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.