Air Stories — page 68: what you’re looking at

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

AIR STORIES CHAPTER IV Harlow Plays the Lead ASIL became popular in the Mess. When he sat down at the piano and reeled off popular songs or swung into the lugubrious sentimental war-time melodies which, crude as they were, faintly echoed thoughts Englishmen normally repress, he was surrounded by an enthusiastic throng. Audiences ... applause. Something of the old zest for life quickened in his veins when his practised hands drew rhythm from the battered, beer-stained piano and silence fell around him as his artistry brought momentary forgetful- ness of the strident clamour of war. Those moments carried him back to the past when he had felt that appreciative silence coming to him from the dim sea of faces beyond the footlights, a silence _which, later, had quickened into a storm of applause. He hadn’t been just one of a crowd in those days. He had been a star, and often he lay awake at night in the dimness of his Nissen hut, wondering how he could rise to stardom again in this bewilderingly strange business of war into which he had been swept. He had become increasingly aware that his chances of achieving fame as an air ace were extremely slender. He realised that he lacked the cool temperament of the successful air fighter, and was painfully conscious of his limitations every time he flew behind Puggy Ryan’s streamered Camel in offensive patrols. He was just a cog in a machine, and not a very efficient cog at that. It was all so mechanical and uninspiring : the eternal roar of the Clerget deafening his ears, the constant swivelling of his head to watch the skies for enemy aircraft, and that relentless flogging of his nerves whenever a fight was on, if he was to control his panic sufficiently to put up some sort of show and not let the rest of the flight down. He was preoccupied with such thoughts one evening when Major Riley had called a conference in the anteroom 66 after dinner. The unusually serious tone of the C.O. caught his wandering attention. ‘‘T’ve just had urgent orders from Wing,’’ Major Riley was saying. ‘‘ Our job is to prevent the Boche observers from spotting the supplies and rein- forcements moving up the line to the jumping-off ground for our big offensive. Unfortunately, news has been filtering through to the German Intelligence. It’s clear they know what we are doing, and cross-roads and dumps are being bombed every night. That leakage of information must be stopped.’’ Basil was stroking his fair wisp of a moustache thoughtfully. ‘“ Tf I may suggest it, sir... Major Riley turned his tired eyes on Basil, impatient at the interruption. ‘* Suggest what, Harlow ? ’’ ‘*T shouldn’t be surprised, sir, if that German observation balloon near Moor- selle is partially the cause of the mischief. The German observers would have an excellent view of the sector .. .’’ Basil stopped abruptly. He had all the artiste’s sensitiveness to atmosphere, and he was aware that his words had produced a certain cynical amusement in his listeners. ‘‘That balloon is a decoy,’’ Major Riley snapped impatiently. ‘* Our orders, as you well know, are to keep clear of it. The basket is filled with dummy observers and probably enough T.N.T. to blow you or any damn fool pilot who fires a shot into the basket, to perdition. That is, if you could ever get close enough to use your guns with any effect. Ack-ack batteries have the range laid dead to an inch, just waiting to blow any interfering pilot out of the Sky <=." Basil lapsed into silence. But his thoughts were still occupied with the bulbous grey kite-balloon he had fre- quently noticed flaunting its iron crosses in the sky east of Moorselle. For Basil had excellent eyesight, and only that morning, when the dawn patrol had swung warily past the drachen, he could have sworn that he had spotted faint flickers of light above the rim of 99 Co DOO