"Six o'clock, sir, and a fine morning," announced Derek's batman, as he switched on the electric light, and handed the still half asleep officer a cup of strongly-brewed tea.
"By Jove! it's Christmas Eve, and I'm Orderly Dog till eight o'clock," thought Derek. "What with this wretched demobilization business and officers clearing out almost every day my turn comes once every five days. Well, here goes!"
Jumping out of bed Daventry dressed for the occasion, his garb consisting of a pair of flannel trousers drawn on over his pyjamas, a sweater, sea-boots, trench-coat, muffler, and cap—the last three items served to camouflage the rest for the work immediately in hand, that of being present on réveillé.
Making his way across the parade-ground the Orderly Officer entered the main building. Already the corridors were resounding to the shrill notes of the Orderly Sergeant's whistle and his strident shouts of "Show a leg, everybody!"
Derek had to visit personally twenty-five rooms and satisfy himself that their occupants were really awake. The sentries, too, had to be visited, and their early morning parade attended. These functions completed, Derek was at liberty to return to his quarters and attend to his toilet at his leisure, happy in the knowledge that his twenty-four-hour trick of "Orderly Dog" was nearing completion.
The spirit of Yule-tide was in the air. For days past officers and men had been going off on eleven days' leave, while those who remained were entering into the prospect of a happy Christmas with the utmost zeal.
In the officers' quarters the mess-room was transformed with brightly-coloured bunting, the walls being hung with flags, while the ceiling was almost hidden by chains and festoons of coloured paper. In the men's building each room entered into healthy rivalry with the others, and some of the decorations showed that a great amount of patience and artistic prowess had been employed to transform the usually Spartan-like quarters into bowers of evergreens.
Breakfast over and the eight-o'clock parade dismissed, Derek was relieved of his duties as Orderly Officer, but he quickly found that, even during armistice-time and Christmas week, there is always something cropping up for an officer to tackle.
At six o'clock the last liberty-boat had left, and the depot, sadly depleted, settled down to spend the eve of Christmas in strange surroundings. Derek was about to write some letters when a telephone message came through stating that a motor-boat had just arrived from Stourborough and asking what was to be done with her.
"Sticky sort of day for a half-decked boat to make a hundred-miles run," thought Derek, as he donned sea-boots and oilskins, for as senior officer on the station (there were only seven not on Christmas leave) he had to receive the new arrival and see that she was made secure for the night.
It was both blowing and raining. Pitch dark, too, except for the gleam of the Low Light. The tide was at half flood, and making strongly. Grinding against the pier was the motor-boat, manned by half a dozen hands in oilskins and sou'westers.
"They won't be able to find moorings on a night like this, sir," remarked the Corporal in charge of the pier.
"And they look about done up," added Derek. "I'll find a fresh crew from the Duty Watch, and let them take her up to Fisherton Quay for the night. The old crew will come ashore and get a hot meal."
"We've had nothing to eat since midday, sir," reported the coxswain of the boat. "She was making heavy weather of it coming down Channel, and we hadn't a chance to tackle any grub."
Having seen the well-nigh exhausted crew ashore Derek made his way to the mess-deck, where in response to the whistle and the order "Fall in the Duty Watch!" nine men paraded.
"I'm calling for volunteers to take a boat up to Fisherton," said Derek. "The boat has been running continuously since daybreak, and the men are done up. I want a coxswain, an engineer, and two deck-hands. Those willing to carry on take one pace forward."
Without hesitation every man of the nine took a pace to the front, although for the most part they were new or only partially-trained hands. Selecting the new crew, Derek sent them off to don oilskins and sea-boots.
"I'm not quite certain of the channel, sir," said the coxswain, as the crew mustered on the pier-head. "I've only been up once, and that was in daylight."
"All right," replied Derek "I'll come with you." For nearly twenty minutes Derek waited on the boat in the driving scud and rain, for the motor, that had hitherto been running without a hitch, evinced no tendency to start.
"It's the rummiest Christmas Eve I've ever spent," declared the young officer to himself. "Ah! well, it's all in a day's work. Nothing like yachting in December to give a fellow an appetite. By Jove! it's nearly dinner-time already, and this stunt will take an hour, if not more."
