Wearing a dress suit I am seated on the steps of a church. On my knee is a Lewis gun. An old gentleman, very respectable in dark spats, a black tie, and shiny top-hat, looks down at me reproachfully.
"Very sad," he murmurs.
"Don't you think this trigger's a damned good idea?" I ask.
"Young man, this is an outrage. As you are not ashamed enough to leave the churchyard of your own accord, I shall have you turned out."
I laugh and proceed to pass some wire through the pistol-grip. The old man disappears, but he returns with three grave-diggers, who brandish their spades in terrifying manner. "Ha!" I think, "I must fly away." I fly my wings (did I tell you I had wings?) and rise above the church tower. Archie has evidently opened fire, for I hear a near-by wouff. I try to dodge, but it is too late. A shell fragment strikes my nose. Much to my surprise I find I can open my eyes. My nose is sore, one side of the tent waves gently, and a small apple reposes on my chest.
Having run into the open I discover that the disengaged members of C Flight are raiding our corner with the sour little apples of the orchard. We collect ammunition from a tree and drive off the attackers. A diversion is created by the return of the three photography machines. We troop across to meet them.
The next scene is the aerodrome once again. We sit in a group and censor letters. The countryside is quiet, the sun radiates cheerfulness, and the war seems very remote. But the mechanics of B Flight stand outside their sheds and look east. It is time the offensive patrol party were back.
"There they are," says a watcher. Three far-away specks grow larger and larger. As they draw near, we are able to recognise them as our buses, by the position of their struts and the distinctive drone of their engines.
Four machines crossed the lines on the expedition; where is the fourth? The crew of the other three do not know. They last saw the missing craft ten miles behind the Boche trenches, where it turned west after sending up a Very's light to signal the necessity of an immediate return. There were no Huns in sight, so the cause must have been engine trouble.
The shadows of the lost pilot and observer darken the first ten minutes at the dinner-table. However, since cheerfulness is beyond godliness, we will take this to be an anxious occasion with a happy ending. Comes a welcome message from the orderly officer, saying that the pilot has phoned. His reason for leaving the patrol was that his engine went dud. Later it petered out altogether, so that he was forced to glide down and land near a battery of our howitzers.