Air Stories — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

FOOTLIGHT ACE carry him back to the atmosphere of his first love, the theatre, but for another reason of which in his honest moments he was ashamed, If he made himself indispensable to the Divisional Entertainments Branch, he argued, his period of ground duty might be prolonged indefinitely. Such things could be discreetly wangled, and he thought he had enough personality and stage experience to ensure his successful exploitation of the chance that had come his way. Under Basil’s expert direction, the Divisional Concert Party soon became one of the most popular institutions of its kind in the sector. Basil groomed and polished the mixed talent at his disposal until the show ran with pro- fessional slickness, and with more than a colourable imitation of a West End revue—as those who still remember with gratitude the momentary forget- fulness that particular concert party provided will perhaps recall. Basil’s own practised artistry always ensured’ an enthusiastic ovation. One sultry August evening when he sauntered on to the hangar stage a prolonged burst of applause heralded his popu- larity with the khaki-clad audience stretching beyond the wing-tip footlights. Tapping his gleaming silk hat more firmly on his handsome head, Basil commenced to dance with languid ease. In the perfectly-creased striped trousers and morning coat of a man-about-town, there was little to associate this poised. and immaculate Basil with the scared, white-faced pilot who had dived fran- tically through the screeching hell of a balloon barrage. His act ended, and the prolonged applause was like music in his ears. It quietened his conscience. He was doing a good job. This was his métier. He had been a fool to try his hand at heroics. During the interval, he slipped out of the stage-door for a breath of air. It was cool out on the aerodrome with the freshening night wind stirring the wind- sock on its mast. It was a typical Flanders night, raw and misty and still, 69 save for the interminable rumble of distant gunfire. He paused to light a cigarette, and it was then that he started as a light hand fell on his arm and a familiar voice greeted him. _ ‘¢ Hullo, Basil .. .”? He lifted his head to stare for some moments at the khaki-clad girl smiling up at him. ‘‘ Peggy Malone!’’ he _ gasped in pleased recognition. ‘‘ Well, this is a surprise... .’’ ASIL had scarcely recognised her at first. She was a changed Peggy in a rather stained uniform of the Field Ambulance Nursing Yeomanry Service. Yet the masculine cut of her khaki could not conceal the charm of her slight figure, or the essential femininity of her as she laughed up at him with curving lips, the night wind stirring a red gold curl against her soft cheek. ‘Well, don’t you think I make a rather devastating Fanny?’’ she laughed. ‘‘You’re a positive danger to the soldiery,’’ he grinned. ‘‘ Come along to my dressing-room and I’ll find you a drink. We’ll have a talk over old times.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘ Sorry, Basil,’’ she said, ‘‘ but it just can’t be done. I’m on duty. There’s a general air raid warning. I’m standing by with the ambulance column out on the road.’’ She paused and he saw her eyes on the grease paint on his face. “ ‘‘So you’ve gone back to your first love, Basil P ’’ He laughed, a laugh that was a trifle forced. ‘‘ The cobbler should stick to his last, my dear. I’m an actor, not a chocolate air ace... .”’ She looked at him steadily for a moment. ‘‘ A pity, Basil. I had great hopes of you.’’ ‘* Hang it all,’’ he said, a little angrily, “you needn’t jump to _ conclusions. I’m only on light duty temporarily. Co LDOO)