At length the engineer conquered the refractory motor, and, after running the engine with the clutch out for a couple of minutes, Derek decided to start.
"Cast off, there!" he shouted to the signalman. "Easy ahead!"
The boat gave a final grind against the pier, then forged ahead with a strong tide under her. Barely had she got beyond heaving distance of the pier-head, when, with a fierce roar, the whole of the confined space of the engine-room seemed to burst into flames. Simultaneously the motor ceased firing.
It was not an enviable situation. Adrift in a roughish sea with the engine-room well alight, it looked as if the crew had the choice either of being burnt or else compelled to take an involuntary bath in the icy-cold water. In the latter case there would be slight chance of reaching the shore, since the strong tide would carry the swimmers into the wide and exposed harbour, and in the pitch darkness of the night the possibility of rescue by another boat would be very remote.
In spite of the danger the crew kept their heads. There was not the slightest sign of panic. One of the men raised a laugh by exclaiming:
"We can only drown once, lads; but we may burn twice, so let's get the fire under."
Without hesitation the engineer acted, directing a heavy discharge of "pyrene" into the heart of the flames. In a few seconds the anti-fire apparatus did its work. As if by magic the fierce tongue of flame died down, but for some minutes the crew were almost overcome by the fumes.
During that interval the broken-down boat had drifted across the bows of two other craft moored in the vicinity. Standing on the plunging fore-deck the intrepid bowman, maintaining his precarious position, succeeded in fending off by means of a boat-hook. Then, with three miles of water to leeward, the crew had time to consider their position and act accordingly.
At length the motor was restarted, and the long, tedious run up to Fisherton began. Steering by means of a series of leading lights Derek held on, drenched with spray and numbed with the cold, until, with a sigh of relief, he ported helm past the revolving green light at the entrance to Fisherton Quay.
A motor-car was waiting to take Derek and the men back to Sableridge, where Daventry found that the signalman had reported the fire, and that the depot had been in a state of ferment over the news.
"You practically spoiled our dinner, you rotter!" exclaimed Kaye.
"I've certainly lost mine," rejoined Derek.
"That's base ingratitude," protested his chum, "considering I told the messman to keep it hot. I say, you guys!" he added, addressing the other five or six occupants of the ante-room. "Daventry's raising a moan about his grub. What's the penalty?"
The next instant a rolled-up flag came hurtling at Derek's head. It was the signal for battle. There was ammunition in plenty, for nearly fifty rolled signal-flags that were left over after decorating the mess were lying on the table in the hall.
Grabbing half a dozen missiles, Derek ran upstairs; Kaye, out of loyalty, joined him, and Dennis threw in his lot with the weaker side. Ensued a battle royal. From the first-floor landing bundles of tightly-rolled bunting came flying down with tremendous force, while the attackers of the ground-floor retaliated with similar missiles, until the air was stiff with a hurtling galaxy of signal-flags.
For a time it seemed as if weight of "metal" and superior numbers would prevail. Already the attackers were half-way up the stairs, dauntlessly facing an overhead fusillade, when the youthful Adjutant was seized with a "toppin' brainy idea".
Grasping one of the filled fire-buckets, he balanced it on the balustrade, then, awaiting his opportunity, poured the cold contents upon the heads of his opponents. Kaye and Derek, fired by Dennis's example, followed suit, and the attack melted away.
"Gosh!" exclaimed Dennis, "won't little Wells be in a horrible tear when he finds his precious signal-flags used like this?"
It was indeed a scene of chaos. Partly unfolded the flags lay everywhere. Pools of water lay in the hall, while a considerable quantity had made its way down into the basement to the discomfiture of the batmen.
"It's merely a change in the day's occupation," declared Kaye. "Blame Daventry; he must have a safety-valve to let off superfluous energy after having tried his level best to provide the fishes with roast meat for Christmas."
"Who's turning in?" asked Derek, stifling a yawn. "It's ten o'clock, and I've been at it since six this morning."
Before anyone could reply there came from outside the officers' quarters a voice singing the words of a well-known carol.
"What's this stunt?" asked Dennis.
"The sergeants," replied the Orderly Officer. "They've come to serenade us, I believe. It'll mean a bottle of whisky against the mess."
"Invite them in," suggested another.
