Air Stories, April 1936 — page 88: what you’re looking at

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

AIR STORIES Per Ardua ad H.E. Blaney’s spirits rose in anticipation of two weeks’ ease and comfort at the Bruton Street Air Force Club, the reunions with cheery wallahs in the Long Bar at The Troc. ... that priceless little night-club off Tottenham Court Road. ~~ Ten minutes. Numerals of Fate. They sped past without warning to the dozing Robin Blaney of the satirical interest of the gods, and Mars in par- ticular, in his immediate destinies. When at last he rolled out of bed and wriggled into an oil-stained Sidcot, he shivered a little. It was a _ typical Flanders dawn, raw and misty and silent, save for the distant rumble of heavy gunfire. goggles and gauntlets from the litter on the upturned crate beside the camp-bed, Blaney streaked out to the duckboards. Tony Steele, his observer, was emerg- ing from the neighbouring . Armstrong. Steele’s lean face wore its customary expression of melancholy belied by the humorous tilt at the corners of his wide mouth. ‘¢ We’re late, my son,’’ observed Steele languidly with a wary glance towards the C.O.’s Nissen. ‘‘ Bet the old man has got his eye glued on his canteen Mark IV. wrist-watch, and his ear cocked for the purr of the Bristol.’’ Blaney grunted. ‘‘ Tf we’re lucky, he’s got a hang-over from the guest-night binge, and is snor- ing sweetly.’’ They made a quaint pair, cluttering with heavy flying-boots along the duck- boards to the mess. Steele, long and thin like a bracing-wire, and his com- panion short and as round as the bracing- wire’s inseparable attachment. They were a useful combination in the air, with something of a reputation in the Ypres sector for Art. Obs., Contact Patrol, and Trench Strafing. Blaney could throw a Bristol about the sky with a skilful imitation of a single-seater, and Steele was pretty deadly with a rear-seat Lewis. The lead he splayed from seemingly impossible angles had proved to be the requiem of more than one astonished Boche. Gathering up his helmet and They slid into the mess and gulped down some hot coffee. Around them a litter of empty glasses and piled ash- trays bore evidence of the aftermath of the guest-night binge. Through the mess window they could see the Bristol ticking over on the tarmac before ‘‘C’’ Flight sheds. In the chill air of dawn, the Rolls was firing with spasmodic flutterings. LIGHT-SERGEANT NEAL slid down from the cockpit and saluted with a hovering hand in the vicinity of his right ear. ‘*She’s rather sluggish, sir,’’ warned. ‘‘ Better warm her up.’’ Blaney clambered into the cockpit, and his gaze travelled slowly along the dashboard. myriad instruments gleamed in the grey light; immobile robot faces, yet strangely alive with their pulsating needles as if they throbbed with the blood-stream of some living thing. | Behind him, Steele draped his six feet of lankiness over the Scarff mounting and, tapping Blaney’s shoulder, jerked his head warningly towards the living- quarters. Across the ’drome an ominous figure had appeared in the doorway of the Nissen. Major Reed, with pink and white pyjama legs flapping beneath his British warm, was registering glowering disapproval. Blaney throttled back, and hurriedly waved away the chocks. The tail-skid rumbled as he taxied into the wind and opened out. The Rolls spluttered, and the rev. counter flickered warningly. Blaney held her down for another twenty yards and then lifted her. The Bristol’s nose rose reluctantly, and then fell away with a protesting creak of under- carriage buffers. Steele yelled in his ear, ‘‘ Mind that damned ridge.’’ Blaney’s glance sped along to where the notorious bump—a relic of an Aviatik’s bomb-dropping attentions on a recent night—raced into his line of vision. He yanked back the stick. But the Bristol responded slowly with he 374 The glass facets of the COnniclooo S (Cl QO)