THE NAVY-THAT-FLIES[A]
The Royal Naval Air Service found itself “over the other side” about the
time that the shells of the British monitors began feeling for the
hidden batteries of the Boche behind the Belgian coast.
“I can’t see where they’re pitching,” said the Navy-that-Floats,
referring to the shells of the monitors bursting twelve miles away.
“What about spotting for us, old son?”
“That will I do,” replied the Navy-that-Flies. “And more also. But I
shall have to wear khaki, because it’s done, out here; by everybody
apparently. Even the newspaper reporters wear khaki. Also I must have
the right machines and lots of ’em.”
“Wear anything you like,” replied the Navy-that-Floats, “as long as you
can help us to hit these shore batteries. Only--because you wear khaki
and see life, don’t forget you’re still the same old Navy as it was in
the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.”
The Navy-that-Flies added “Amen,” and said that it wouldn’t forget. It
garbed itself in khaki, but retained the ring and curl on the sleeve,
and the naval cap (with the eagle’s wings in place of the crown and
anchor in the badge), plus a khaki cap-cover. Wherever its squadrons
were based they rigged a flagstaff and flew the White Ensign at the
peak. They erected wooden huts and painted them service grey, labelling
them “Mess-deck,” “Wardroom,” “Gunroom,” etc., as the case might be.
They divided the flights into port and starboard watches, and solemnly
asked leave to “go ashore” for recreation. Those who strayed from the
same stern paths of discipline suffered the same punishments as the
Navy-that-Floats. And at the conclusion of each day’s work the wardroom
dined, and drank to their King, sitting, according to the custom and
tradition of the naval service.
They filled in shell-holes and levelled the ground for aerodromes, they
ran up hangars and excavated dug-outs--whither they retired in a strong,
silent rush (the expression is theirs), when the apprehensive Boche
attempted to curtail their activity with bombs.
And by degrees the right machines came along. The Navy-that-Flies swung
itself into them critically, flung them about in the air three miles
high, testing and measuring their capabilities. Then they fought them,
crashed them, improved on them till they were righter still, and finally
proceeded (to quote another of their expressions) to “put the wind up
Old Man Boche” in a way that helped the Navy-that-Floats enormously.
But apart from spotting duties, which were necessarily intermittent, the
R.N.A.S. undertook a photographic reconnaissance of the entire Belgian
coast from Nieuport to the Dutch frontier. The work in progress at
Ostend and Zeebrugge, the activities of submarines and destroyers inside
the basins; locks, quays, and gun-emplacements, and the results of
bombs dropped thereon the night before, were all faithfully recorded by
these aerial cameras. The negatives were developed and printed, the
resultant bird-pictures enlarged, studied through stereoscopic lenses,
and finally given to the monitors “for information and guidance.” Since
it is not given to everyone to recognise the entrance to a dug-out or a
group of searchlights as they appear from a height of 20,000 feet, the
photographs were embellished with explanatory notes for the benefit of
anyone unaccustomed to such unfamiliar aspects of creation.
The Germans claim to be a modest people. They were as busy as beavers,
and they resented these importunate photographers with all the fervour
that springs from true modesty. Their anti-aircraft guns plastered the
intruders with bursting shrapnel, and from every coast aerodrome Boche
machines rose like a cloud of angry hornets to give battle. Yet day
after day fresh plates find their way to the developing trays, and a
comparison between the official reports of the flight--couched in a
laconic terseness of phrase that is good to read--and the amazing
results obtained gives perhaps the truest measure of the work performed
by these very gallant gentlemen.
Not a spadeful of earth can be turned over, nor a trowel of cement added
to a bastion along the coast, but a note appears a day or two later upon
the long chart which adorns the record office of this particular
squadron. A crumpled escorting machine may have come down out of the
clouds, eddying like a withered leaf, to crash somewhere behind the
German line; there may be somewhere near the shore a broken boy in
goggles and leather lying amid the wreckage of his last flight. Such is
the price paid for a few more dots added in red ink to a couple of feet
of chart. But as long as the photographic machine returns with the
camera intact, the price is paid ungrudgingly.