The suggestion was acted upon, but little did the mess know what it was in for when it invited the roystering serenaders into its fold.
Very solemnly the sergeants filed in—eleven N.C.Os., of whom every man save one had been in the Royal Navy before transferring into the Royal Air Force. Headed by a sergeant with a side-drum, and followed by two with fifes, the motley-arrayed crush took up semi-circular formation at one end of the ante-room, the Sergeant-Major acting as master of the ceremonies. In half an hour their repertoire of carols was exhausted, so they "switched on" to the old-time sea-chanties. Followed an interval for refreshments and speechmaking, to which Derek, in his capacity of Deputy Mess-President, had to reply.
"It's about time they piped down," thought Derek, glancing at his wristlet-watch.
But no!
"Would the officers like to hear Sergeant Butler sing 'The Long-Lost Cabin-Boy'?" asked the Sergeant-Major.
In a weak moment Derek assented on behalf of the officers, and the act of torture began. There were twenty-five verses of "The Long-Lost Cabin-Boy", each with a double chorus. Then, with hardly a break, the now almost exhausted mess had to listen to another song, "You stand by the Ship, lads, I must be ashore by five", and a pointedly topical recitation, "Christmas Day in the Marine Depot", in which the sergeants got in several witty hits against their officers.
It was not until just on midnight that, after rendering "God Save the King", the lusty vocalists marched back to their quarters, leaving the mess to its rightful occupants.
"But," remarked Kaye, "Christmas Eve only comes once a year, and goodness only knows where we'll be in a twelvemonth's time. There's Eight Bells! A Merry Christmas, you fellows!"
Christmas Day dawned bright and clear—a pleasing contrast to the preceding day. Hardly a ripple disturbed the surface of the sea, while the hills surrounding the harbour were perfectly hidden by light, fleecy mists. The air, too, was mild. From a weather aspect it was as unlike the old-time festive day as one could possibly imagine.
The depleted mess sat down to breakfast in high spirits, but behind the display of gaiety was the thought that to many it would be the last Christmas Day that they would spend under Active Service conditions. Already demobilization was working havoc both with numbers and efficiency. Months of strenuous training looked like being wasted, while there was uncertainty of the future. Quite possibly the "Band of Brothers" would be dispersed to the four quarters of the globe. Many of them, of course, wanted to get back to their homes, but others, particularly the young crash pilots, regarded their possible release to civil life with feelings akin to consternation. Growing up to manhood as responsible officers of a fighting force, they had no enthusiasm for the hum-drum life that awaited them upon demobilization. In several cases their post-school studies had been entirely interrupted, and their chance of qualifying for professional careers hopelessly shattered. The phantom "after-the-war" problem was merging into a real and burning question.
Being Christmas Day, parade did not take place until ten o'clock, after which the C.O. made a tour of the buildings and inspected the decorated messes. This over, Derek had to take the duty-boat and visit the R.A.F. vessels moored in the harbour.
Almost the first craft visited was a large motorboat lying right in the tide-way. As the duty-boat ran alongside the bowman stepped on board with the intention of making fast with a rope. As he did so the boats' bows began to drift apart.
"Look out!" shouted Derek. "You'll be in the ditch in half a shake!"
The warning came too late. With one foot on the motor-boat and the other on the duty-boat, the luckless bowman tried to save himself by recovering his lost balance. In vain; the gap increased more and more until, with a loud splash, the man plunged into the icy water.
Fortunately he could swim, but the task of getting him on board, encumbered as he was with oilskin jacket and trousers, was not an easy one. It was not until Derek and the engineer came to his assistance that the bowman was hauled into the boat.
There was now no option but to return to the pier and land the shivering man. Provided with a stiff glass of brandy, he was sent back to his room to change, his arrival in saturated clothes being hailed with good-natured banter by his comrades.
As the duty-boat pushed off to resume her interrupted patrol the sergeant-coxswain must needs emulate the bowman's example, for on stepping from the pier steps to the boat his foot slipped, and into the water he went.
That meant more brandy and another coxswain. "The next man who tumbles into the ditch will not get any brandy," declared Derek, by way of warning. Doubtless the hint was taken, for there was no further trouble in that direction.
