Air Stories — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

AIR STORIES A few hours’ solo on Sopwith Camels and he was posted overseas. At the Pilot’s Pool near Abbeville, he was given a few more hours’ instruction in aerial gunnery. A wheeled-truck, shaped like a pilot’s cockpit, was pro- pelled along the curving rails of a light railway whilst the occupant gained a certain experience in deflection by firing a Lewis at a moving target propelied along a second set of rails. With that final polish, Basil was packed into a Crossley tender and de- livered, somewhat tired and dusty, a few hours later at 140 Squadron, the flying personnel of which had been drastically depleted by the German supremacy during the ‘‘ Bloody April ’’ of 1917. The curtain was rising for Basil at a period when the probabilities of sur- vival of an untried British fighting pilot over the Western Front had been generously estimated at three minutes. CHAPTER III The Curtain Rises AJOR RILEY, the Commanding Officer of 140 Squadron, stared across the orderly-room desk at Basil Harlow with a quietly appraising scrutiny. Unreasonably, he felt a twinge of dis- like as he looked at Basil, tall and debonair and handsome, and immacu- lately garbed from his split-air hat to the dark sheen of his slim field-boots. He had seen pictures of Second Lieu- tenant Basil Harlow in the illustrated papers, with laudatory captions stressing the brilliant stage career he had aban- doned to serve his King and Country. Riley’s resentment deepened as he thought of the medical studies he had abandoned to join up. No one had made a song and dance about that. He hadn’t expected it. Everyone was in the same boat, and if Basil Harlow anticipated any preferential treatment because he was a stage celebrity, the sooner he was disillusioned the better. He looked up from Basil’s papers. ‘‘ You may be a heart throb to the ladies, Harlow,’’ he said curtly, ‘‘ but 64 I'd like you to know that here it’s only combat reports that matter.’’ Basil’s smooth jaw tightened. It had grown a trifle firmer of recent weeks. ‘‘ Exactly, sir,’? he answered with his practised footlight smile, shall be able to give you...er...@ heart throb or two with my combat reports in the near future.”’ Major Riley grunted and, relenting, thrust a box of cigarettes across the desk. ‘‘ How many hours’ solo on Camels ? ”’ he jerked. ‘‘ Three, sir ...’’ said Basil apolo- getically. ‘‘ It’s sheer murder,’’ thought Riley. He was twenty-two, but he looked a worn and aged man as he rose and, walking slowly to the orderly-room door, hailed Captain Ryan as he came out of ‘‘C ’’ Flight shed. ‘‘ Ryan will take you up to the line and show you the more obvious land- marks,’’ he said over his shoulder to Basil. ‘‘ You can take up A.409.’’ Basil felt an instant liking for ‘‘Puggy ’’ Ryan. There was a certain rugged honesty about the little man whose face, with its splayed nose and scarred mouth, had been robbed, through a crash, of any claim to good looks it might once have possessed. ‘‘Keep close to my tail,’ advised Puggy as they stood by the machines, warming up on the tarmac. ‘‘If I waggle my wings it’s a signal for you to push off home as fast as your Clerget can carry you. We may meet a wandering Boche or two and you’ll only get in the way of my guns if you try to tackle him. They’re the cus- tomary orders for a mewcomer, so don’t take it personally.’’ ‘Of course not...’’ murmured Basil, wondering if his mentor really believed that he was anxious to hurl himself into aerial combat like a death and glory ace. He felt more like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Puggy Ryan gave his companion an understanding glance as they walked to the waiting machine. He laid his hand on the younger man’s shoulder with a kindly gesture. EO OO ‘“‘IT hope I.