Air Stories — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

AIR STORIES ‘‘ Have you seen anything P ’’ everybody asked anxiously. ‘‘ Not a thing,’’ growled Symes, looking around him. ‘‘ Not a goddam thing,’’ added Rowley, flicking a length of cord like a cowboy swinging his lasso. Billy Rowley was a Canadian, and he was never without his cord, with which he practised all kinds of tricks, often to the discomfiture of the mess. Symes gave his observer and his rope a look of disapproval and strode farther into the group. ‘“T’m fed up,’’ he said bitterly. ‘‘ For months we’ve been going over and over the same area, and not once have we got even a glimpse of an enemy submarine.’’ ‘‘The same here,’’ shouted another pilot, ‘‘ I’m fed up, too. I think I’ll try and get transferred to a scout squadron.”’ ‘* Fritz is somewhere on our beat,’’ an older pilot said assuringly. ‘‘ Ships are being sunk every day.’’ ‘‘ But who the devil can see him ? ”’ asked Symes. ‘‘ Look at the fog and the drizzle. Why, it was as much as I could do to see England, let alone a submerged submarine.’’ ‘“'Yes, yes,’’ agreed the older officer. ‘‘T admit it has been pretty bad lately, but if you want to catch anything you must first understand its little ways. For instance, you would never think of taking a trout line to Landguard Point. Cod is more the kind of fish you expect to find there.’’ ‘* Well ? ’’ enquired Symes, and then, turning sharply round to his observer, he called out, ‘‘ For the love of peace, Billy, put that rope down. It gets on my nerves,”’ Billy had neatly lassoed a steward, but nobody seemed to be in the humour for tricks, however clever. Besides, as one officer remarked, ‘‘ Our drinks might get upset.’’ Billy consented to be good, and the older officer went on with his advice. ‘‘ Why not pay a visit to our submarine © chappies ? ’’ he said. ‘‘ Their depét ship is only a mile away, and they’ll give you some very useful tips. Then you can go fishing in the right spot with the right tackle.’’ The suggestion meeting with general approval, it was decided to make the visit forthwith. M.S. ‘‘ MAIDSTONE,’’ with an ex- liner called the ‘‘ Pandora,’’ was the home of the submarine contingent. These ships were permanently secured to the quay at Harwich, and alongside lay their slim, sleek charges. There was always plenty of bustle on the ships ; officers coming and going on leave ; submarines shoving off and arriving ; crews in clean white sweaters and sea boots tumbling into their ships, and other crews coming aboard in dirty, oily jerseys after a two weeks’ hard patrol. There were liberty men in Number Ones, all inspected and ready for leave, staff officers with code books tucked under their arms, and Royal Naval Reserve navigators carrying rolls of charts. And at the gang- way there was a soldierly figure, erect -and vigilant—the corporal of Marines. ‘‘ Blimey,’’ that sentinel muttered, as he caught sight of the advancing group of R.N.A.S. officers. ‘‘ Look what’s arrived.’’ ‘* Air Quartermaster. here to-night.’’ The guardians of the gangway pulled themselves together to receive the Air Service and, a few minutes later the visitors’ arrival in the wardroom coin- cided with the signal to ‘‘ push the boat out ’’ in traditional style. There was a babel of conversation, loud and merry. True, some of it was shop talk, but mostly it drifted into a discussion on navigation in London, special point being given to the perils in the vicinity of Shaftesbury Avenue. Nobody struck a serious vein, and the Bing Boys had a far more prominent place than the interminable War. Rawson Symes, keen as mustard, but with much arduous toil as yet unrewarded by the sight of a submarine, was impatient to get on with the real object of his visit. ‘Give us a song, Sinbad,’’ the crowd shouted to a Royal Naval Reserve Service officers,’? said the ‘* Bet there’ll be a party 182 EO LNOOLK (©