That line of official chatter did not help the sergeant at all.
“I’ve heard it before,” he told his rigging crews. “Doing my bit! Bit be damned! The effect of my first patriotic drunk has worn off. What I want to do is fly and I’m going to!”
The sergeant did learn to fly; but he “stole” the flying time, begged all the dual control instruction he could mooch and waxed mighty handy on rudder bar and stick. And he learned quickly. You see, like many other mechanics, he really knew how to fly before he ever had a ship in his hands. Once in the air he merely had to gain the feel of the thing. And he got it too. He made a takeoff on the third hop, landed on his fifth.
His job was on a pursuit field—all single seater planes. The ship on which he had learned—a Nieuport 23—was a two place visitor. He was all set to fly alone. Then, that same day, they took the 23 away. The sergeant saw red, and spoke in the same color.
“Cheated again!” he said. “I’m going into town, get all drunked up and take an M.P. apart! Wait and see!”
You can not get the sergeant’s point of view unless you have loved air and wanted to fly. But if you had loved air and wanted to fly, you would have gone to town with him and helped take a flock of M.P’s apart.
Unofficially grabbing flying time wherever and whenever he could get any, the sergeant lived in hopeless hope, if such a thing exists. But our war lasted only a day; and once gone it was gone forever. The sergeant’s field did not go directly out of business, with the coming of the Armistice, but his interest in things did. For him it was the end of everything—and nothing.
Then, with the idea of training more pilots for future wars, headquarters sent the sergeant’s squadron on to an Avro, two place, training field. The sergeant’s interest came back. He stole lots of time, loved Avros and added acrobatics to his straight flying. The war after the war was treating him better.
New made flying cadets came to that field. Lord! Where did they get such dubs? The sergeant wondered. From every orderly room at the center was the answer. It was a dog robbers’ holiday.