The work of these photographic recorders, pilot and observer alike,
differs from all other forms of war flying. Their sole duty is to take
photographs, not haphazard, but of a given objective. This necessitates
steering a perfectly steady course regardless of all distractions such
as bursting “Archies” and angry “Albatross” fighters. They leave the
fighting to their escorts, and their fate to Providence. The observer,
peering earthwards through his view-finder, steers the pilot by means of
reins until he sights the line on which the desired series of
photographs are to be taken: once over this, the pilot flies the machine
on an undeviating course, and the observer proceeds to take photographs.
When all the plates have been exposed, they turn round and return home
with what remain of the escort. On occasions the escort have vanished,
either earthwards or in savage pursuit of resentful though faint-hearted
Boches; this is when the homing photographers’ moments are apt to become
crowded with incident.
One such adventure deserves to be recorded. It happened about 12,000
feet above mother-earth: the official reports, typed in triplicate,
covered some dozen lines; the actual events, an equal number of minutes;
but the story is one that should live through eternity.
“While exposing six plates” (says the official report of this youthful
Recording Angel) “observed five H.A.’s cruising.” (“H.A.” stands for
Hostile Aeroplane.) “Not having seen escort since turning inland, pilot
prepared to return. Enemy separated, one taking up position above tail
and one ahead. The other three glided towards us on port side” (observe
the Navy speaking), “firing as they came.
“The two diving machines fired over one hundred rounds, hitting pilot
in shoulder.” As a matter of sober fact, the bullet entered his shoulder
from above and behind, breaking his left collar bone, and emerged just
above his heart, tearing a jagged rent down his breast. Both his feet,
furthermore, pierced by bullets, but the observer was not concerned with
petty detail.
“Observer held fire until H.A. diving on tail was within five yards.”
Here it might be mentioned that the machines were hurtling through space
at a speed in the region of one hundred miles an hour. The pilot of the
“H.A.,” having swooped to within speaking distance, pushed up his
goggles and laughed triumphantly as he took his sight for the shot that
was to end the fight. But the observer had his own idea of how the fight
should end.
“Then shot one tray into pilot’s face,” he says, with curt relish, and
watched him stall, sideslip, and go spinning earthward in a trail of
smoke.
He turned his attention to his own pilot. The British machine was barely
under control, but as the observer rose in his seat to investigate, the
foremost gun fired, and the aggressor ahead went out of control and
dived nose-first in helpless spirals. Suspecting that his mate was badly
wounded in spite of this achievement, the observer swung one leg over
the side of the fuselage and climbed on to the wing--figure for a minute
the air pressure on his body during this gymnastic feat--until he was
beside the pilot. Faint and drenched with blood, the latter had
nevertheless got his machine back into complete control.
“Get back, you ass,” he said, through white lips, in response to
inquiries as to how he felt. The ass got back the way he came, and
looked round for the remainder of the “H.A.’s.” These, however, appeared
to have lost stomach for further fighting, and fled. The riddled machine
returned home at one hundred knots, while the observer, having nothing
better to do, continued to take photographs. “The pilot, though wounded,
made a perfect landing.” Thus the report concludes.
The Navy-that-Flies had been in France some time before the Army heard
very much about its doings. This was not so much the fault of the Army
as the outcome of the taciturn silence in which the Navy-that-Flies set
to work. It had been bidden to observe the traditions of the silent
Navy, and it observed them, forbearing even to publish the number of
Boche machines it accounted for day by day.
But there came a time when its light could no longer be hid under a
bushel. “Hullo,” said the generals and others concerned with the affairs
of the entrenched Army, speaking among themselves, “what about it?” They
consulted the Army-that-Flies.
Now the Army-that-Flies had been confronted in the early days of the war
with perhaps the toughest proposition that was ever faced by mortals of
even their imperturbable courage. In numerical inferiority to the enemy
it had been called upon to maintain a ceaseless photographic
reconnaissance far behind the enemy’s trenches; to spot for the guns of
the Army along a suddenly extended front: to “keep the wind up” the
Boche so that for every ten of our machines that crossed the German
lines, barely one of his would dare to cross ours. This is called aerial
supremacy, and they established and maintained it with fewer and worse
machines than they care to talk about to-day.
