He got the first shock when he arrived at the 'drome about 8.30 a.m. and found his brother still comfortably asleep. While his brother got up and dressed he explained that, the Division being out on rest near by, he had taken a chance of the long-standing invitation to come and spend a day or two with the Squadron; and while he talked his eyes kept wandering round the comfortable hut—the bookcase, the framed pictures on the walls, the table and easy-chair, the rugs on the floor, all the little touches of comfort—luxury, he called them to himself—about the place.
"You're pretty snugly fixed up here, aren't you, Tom?" he burst out at last.
"So, so!" said Tom, pouring a big jug of hot water into the wash-basin—hot water, thought Jack Smith, not only for shaving, but to wash in. "Being Flight Commander, I have a shack to myself, y'see. Most of the pilots share huts. We'll fix a bed here for you to sleep. Hullo, quarter-past nine! I must hurry—won't be any breakfast left. You had brek?"
"Two hours ago," said his brother. "We don't lie in bed till afternoon, like you chaps."
Tom laughed. "Not my turn for dawn patrol," he said; "I'll be on to-morrow. My Flight's due to go up at noon to-day." And he went on outlining the methods of their work.
In the Mess they found half a dozen other pilots finishing breakfast. "My brother Jack—going to spend a day or two with us"—was introduced, and in ten minutes found himself pleasantly at home amongst the others. He began to forget he was at the Front at all, and the attentive waiter at his elbow helped heighten the illusion. "Tea or coffee sir?... Porridge, sir?"
Jack had porridge, and fresh milk with it and his tea. Fresh milk—and he'd nearly forgotten milk came from anything but a tin! Then he had a kipper—not out of a tin, either—and bacon and eggs and toast and marmalade. It was his second breakfast, but he did it full justice.
After breakfast he went out with Tom to the hangars, and had a look over the machines and pottered round generally until after eleven. Then Tom went off to get ready for patrol, and handed him over to "Jerry," one of the pilots. Jack spent a fascinating hour watching the patrol start, and then being taken round by Jerry, who was bubbling over with eagerness to show and explain and tell him everything.
Then they had lunch, and again Jack was led to forgetfulness that he was at the Front. Sitting there with a dozen happy, laughing, chatting companions at a table spread with a spotless cloth, with a variety of food and drinks to choose from, with no sound of guns or any other echo of war in his ears except the occasional hum of a plane overhead—and that was pleasant and musical rather than warlike—he felt and said he might as well be in a long-established Mess in barracks at home.
After lunch he sat in the ante-room with the others round the big, open fireplace and smoked a cigarette and skimmed the plentiful weeklies until Tom's Flight was about due in. Jerry picked him up again and took him out and showed him the Flight when they were pin-points in the sky, and explained the process of landing as they came in.