Air Stories, November 1937 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

DUSTMEN DON’T CARE size, with a round, serious face and a high forehead. In his hand he held a peculiar- looking instrument which seemed to have started out as an air-pump, but changed its mind halfway and decided to be an alarm-clock. ‘Oh, hullo, Nobby,’’ said Lieutenant Edwards with the easy familiarity of the Squadron officers’ ‘‘ off-duty ’’ rela- tionship. ‘‘ ’Fraid I must have delayed you a little. But this automatic pump of mine—there’s just a slight adjustment needed—’”’ The Major spoke over his shoulder, from between clenched teeth. ‘* Dismiss !’’ he snapped, and the relieved sergeant and mechanic departed speedily. “* You see,’’ said Lieutenant Edwards, nick-named ‘‘ Edison,’’ ‘‘I’ve found out by timing it, that it takes a mechanic about five minutes to pump up one of those tyres. Now, I’ve thought it out, and ? ‘‘EDISON,’’ said the Major;in a slightly choked voice, ‘‘ Edison, you dangerous, comic-inventing-genius, will you kindly tell me just why you’ve had the almighty cheek to try one of your ruddy ideas on my machine, against my orders ree ‘€T knew you wouldn’t mind,’’ smiled Edison. ‘‘ You see my tyres haven’t got the right type of valves. Now I’ll have that tyre blown up again in half a jiffy.”’ But as he bent down, his superior officer bent too, and took his ear in a steely grip which forced him to let out a yell. ‘Yes, you'll get it pumped up,’’ breathed Major Clarke, sulphurously, ‘* And in case you’ve done anything else brilliantly clever, you’ll get the engine and rigger-sergeants, and you’ll go over this machine from prop-boss to tail-skid, and take away anything that isn’t perfectly normal. That’s an_ order, Edison. And, while you’re getting on with it, I'll take your machine. Mean- while, just understand this. If you lay a hand on my machine again, and try and fix up any of your ruddy inventions, I’ll have you put under close arrest.’’ And Major Nobby Clarke stalked off, snorting. Behind him the crestfallen inventor caressed a stinging ear and went some- what pink as he saw the grinning sergeant and his subordinates lurking in the shadows. ‘All right,’’ called Edison peevishly, ‘* All right. I try to help to run things more efficiently, to improve on the material at hand. And this is all I get for it! If I didn’t know what a decent chap you really are, Nobby, I’d write to the War Office ee ‘* And if I wasn’t a very decent chap,’’ answered the distant Nobby Clarke, who had now sworn himself back into a good humour, so that he had difficulty in not laughing, ‘‘I’d have written to the War Office about you, long ago, and you would have been taken back to your rightful home in Colney Hatch. Ser- geant ! Mr. Edwards wants your help in putting my machine back to its normal state. Now come along a couple of you, and get this one out CHAPTER II Something New in Fighters IVE minutes later, Major Clarke was roaring away off the ground at the controls of that machine which was usually handled by his subordinate officer. He was going on a mission which was part of his own, carefully worked-out plan, and one which had very largely helped in making the Dustmen the crack squadron of the Somme front. From past experience, Nobby knew that a patrol is quite often in its greatest danger when all risk seems over, and it is returning home. The pilots are keyed-up, with overstrained nerves. They are tired. With home lying close ahead, they are apt to be careless. And that is just the sort of time when enemy machines, cruising high, can—and do— drop down out of the glare of a high sun and pick-off victims. Nobby, therefore, always met the morning patrol in person, and to-date he had bagged four Huns who had tried just that trick. The afternoon patrol was his own, special show. And when this patrol came in, the rested and 385 ANICLOO© ©