“Of course we know all about these naval Johnnies,” said the
Army-that-Flies. “They’d steal grey paint from their dying grandmothers,
and they fear nothing in the heavens above, nor the earth beneath, nor
in the waters under the earth. They are complaining that things are
getting a bit dull along the coast.... We might show them a thing or two
if they cared to join up with us for a while.”
“Let’s ask them,” said the Army.
So the Navy-that-Flies was invited “to co-operate with the Royal Flying
Corps on such portions of the line where its experience of escort work
and offensive patrols would prove of the greatest value.” Or words to
that effect.
The Navy-that-Flies accepted the invitation with suppressed exultation,
and detailed certain squadrons of fighters. It admits having selected
picked pilots, because there was the credit of the old Navy to consider.
Each squadron was entrusted to the care of a seasoned veteran of fully
twenty-five summers, and of the flight leaders there was one that had
even turned twenty-one. In short the Navy-that-Flies was sending of its
best; and its worst was very good indeed.
They flew away from the coast and the sea, and their motor transport
rumbled through the empty plains of France, till they closed upon the
fringe of the entrenched army. Here perched above the surrounding
country on some plateau or hill-side, with the ceaseless murmur of the
guns in their ears, each of the squadrons rigged its flagstaff and
hoisted the White Ensign, set up the grey-painted huts and the ship’s
bell that divided the day into ship-watches, slung their hammocks, and
announced that they were ready to “co-operate” with anybody or anything.
The Army-that-Flies laughed at the ship’s bell and the rest of the naval
shibboleth, but it took the visitors to its heart. With hands deep in
the pockets of its “slacks” and pipe in mouth it came over and examined
the fighting machines of the Navy-that-Flies and the “doo-hickies”
thereof, and it said things under its breath.
The Navy-that-Flies did not waste much time looking about it. One
fire-eater setting off to explore the country some thirty miles behind
the German lines came upon a school of “Quirks.” Quirks, it may be
explained for the benefit of bipeds, are young Boche aviators in an
embryonic stage. From the convenient ambush of a cloud he watched their
antics for a while, as they flopped about above their aerodrome; and
then, descending like a thunderbolt, he tumbled three over, scattered
the remainder and returned to make his report. The squadron listened
gravely to the story and concluded that the Golden Age had dawned.
But sterner work lay ahead, and a fair sample of it is contained in the
report of another young gentleman who went scouting singlehanded over
the German lines what time the “gentlemen of England” were, if not abed,
cracking the first of their breakfast eggs.
He was attacked by two single-seated “Albatross” machines and a
Halberstadt fighter. Into the engine of the latter he emptied a tray of
cartridges, with the result that it immediately went spinning down; to
make assurance doubly sure he fired another fifty rounds into the
whirling wreck as it fell.
By this time a veritable hornet’s nest appears to have risen about his
ears; three more “Albatross” machines whirred to the attack, and in his
subsequent report he notes with artistic enjoyment that the head of one
pilot precisely filled the ring of his sight. This eye for detail
enabled him to recall the fact that he actually saw three bullets strike
the pilot’s head, with the not surprising result that the
would-be-avenger heeled over and sped to the ground.
By this time he had been driven down to a height of 200 feet above
German-occupied territory, and, having lost sight of the remainder of
his aggressors, he decided to return home at that height.
As was to be expected, his adventures were by no means terminated by
this decision. An astonished company of German cavalry drew rein and
peppered him with rifle-shots as he whisked over the tops of their
lances. Five minutes later another “Albatross” attacked him.
He rocked the machine in giddy sweeps until within fifty yards of his
opponent, and side-looped over him (this, remember, at 200 feet from the
ground), fired a short burst and drove the Hun off for a moment while he
regained equilibrium. Then once more the enemy swooped upon him.