Back to the depot to change for dinner, and Derek's duty ended for the rest of the day. Yet there was work for him to do—the task of getting ready to proceed on his eleven days' leave.
At eight the following morning Derek set out on his long journey, travelling to the railway station in a tender in default of a car, for the three motor-cars attached to the depot had all been placedhors de combaton Christmas Eve. It was an enjoyable, though a crowded railway journey. Packed in with nine other officers, a civilian, and a dog in a first-class compartment, Derek found himself in good company. The spirit of Yule-tide predominated, and even though the crowded train was an hour late, stopping at every station, and frequently between stations, the prospect of getting home smoothed over the inconvenience of travelling.
"Well, Derek," remarked Captain Daventry after dinner, when father and son were alone, "the war's over, or practically so. Men are being demobilized right and left. The papers teem with advertisements from released officers requiring employment. What do you propose doing?"
"Hanging on, Pater, in the Micawber-like spirit: hoping that something may turn up."
"And what are the prospects?"
Derek had to confess that up to the present there was nothing definite. No decided information was forthcoming from the Air Ministry, although the air was thick with rumours.
"I'd go in for flying again if the Medical Board passed me," he added. "Failing that, I'd like to continue in the Marine Branch. It's a weird and fairly exciting existence, and every day I like it more and more."
"Thought so," rejoined his father laconically; "it's the adage: 'What's bred in the bone,' &c. With generations of sea-faring ancestors, Derek, you can't get away from the fact that you've an innate desire for the sea. Flying was only a sort of stop-gap—necessary, no doubt, but it's not the rock-bottom of an Englishman's constitution, so to speak. The sea made Britain what it is to-day, and the sea will continue to do so, unless the country allows her maritime supremacy to pass into the hands of others. To return to a personal view—I mentioned the matter before, I believe—you'll be able to go to sea till you're well over middle age, but it's an obvious certainty that you won't be flying at that time of life."
"You don't seem very sanguine over the future of aviation, Pater."
"I hardly like to express an opinion, Derek; but when comparing a ship with an aeroplane you must remember that the former is in its natural element. Given a seaworthy craft ably managed, a ship is as safe as a house. Even if the engines break down the vessel floats. But take an aircraft. If anything happens to it, it is not in its natural element. It must descend."
"A heavier-than-air machine, you mean."
"Precisely. And take the case of an airship. Its vulnerability to fire is a great drawback, while I doubt its ability to ride out a gale. A ship has a grip upon the water; an airship, if disabled, is simply at the mercy of the winds."
"And that is where we—the marine section—come in," added Derek. "Once the authorities realize that, our future is assured."
The eleven days passed only too quickly, and almost before he realized that his leave would expire that night Derek found himself packing his kit-bag and haversack.
It was eleven o'clock when he arrived at Fisherton Station, and nearly midnight by the time he reached Sableridge depot. All the rest of the occupants of the officers' quarters were in bed; there was no supper left out for him, and the ante-room fire had died down. Without it was blowing a gale from the south-east, and raining heavily. The spray was dashing against the windows, while above the howling of the wind could be heard the continuous roar of the surf upon the Dairymaid Sands.
"What a night!" soliloquized Derek, as he proceeded to unpack and prepare to turn in. "Thank goodness I'm not out. Wonder if our boats will drag their moorings? Well, here's to bed. I'll sleep like a log till morning."
Alas for that resolution! It seemed as if Daventry had been asleep but a few minutes when he was aroused by the Officer of the Watch.
"You'll have to turn out, Daventry, old man," he announced. "There's a vessel of some sort ashore on the Dairymaid Bank. The Fisherton life-boat is coming down harbour, and they want us to stand by. I've turned out the Duty Watch and told off No. 21's crew. Take her out and keep to windward of the shoal. There's a deuce of a sea breaking over it, so look out!"
Already Derek was out of bed and donning his sea-kit. A glance at his wristlet-watch showed that it was 3 a.m. The gale was at its height. Windows were rattling, stones were being hurled up from the beach and thudding against the shuttered windows of the building. Rain and sleet were descending in hissing and blinding sheets.
Literally battling his way to the pier-head Derek found his crew busily engaged in preparing motor-boat No. 21 for the coming contest with the elements. The craft was a stout one, specially built for hard work, and heavily engined. If any vessel on the station were capable of keeping the sea that night it was No. 21.
