"o joy! o rapture!" exclaimed john kaye. "at last the mighty stream of demobilization is stayed, daventry. forty new hands have come in this morning. there will be a chance of commissioning some more boats. they're shouting for you in the adjutant's office, old son."
"what for?" enquired derek. "s'pose it's not in connection with our demob. or otherwise?"
for weeks derek and kaye had been more or less on tenterhooks. both had applied for permanent commissions in the marine branch of the royal air force, and, although their papers had been endorsed with a strong recommendation by the c.o., there appeared to be an endless and exasperating period of suspense.
"unfortunately, no," replied kaye. "they are overwhelmed with work in the adjutant's office. the adjy. hasn't had time even to play deck-quoits for the last three days. they want your aid, my festive bravo."
"rotten luck!" growled derek. "if there's anything i loathe it's fugging in an office. had two half days at it at torringham, i remember. didn't feel fit for flying for nearly a week. make the best of it, though, and the sooner the job's done the better i'll be pleased."
the reason for derek's presence in the office was quickly forthcoming. the forty new arrivals were formed up in the corridor, each man having to furnish particulars of himself in order that the office records might be checked.
"something wrong here, daventry," remarked the adjutant, tossing over a slip of paper on which a pay-room sergeant had written down certain particulars. "george townley, born 1899, at itching abbess—sounds like the head of a nunnery plagued with vermin, eh, what?"
"i'll have the man in and see what it means," suggested derek.
he opened the door. just outside was the sergeant engaged in questioning the new arrivals, one was an ex-r.n. able-seaman who had re-engaged for transfer to the r.a.f.
"three good-conduct stripes, eh?" exclaimed the n.c.o. disdainfully. his acquaintance with conduct stripes was rather a distressful one, he having been disrated twice before he turned over a new leaf. "my opinion of a three-good-conduct-badges man is one who keeps the commander, master-at-arms, and the mainmast all in a straight line—savvy?"
catching sight of derek the sergeant pulled himself up. he was one of those men who, unfortunately, do exist in all three services—sarcastically overbearing to those under him, and fawningly civil to those in authority.
"what's this, sergeant?" asked derek, holding out the paper. "there seems to be some mistake about this man's birthplace."
"no, sir," replied the n.c.o. with conviction. "i looked the words up in the dictionary to make sure. 'taint the first man i've come across who can't spell."
"where's the man?" asked the lieutenant.
"here, sir!"
"well," began derek, addressing the airman, "there seems to be some slight doubt concerning the place in which you were born. what is it?"
a suspicion of a smile flitted across the man's face.
"itchen abbass, sir; a village near winchester," he replied. "i tried to explain to the sergeant, but he would have his own way."
for the next month or so sableridge training depot was passing through a dark period of its history. like other army and air establishments it was suffering from the blight of demobilization. those officers and men who knew that they might be returned to civil life any day didn't trouble in the slightest about duty. their one idea was to pack up and clear out as quickly as possible. discipline was lax; vague rumours of the closing down of the station were in the air. on parade the numbers steadily, nay, rapidly, dwindled, until the four "flights" were reduced to a tenth of their former strength. in the harbour expensive motor-boats were rotting and rusting at their moorings for want of hands to man them and keep them in a state of efficiency.
all this was a disconcerting outlook for men of derek's type. the departing units exercised an undesirable influence on those who were staying on, while, what was worse, they gave a cue to the new recruits.
"we're sending you to the doctor this morning, old son," announced the adjutant to derek. "all officers applying for permanent commissions are to be medically examined before noon."
derek heard the tidings without emotion. he remembered his first medical examination for the service; how it filled him with trepidation, as he feared that the doctor would discover some defect hitherto unknown to him. since that time daventry had become case-hardened. the examination, which might prove an ordeal to many, hardly troubled him in the least.
the r.a.m.c. captain, an elderly man, whose rugged features and bull voice were merely foils to a kindly and sympathetic nature, wasted no time.
"you're o.k., daventry," he declared, "fit as a fiddle. i'll put you in a category. that means you're all right for aerial work. why, what's the matter? you don't look pleased."
there was an expression of perplexity in derek's face. a few months previously he would have hailed with delight the prospect of being a knight of the air once more; now a different feeling had arisen. the innate seaman's instinct had developed. he loved the sea; the actual marine work at sableridge fascinated him. the thought of having to sever his connection with the depot rather staggered him.
"it's the uncertainty of everything that's worrying me," remarked the doctor, after derek had explained. "here am i, medical officer of health to a large manufacturing district, hanging about here with precious little to do, while there are tons of work awaiting me at home. the authorities can't make up their minds, or if they can they won't, and the consequence is i'm at a loose end. now, only the other day——"
just then the doctor's flow of oratory was cut short by the arrival of a messenger.
"mr. daventry here, sir?" he enquired. "the major wants to see him at once."
hastily donning his tunic derek made his way to the room of the second in command.
"oh, daventry," began the major, returning his subordinate's salute. "i've a little stunt for you. there's a wireless message just been received at baxton and telephoned on to us. a large seaplane has been forced to descend here"—he placed his finger on a large chart of the english channel—"latitude so and so; longitude so and so. why she's come down we don't know, but she's wirelessed for assistance. i want you to take r.a.f. 1292 b and make for her at full speed. get hold of her and take her in tow. i'll send no. 21 to give a hand in case she's too much of a handful. 1292 b has plenty of petrol, i hope?"