From this point onwards the reader may be warned against vertigo. The
pilot’s own version, the bald official report of the affair, requires no
embellishment or comment, though the latter is not easy to suppress.
“These operations,” he states, “were repeated several times with a
slight variation in the way I looped over him (flying against a head
wind). When he was about 150 yards behind me, I looped straight over
him, and coming out of the loop dived at him and fired a good long
burst. I saw nearly all the bullets go into the pilot’s back, just on
the edge of the cockpit. He immediately dived straight into the ground.
“I then went over the German trenches filled with soldiers, and was
fired on by machine guns, rifles, and small field guns, in or out” (Ye
Gods and Little Fishes!) “of range. There were many shells bursting in
and about the German trenches.”
The report concluded with estimates of the strength of various bodies of
infantry and cavalry, movements of convoy and artillery noticed during
the intervals between aerial somersaults. The pilot landed at the first
aerodrome he saw--adding, in explanation of such an irregular
proceeding, that his machine was badly shot about.
The squadrons co-operating with the R.F.C. commenced by faithfully
recording all aerial combats in which their machines were engaged. But
after a while such events became too commonplace to chronicle. They
fought from dawn to dusk, generally a day’s journey for a horse behind
the German lines. They fought at altitudes at which in spring a
thermometer registered 50° of frost, returning with petrol tanks frozen,
and hands and feet and ears swollen by frost-nip. One squadron had a
hundred decisive fights in a month (omitting skirmishes), and accounted
for twenty-five Boche machines. Its log (unofficially termed
“Game-book”) contained such entries as the following: “Four machines
went up: managed to bag five Huns before breakfast.”
For the first time in their lives the pilots got all the fighting they
wanted, and revelled in it gluttonously. They grew fine-drawn, with the
accentuated brilliancy of eye common to men in perfect condition living
at the highest tension. They met Winged Death hourly in the blue
loneliness above the clouds; the rustle of his sable wings became a
sound familiar as the drone of their own engines, so that all terror of
the Destroyer passed out of their souls--if indeed it had ever entered
there.
And Death in his turn grew merciful, amazed. At least this is the only
explanation to offer for certain tales that are told along the Front,
where the White Ensign flies.
But hear for yourselves and judge.
A Naval pilot--a Canadian, by the way--attacked a single-seater
“Albatross” scout at 8,000 feet above the German lines. He disposed of
him after a short engagement, and was then attacked by seven others who
drove him down to 3,000 feet and shot his machine to pieces. He plunged
to the ground and crashed amid the wreck of his machine a couple of
hundred yards behind the Canadian lines, breaking a leg and dislocating
a shoulder. A furious bombardment from German heavy artillery was in
progress at the time, and he crawled into a shell-hole, where he
remained from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. Fire then having slackened, a party
from the trenches went in search of his body with a view to burying it,
and found him conscious and cheerful, though very thirsty.
The Navy-that-Flies is witness that I lie not.
As far as bombing operations are concerned, the Navy-that-Flies confines
its attentions principally to the German bases along the Belgian coast,
and any lurking submarines or vagrant destroyers observed in the
vicinity. Bombing is carried out by both aeroplanes and seaplanes, and
differs from other forms of war flying in that it is principally
performed at night.
The function of the bombing machine is to reach its given objective in
as short a time as possible, without provoking more “scraps” on the way
than are inevitable, to “deliver the goods,” and, if not brought down by
anti-aircraft fire, to return with all speed. They are not primarily
fighters, and when laden with bombs are not theoretically a match for a
hostile fighting machine with unfettered manœuvring powers.
Engine-trouble or loss of stability over enemy territory means almost
infallible capture or death for the pilot of a bombing aeroplane. Yet in
cases of disablement, rather than come down on the ground and suffer
themselves or their machine to be taken prisoner, it is their gallant
tradition to try to struggle out to sea. Here they stand about as much
chance of life as a pheasant winged above a lake, but the machine sinks
before German hands can touch it.