"Plenty of petrol, engineer?" shouted Derek, as he gained the deck of the plunging boat.
"Tanks full, sir."
"Good enough," rejoined Derek, holding on like grim death as the boat ground and bumped heavily against the piles of the pier. "Any sign of the life-boat, signalman?"
"Not yet in sight, sir."
The youthful Lieutenant gazed seaward. All was a chaotic blur of driving rain and spray. In vain he waited to see the occulting light on the distant Bar Buoy. It was no longer there. An unfortunate accident had extinguished the friendly gleam; and Heaven help the mariner who, running for shelter into Fisherton Harbour, reckoned upon finding the important light in position!
"Life-boat in sight, sir!"
With her red, blue, and white hull looming up in the glare of the high leading light the life-boat was fighting her way towards the scene of the disaster. She was under sail—close reefed main and mizzen. Her yellow-oilskinned crew were crouching on the thwarts, the only man visible being the coxswain as he stood erect and gripped the long tiller. In another hundred yards a bend in the channel would bring the life-boat's course dead to windward and against a surging flood-tide. It was now that No. 21 would be able to render timely aid.
"Cast off bow and stern warps," shouted Derek. "Easy ahead!"
With helm hard-a-port the motor-craft swung round, passed to windward of the life-boat, turned again, and ranged up to windward, her crew standing by, ready to pass a stout grass hawser to the life-boat.
image: 07_task.jpg[Illustration: THE TASK OF GETTING HIM ON BOARD WAS NOT AN EASY ONE]
The latter lost no time in accepting the proffered aid. In a trice her scanty canvas was lowered and stowed; a heavy line fell athwart the R.A.F. boat's deck, and to this the towing-warp was bent and paid out.
"All fast!" shouted the life-boat's bowman in stentorian tones. It was as well that he confirmed the information with a gesture, for in the roar of the elements his voice was inaudible.
"Easy ahead!" ordered Derek.
With a jerk that shook No. 21 from keel to truck the hawser took up the strain. For some moments it seemed as if no progress were being made against wind and tide, until foot by foot the hardly-pressed boat and her tow fought their way towards the surging waters on the bar.
At one minute the motor-craft's stern was deep in the water. At another the propeller was whirling in the air and the powerful engine racing madly. Sheets of solid water poured over her bluff bows, until the thick glass panes of the wheel-house threatened to give way under the formidable onslaught.
Well it was that Derek knew the channel well both by night and day. All he had to guide him were the leading lights astern. Ahead nothing but inky blackness; to port the breakers threshing against the Tinker Shoal; to starboard more white-foamed masses of water hurling themselves upon the flats of the Dairymaid Sands. An error of eighty yards on either hand would result in disaster both to the R.A.F. boat and her tow, for, notwithstanding her strong construction and uncapsizable design, the life-boat would stand no earthly chance should she be hurled upon the boiling breakers over the sands.
Suddenly a light flashed through the darkness away on the starboard bow.
"NC—NC—NC" it called, signifying in code language: "In distress; require immediate assistance."
"Three hundred yards over the Dairymaid Bank," declared Derek to his coxswain. "Keep her as she is; we can't edge in any closer. I'll slip the life-boat when she's dead to windward."
"Aye, aye, sir!" replied the man, wiping the spray from his eyes. The wheel-house window was open, for closed, with the water continually being flung against the glass, the limited range of vision was still further reduced.
Plunging, rolling, and staggering, the staunch little craft plugged steadily onwards, the life-boat straining and yawing at the end of three hundred feet of stout grass hawser. With little protection save that afforded by the high, rounded fore-deck, the life-belted and oilskinned crew of the life-boat were literally sitting in water, in spite of the relieving tubes that allowed the boat to free itself of any breaking seas.
"Far enough," decided Derek. "Keep her head to wind, coxswain!"
Making his way aft the young officer ascended the short iron ladder and looked astern. He had to hold on like grim death, for the lively motion of the motor-craft made it impossible to stand unaided on the slippery deck.