"yes, sir," replied derek. "filled up this morning."
it was one of daventry's forms of recreation, in the hum-drum days of the demobilization period, to see that boats immediately under his charge were kept as efficient as the scarcity of hands permitted. every day he had the engines running, so that the boats would be in a state of seaworthiness. no. 1292 b was a twenty-two knotter, while no. 21 was capable of doing only nine and a half knots. could he get the crippled sea-plane in tow with the first boat he could slow down until the more powerfully-engined no. 21 could relieve her of the tow.
"wonder what a sea-plane's doing about here?" thought derek, as he hurried off to turn out the crew from the duty watch. "haven't seen a machine up since the armistice. joy-riders, i suppose."
fortunately it was a fine day, although the sky was overcast. the sea was smooth, so that, running at a high speed, the first motor-boat was fairly dry. what spray she raised she threw aside by her pronounced flare.
"all out!" ordered derek. "give her full throttle!"
steering by compass daventry held on for nearly two hours, continually sweeping the horizon with his glasses in the hope of spotting the disabled sea-plane. smudges of smoke indicated shipping, so that it was quite possible that the aviators might have been picked up by a vessel bound up or down channel.
standing with feet well apart on the slippery fore-deck one of the crew also kept a sharp look out. it was he who reported something at a distance of four or five miles on the port bow.
"that's what we're looking for," declared derek, as he, too, took up a precarious position on the cambered fore-deck. "starboard your helm, coxswain; steady—at that!"
a few minutes' run enabled the crew of no. 1292 b to verify their skipper's words. riding easily on the gentle swell was a triplane of the latest type—a four-engined, cabined sea-plane capable of a 2000 miles non-stop run, accidents excepted. soon it was easy to discern the tricoloured circles on her fuselage. by the arrangement of colours derek knew that she was not an american, as he first supposed, but a british r.a.f. 'bus.
"can't see anything wrong with her," he soliloquized. "something must be adrift, of course, but hanged if i can see."
adroitly handling his boat the coxswain brought her close alongside the huge starboard float, one of the triplane's crew swarming down to assist in making fast the heaving line. other airmen and mechanics were taking a lively interest in the salvage operations, while from an open window in the side of the fuselage a red face surmounted by a gold-leafed cap was gazing down upon the rescuing boat.
"what's wrong?" enquired derek.
"both pilots crocked, sir," replied the man on the float. "they were just turning over when we hit a pocket pretty badly. one is stunned; the other has a broken collar-bone and two fingers dislocated. have you a doctor with you, sir?"
"no," replied derek. "we had no information that one was required. why didn't you wireless for medical aid?"
"we just got off our first message, sir, and then we landed rather badly. our aerial was trailing, and the bump 'konked' out the apparatus. i'm not a wireless man myself, sir; but our operator can explain."
"i'll take you in tow," said daventry. "with luck we'll have you in fisherton harbour within four or five hours."
"not if it can be avoided," protested the staff officer, from his elevated perch. "why the deuce didn't they send out more pilots? you'd better go back at full speed and bring off a couple of good, experienced flying-officers. it's an urgent case; absolutely imperative that the flight be resumed without loss of time."
derek was about to order the bowman to cast off when a thought struck him.
"may i come on board, sir?" he asked. "i'm a pilot."
"are you, by jove?" rejoined the staff officer, who, as shown by the badges on his shoulder-straps, was a brigadier-general. "that's fortunate! yes, come aboard, by all means."
leaping on to the float derek swarmed up one of the struts and gained the open hatchway on the underside of the fuselage. the sight within was an eye-opener. he had no idea of the vast strides in aerial construction that had been made since the time when he had to relinquish flying.
the fuselage was nearly a hundred feet in length and entirely enclosed. it gave one the impression that it was the interior of a yacht, for on either side of the central corridor were partitioned-off compartments—cabins for passengers, officers, and crew, as well as a spacious but completely-crowded engine-room.
right amidships were the two state-rooms in the occupation of the staff officer and his secretary. one compartment was furnished as a combined dining- and living-room, the other as a bedroom, with aluminium cots so arranged that, at any normal angle the sea-plane might assume, they would be always horizontal.
it was in the former cabin that derek was received. there was nobody about to overhear the interview.
"can you pilot this craft to corunna?" asked the brigadier-general. "it is a matter of extreme national importance that i arrive there before five this afternoon. if you cannot do it, then perhaps you might be able to take the sea-plane as far as falmouth, where i can get experienced pilots."
"i can, sir," replied derek.
"you've had experience?"
"cross-channel flights, sir; also some months' service on the western front."
"good enough!" exclaimed the staff officer. "carry on! the engineers say there's nothing wrong with the motors."
"very good, sir," replied derek, saluting.
entering the pilot's cabin daventry found the two injured men. one was still insensible; the other, white-faced, was trying to make the best of his injuries. to him derek put a few questions; then he telephoned to the engine-room, and received the reply that all was in readiness to resume the interrupted flight.
very gently the two injured officers were lowered into the still waiting motor-boat.
"carry on, coxswain!" ordered derek. "steer nor'-a-quarter-east and you'll pick up land within ten miles of sableridge, even if you don't fall in with no. 21 before. report to the c.o. that i am detained on duty, and that i will wire him directly i get ashore."
the motor-boat pushed off, swung round, and set off at full speed for the invisible shore; while derek, after testing the contacts—a process that took what seemed ages of suspense to the impatient brigadier-general—gave the word for the four motors to be started.
taxi-ing over the smooth sea nearly two hundred yards until sufficient speed was attained, the huge sea-plane "took-off" almost imperceptibly. then, climbing to two thousand feet, the triplane settled down to her long flight to the distant shores of spain.