Now it happened that on one such occasion the descent into the sea of a
bombing machine was observed by two French flying boats which were out
on patrol. The distressed machine was still within range of the shore
batteries, and the Boches, smarting under the effect of the bombs she
had succeeded in dropping, were retaliating in the most approved
Germanic manner by plastering the helpless machine with shrapnel as she
slowly sank.
The two French flying boats sped to the rescue and alighted in the water
beside the wrecked British machine. One embarked the observer, who was
wounded, and, in spite of redoubled fire from the shore, succeeded in
returning safely. The other French flying-boat actually embarked the
remaining occupants of the bombing machine, but was hit as it rose from
the water and fell disabled. The French pilot, seeing a Boche seaplane
approaching, and a bevy of small craft in-shore coming out against them,
scribbled a message to say that his venture had failed; he found time to
add, however, with true Gallic dauntlessness of spirit, “Vive la
France!” This missive he fastened to the leg of his carrier pigeon, and
succeeded in releasing it before rescuers and rescued were taken
prisoners.
From time to time curt official announcements of successful bomb-raids
upon German destroyer and submarine bases appear in the press. It may be
that the Naval honours or casualties lists are swelled thereby. But no
one who has not stood in the wind that blows across the bombers’
aerodrome at night, in those last tense moments before the start, can
form any idea of the conditions under which these grim laurels are
earned.
One by one the leather-clad pilots conclude their final survey and climb
up into their machines. They adjust goggles and gloves: there is a
warning “Stand clear!” and the darkness fills with roaring sound as No.
1 starts his engine. For a moment longer he sits in the utter isolation
of darkness and the deafening noise of his own engine. No further
sounds can reach him; not another order nor the valedictory “Good luck!”
from those whose lot it is to only stand and wait. He settles himself
comfortably and fingers the familiar levers and throttle; then with a
jerk the bomber starts along the uneven ground, gathers way, and rising,
speeds droning into the darkness like a gigantic cockchafer. A moment
later No. 2 follows, then another, and another. The night swallows them,
and the sound of their engines dies away.
A couple of hours later in one of the grey-painted huts that fringe the
aerodrome a telephone bell jangles. The squadron commander picks up the
receiver and holds converse with a tiny metallic voice that sounds very
far away; the conversation ends, he puts on his cap and goes out into
the darkness; a few minutes later a sudden row of lights across the
aerodrome makes bright pin-pricks in the darkness. From far away in the
air comes the hum of an engine growing momentarily louder. It grows
louder and clearer as the homing machine circles overhead and finally
comes to earth with a rushing wind and the scramble of men’s feet
invisible.
The pilot climbs stiffly out of his seat, pushing up his goggles, and
puckers his eyes in the light of the lanterns as he fumbles for his
cigarette case. “Got ’em,” he says laconically. “Seaplane sheds on the
mole. Time for another trip?”
There is time, it appears. He drinks hot coffee while the armourers snap
a fresh supply of bombs into the holders and test the release gear. He
answers questions curtly and his replies are very much to the point.
Their “Archies” are shooting well, and they’ve got a lot more
searchlights at work than they had last time. Rather warm work while it
lasted. He thinks No. 1 was hit and brought down in flames. No. 2 seemed
to have engine trouble this side of our lines on the way back. No. 3
ought to be along soon. And while he gulps his coffee and grunts
monosyllables there is a whirring overhead and No. 3 returns, loudly
demanding a fresh supply of bombs with which to put an artistic finish
to a row of blazing oil-tanks.
They climb into their machines again and lean back resting, while the
finishing touches (which sometimes come between life and death) are put
to the machines and their deadly freight. Then once more they soar up
into the night.
Dawn is breaking when No. 4 returns, tired-eyed, and more monosyllabic
than ever. It came off all right, but No. 3 had seemed to lose control
and slid down the beam of a searchlight with shells and balls of red
fire (some new stunt, he supposed) bursting all about her. However, she
got her bombs off first, and touched up something that sent a flame 200
feet into the air. He himself bombed a group of searchlights that were
annoying him, and some trucks in a railway siding. The speaker has an
ugly shrapnel wound in the thigh and observes with grave humour that his
boots are full of blood--this is a Navy joke, by the way. Also that he
could do with a drink.
