“Sergeant Jack Parmly will report to headquarters at eight o'clock for reconnaissance with a photographer, who will be detailed.”
Thus read the bulletin board, and Tom and Jack, looking at it, nodded to one another, while Tom remarked:
“Got our work cut out for us all right.”
“Yes,” agreed Jack. “Only I wish I could change places with you. I don't like those big, heavy machines.”
But orders are orders, nowhere more so than in the aviation squad, and soon the two lads, after a hearty if hasty breakfast, were ready for the day's work. They each realized that when the sun set they might either be dead, wounded or prisoners. It was a life full of eventualities.
A little later the two young airmen, in common with their comrades, were ready. Some were to do patrol work, like Tom—that is fly over and along the German lines in small swift, fighting planes, to attack a Hun machine, if any showed, and to give notice of any attack, either from the air or on the ground. The latter attacks the airmen would observe in progress and report to the commanders of infantry or batteries who could take steps to meet the attack, or even frustrate it.
Tom was assigned to a speedy Spad machine, one of great power and lightness into which he climbed. He was to fly alone, and on his machine was a machine gun of the Vickers type, which had to be aimed by directing, or pointing, the aeroplane itself at the enemy.
After Tom had given a hasty but careful look at his craft, and had assured himself of the accuracy of the report of his mechanician that it had oil and petrol, his starter took his place in front of the propeller.
“Well, Jack,” called Tom to his chum, across the field, where Jack was making his preparations for taking up a photographer in a big two-seated machine, “I wish you luck.”
“Same to you, old man. If you see anything of Harry, and he's alive, tell him we'll bring him back home as soon as we get a chance.”