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 levered him out, he liked scouts. In fact, the irrepressibly cheerful Clarke liked most things in life, and hated only one. That one hatred was of being late for meals, which was why he was cursing now as he set his Sopwith Camel climbing while he thought things out. It was a matter that demanded serious thinking, for, just as he was coming in to land, he had caught sight of a round dozen pilots lined up in front of the hangars while a tall and very dapper individual stalked up and down in front of them, gesticulating angrily. Nobby did not need to guess at what was being said by this very dapper officer with the red tabs. He knew. And because he knew, he looked down dole- fully at his orange and mauve pyjama-ed legs. During the hot weather, it had become a habit in the Squadron to commit aviation in pyjamas with a tunic thrown over the top. It had, in fact, become quite the thing. Major Sharpness, who commanded the Squadron, had doubtless started it all, quite without premeditation, by testing the air one morning in pyjamas, gum boots and a British warm with a red muffler tied round his neck. The other pilots of the Squadron had taken to his example, as ducks to water. The advantages of such light attire were many: coolness, an extra ten minutes’ sleep before taking-off, freedom of action with controls and machine- gun, and others of no less obvious merit. Unfortunately, the wearing of this nondescript and highly unmilitary rai- ment was now, Officially, a thing of the past, and had been ever since a visiting ‘‘ brass-hat ’’—the same whom Nobby had just observed beneath him, arriving, unheralded, upon the aerodrome—had put what is commonly known as the ‘‘kibosh ’’ on it. The Colonel had first turned sea- green and then purple about the gills, as he witnessed the descent of half a dozen pairs of rainbow-hued legs from an equal number of returning ’planes. _ Nobby grinned reflectively as he re- called part of the ensuing lecture : ‘* Disgraceful. P-p-positively in- decent,’’ the Colonel had spluttered in righteous indignation. ‘‘ How would you, young man,’’ he had demanded, turning his monocle upon Nobby whose nether garments habitually rivalled Joseph’s coat of many colours. ‘‘ How would you like to be captured in your pyjamas? ”’ ‘*T’d hate it, sir,’’ that young gentle- man had replied with perfect candour ; ‘* Fither with or without ’em, sir.’’ ‘*And think of the effect on the German morale,’’ the Staff Officer had continued, ignoring Nobby and turning to Major Sharpness, who was similarly attired. ‘‘ They’d think we could not afford to clothe our troops. Scandalous, gentlemen !’’ he had concluded wrath- fully, ‘‘P-p-perfectly scandalous. See that it does not occur again.’’ But the matter had never appeared in Orders, and the _ hard-bitten little squadron-commander, who had his own ideas about discipline, as he had about most other things, had continued to take the air as before, a fashion fol- lowed without comment by the rest of his pilots. T appeared to Nobby Clarke, circling warily overhead, that the visit had now been repeated and that the boys had been caught, metaphorically speak- ing, by the short hairs. Being unmindful to share the same fate, and breakfast being distinctly indi- cated, he thereupon decided that a twelve-mile jaunt over to No. 135 Squadron’s hospitable mess would be in order. What little he had observed on his short reconnaissance could be telephoned through to the friendly Recording Officer—it was negative any- way—and he could return home at leisure on repletion, when the ‘‘ strafe ”’ was over. Still having ample fuel in his tanks, he put on a little right rudder and pulled the stick towards him. Grinning cheer- fully to himself at the thought that some ten minutes would bring him within sight of sustenance—and No. 135 had a reputation for bountiful fare—he car- 162 conmmiclooolk (©