But it came off all right.
* * * * *
Now the seaplanes, who undertake much the same sort of job, keep pigs,
and contemplate their stern mission with an extinguishable and
fathomless sense of humour. This may be accounted for by the fact that
in life and death they are more in touch with the native element of the
Navy-that-Floats and share much of its light-heartedness in consequence.
Aerial gymnastics are not in their line. They fight when they must, and
the straightest shot wins. If hit, unless hopelessly out of control,
they take to the water like a wounded duck. If the damage is beyond
temporary repair they sit on the surface and pray for the dawn and a tow
from a friendly destroyer.
No aerial adventure is ever recounted (and the array of medal ribbons
round their mess table is witness to the quality of these blindfold
flights) without its humorous aspect well-nigh obliterating all else.
One who fought a Zeppelin single-handed with a Webley-Scott pistol and
imprecations found himself immortalised only in the pages of a magazine
of Puck-like humour they publish (Fate and funds permitting) monthly.
Another, disabled on the water off an enemy’s port, succeeded in getting
his engine going as the crew of an armed trawler were leaning over the
bows with boat-hooks to secure him. He rose from the water beneath their
outstretched hands, and recalled with breathless merriment nothing but
the astonishment on their Teutonic faces. A third, similarly disabled,
was approached on the surface by a German submarine. He raked her deck
with his Lewis gun and kept her at bay--by the simple expedient of
picking off every head that appeared above her conning-tower--until she
wearied of the sport and withdrew. From a seaplane point of view it was
a pretty jest.
At the conclusion of a day’s aerial fighting on the Somme front a
certain officer of the Navy-that-Flies was asked how he felt about it.
“Wa-al ...” he drawled, and paused, groping in his mind for metaphor.
“It’s jest like stealing candy from a kid.”
Making all allowances for poetic licence, this is a very fair
illustration of the spirit in which the Navy-that-Flies went about the
business. On the other hand there were a few who took a graver view of
their responsibilities.
Among the possessions of one of the naval squadrons co-operating with
the Army-that-Flies along the front is a foolscap manuscript notebook
bearing the superscription _Notes on Aerial Fighting_. The youthful
author of these notes will never handle either pen or “joy-stick” again,
but he has left behind him a document that is, in its way, one of the
epics of war literature. It has since been printed (in expurgated form),
and has doubtless found its way into textbooks and treatises on the
subject. But to be appreciated to the full it should be read in the
original round, rather boyish handwriting, within hearing of the
continuous murmur of the British guns and the drone of a scouting
fighter passing overhead.
It contains ten commandments, which, for a variety of reasons, need not
be recapitulated here. But the introduction epitomises the spirit of
them all:
“The man who gets most Huns in his lifetime is the man who observes
these commandments and fights with his head. The others either get
killed or get nerves in a very short time and the country does not get
the full benefit of having trained them.”
The commandments conclude with the following exhortation: “A very
pleasant (_sic_) help in time of trouble is to put yourself in the
enemy’s place and view the situation from his point of view. If you feel
frightened before an attack, _just think how frightened he must be_!”
The Navy-that-Floats possesses for its “pleasant help” an awesome volume
of some 946 pages (not counting Addenda), entitled _The King’s
Regulations and Admiralty Instructions_. Yet in all its pages there is
not one clause which can compare with this brave sentence: for this is
youth speaking to youth, for the guidance and comfort of his soul.
Now in one of the squadrons of the Navy-that-Flies there are three
flight leaders, and the sum total of their ages is fifty-nine. The
youngest, whatever his birth certificate may testify, looks something
under sixteen. Of him it is related that in his early youth, having
brought down a hostile machine within the British lines and captured the
two occupants (with Iron Crosses complete), he approached a certain
general, demanding transport for his prisoners--covering them the while
with an automatic pistol.
“Transport?” said the general. “Where d’you want to take them?”
“To my squadron headquarters,” was the grave reply. “I’d like to keep
’em for a bit. I’d like the others to see ’em.”
