Roach was the holy terror that the Air Board took away from his rightful job, which was the governorship of some military prison, and appointed to com- mand the Air Combat School at Flodden. He was a non-flying man himself, of course ; discipline was what he was there for—with a capital ‘D ’—and, by Jumbo ! if ever there was a martinet, it was old man Roach. Every one of us flight-cadets was in fear and trembling of losing his chance of a commission and being sent out here as an N.C.O. ‘‘The Chief Instructor had nothing to do but attend to the flying side. It was easy for him; when he said ‘mustn’t,’ the Colonel saw to it that we ‘ didn’t.’ ‘* Now one of the things the C.I. said a very emphatic ‘mustn’t’ about was stunting near the ground—very sensibly, too, because we had had several fatalities. But it happened that the craze-of-the- * Second-Lieutenant’s star. 293 comiclooolks (Cl QO)