Raising one arm Derek motioned to the life-boat to cast off. The coxswain of the latter saw the signal. The motionless crew became active. The hawser was cast off, and oars fell into the crutches. Backing the while, the life-boat vanished into the darkness.
Returning to the wheel-house Derek consulted his watch. It was now nearly six o'clock. Already he had been afloat for more than two hours, and the time had passed with inconceivable rapidity. In another hour and a quarter there would be sufficient light to distinguish the position and nature of the vessel in distress.
Meanwhile ensued a tedious wait. Unable to anchor, since the seas were vicious and breaking, and the holding-ground was bad, No. 21 had to keep her motor running, continuously throttling down, so that her position was practically unaltered. Yet the task of keeping to the channel was one that taxed the helmsman's and the engineer's skill to the uttermost. The latter, unfortunately, was seized with a violent attack of sea-sickness, yet in spite of the nausea, accentuated by the reek of hot oil, he stuck doggedly to his post, knowing full well that any failure on his part to keep the motor running would inevitably result in the boat becoming a total wreck on the Dairymaid Sands, with the possibility of loss of life on the part of the crew.
Very slowly the day dawned, the growing light laying bare the dangers that the veil of night had partly hidden. R.A.F. No. 21 was still chugging away in the centre of the channel. Ahead, astern, as far as the eye could see, was a foaming mass of broken water, thundering to leeward upon the flat, sandy beach. Broad on the starboard beam the Bar Buoy, the light of which had ignominiously failed, was plunging in the foaming water. Beyond the buoy the outlines of Old Tom, the detached chalk pinnacle, could be faintly discerned through the mirk. The lofty hills were as if they were not. Hidden in the driving rain, their absence gave the coast-line an unfamiliar aspect.
Midway between the edge of the buoyed channel and the sand-dunes lay a long, low grey craft over which the breakers were sweeping continuously. From a light mast two flags streamed out stiffly in the breeze. Being end-on they were unrecognizable until a temporary change in the wind revealed their nationality. The upper one was the Rising Sun of Japan; underneath was the craven Black Cross of Germany. The stranded craft was a surrendered U-boat that had been handed over to Japan, and it was an unfortunate occurrence that on the commencement of her voyage to the Far East the prize showed every sign of slipping through her new owner's fingers.
"This is a rummy world," thought Derek. "A few months ago I was doing my level best to strafe these bounders; now I'm doing ditto to assist in the salvage of one of them. But, by Jove! I wouldn't give much for her chance; she's done in, I fancy."
Midway between the motor-craft and the U-boat lay the life-boat, buoyantly riding to a long cable. She had approached the stranded vessel as close as she dared, and was even now in danger of bumping her keel on the hard sand. Solidly constructed and well built as she was, she could not afford to risk stranding in the breakers, which would roll her over and over like a barrel. It was almost dead low water, and until the flood had made considerably it was madness for the life-boat to attempt to run alongside the U-boat and take off the crew.
But as long as the life-boat was engaged in the work of rescue R.A.F. No. 21 had to stand by. Chilled to the bone by the cold and wet, and fatigued by their night's exertions, the life-boat-men would be relying on the motor-craft to tow them into harbour.
In the grey dawn a long, lean black destroyer was sighted making her way slowly towards the Bar Buoy. Green seas were tumbling viciously over her raised fo'c'sle, while showers of spray were sizzling against her hot funnel. As she approached, Derek noticed that her life-buoys were painted white with four bands of red. Buoys painted thus are foreign to the British navy; and, although the destroyer resembled in almost every detail the British "River" Class boats, Derek rightly concluded that she also was Japanese.
Later on it transpired that the destroyer was towing the submarine. In heavy weather the hawser parted, one end getting foul of the destroyer's starboard propeller, while the U-boat, without means of self-propulsion, drifted ashore on the Dairymaid Bank.
It was noon before the Japanese crew of the submarine were fetched off by the life-boat, and until this was done R.A.F. 21 had to stand by. Finally, with less than two gallons of fuel in her tanks, she brought the life-boat safely into Fisherton Harbour.
Dog-tired, his ears raw from exposure to the cold spray, his heels galled by the chafing of his sea-boots, Derek, having dismissed his crew, turned in and slept like a log, happy in the knowledge that another useful peace-time task had been successfully accomplished.
"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.