“Damn it,” replied the General, “they ain’t canaries. Certainly not.
Send ’em to the cages with the rest of the prisoners.”
The victor flew sorrowfully homewards, and on arrival gave it as his
opinion that professional jealousy was the ruination of the Junior
Service....
They are not given to talking over-much of their achievements in the
hearing of a stranger within their gates. The second youngest of the
trio admitted, contemplating his cow-hide boots, to have “done-in”
twelve hostile machines in single combat--and lapsed into agonised
silence.
“Of course,” said the third, coming to the rescue of a comrade in
palpable distress, “N., the star Frenchman, is the fellow to talk if you
want to hear some good yarns.” The speaker had the grave, sweet face of
a mediæval knight, and the owner of the cow-hide boots shot him a swift
glance of gratitude.
“_He’s_ done-in fifty Huns,” he confirmed, nodding.
It was on the following day, as it happened, that Fate introduced the
Frenchman to the Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies. The
flying man landed on one of the aerodromes of the Navy-that-Flies, a
florid-faced young man, chubby and blue-eyed. The squadron strolled out
to greet him with ready hospitality and hero-worship.
“_Bon jour_, N.,” said the squadron commander. “How goes it?”
The famous French fighting pilot swung himself out of his machine and
pulled off his gauntlet. He wore, in addition to the regulation flying
helmet, a bright-blue muffler wound with many turns round the lower part
of his face, and a soiled aquascutum with a row of medal-ribbons
reaching half-way across his breast. The wind fluttered its skirts,
disclosing a pair of tight red breeches above top-boots of a light
yellow. As an additional protection against the cold his feet were
encased in fur moccasins. He greeted the Navy-that-Flies in rapid French
and threw their ranks into some disorder.
“Translate, George,” said the squadron commander.
“He says he’s on sick leave,” explained one of the hosts. “He’s just
flying to keep his eye in. He scuppered five Boches last week.”
“_Si_,” said the Frenchman, nodding, and held up his hand with
outstretched fingers, “_Cinq!_”
“Good on you, old sport,” said the squadron commander. They shook hands
again, and the remainder clustered rather curiously round the sinister
machine with the black skull and cross-bones adorning its fusilage.
“Makes one sort of sorry for the Hun, doesn’t it?” said one musingly.
“George,” said another, “ask him what that doo-hickie on the muzzle of
his gun’s for.” He indicated a detail on the mounting.
The Frenchman explained at some length, and the interpreter
interpreted.
“_Bon!_” said the squadron commander.
“_Oui_,” said the Frenchman, “_tres bon!_ You ’ave not
eet--_cette_--_comment dites vous?_--doo-hickie? No?”
“No,” was the reply, “_mais nous_ blooming well _allons_----”
The Frenchman presently climbed back into his machine and took his
departure. The squadron commander summoned his chief armourer, and for a
while deep called to deep.
“He’s a red-hot lad, that Frenchman,” said the squadron commander, when
the chief armourer had gone. “I fancy he only came down to let us see
that doo-hickie of his on his gun. You ought to hear some of his yarns,
though.”
The Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies gazed after the
aerial speck against the blue of heaven, and his soul was glad within
him, because it was all the purest Navy.
“That’s all right,” he said. “But what I should like to know is, what
the deuce is a doo-hickie?”
“A doo-hickie?” replied the squadron commander. “A doo-hickie? H’m’m.
George, how would you describe a doo-hickie?”
The officer appealed to puffed his pipe in silence for a moment.
“Well,” he said at length, “you know more or less what a gadget’s like?”
“Yes.”
“And a gilguy?”
“Yes.”
“Well, a doo-hickie is something like that, only smaller as a rule.”
There was a silence. Then the squadron commander leaned forward and
flicked a speck of fluff off the shoulder of the Stranger within their
Gates.
“There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly--“_that’s_ a doo-hickie!”
“Have a drink, anyway,” said the officer who answered to the name of
George, soothingly.
The Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies had the drink, and
from then onwards forbore to ask any more questions.
But he still sometimes wonders what the functions of a doo-hickie might
be.