“He came back in a few minutes with word that the coast was clear. I was taken into the white kitchen and introduced to the Belgian peasant and his wife and their son. He was about Kiwi’s size and regarded me shyly. They talked together for a long while, in what I took to be Flemish, apparently trying to decide how best to conceal me. The peasant and his wife seemed apprehensive, and the spy informed me that they were fearful that at any moment the Germans might come to search the house.
“A peasant outfit such as the farmer wore was given me. I discarded my uniform and field boots and slipped my feet into heavy wooden shoes such as they wore.
“Another consultation took place and a decision was finally reached. My precious uniform was to be destroyed! And as I sat sadly before the fireplace, my boots, breeches, tunic—one after the other—went up in flames. For only two days had I swanked about in them—and now they were gone.
“Realizing that I could speak nothing but English, which was entirely unsuited to my present rôle, they pondered a long time on how to overcome this difficulty. The spy, who must have been quick-witted or he never could have succeeded at his profession, solved it by painting the lower half of my face with iodine and binding it up with dirty cloths. He explained to me that if the house should be searched and I should be questioned, I was to indicate to the Germans that I had had an accident to my jaw and was unable to speak.
“There were several narrow escapes for me during the weeks that followed.
“The spy left just before dawn with the comforting word that he would be back for me in a few days’ time and conduct me through the lines.
“The days dragged into weeks, the weeks into months, and still I stayed on in this little farmhouse and watched our fellows flying overhead, ceaselessly bombing an innocent patch of woods which they probably thought contained an ammunition dump.
“Eventually I got through the lines and back home and was able to set them right about that harmless strip of woods. But you can easily understand why I feel so strongly about engines failing, even on the ground.”
The whole crowd laughed at the mournful face of the young fellow who had just told the story. He looked as though he were living over again the loss of his precious new uniform.
During this recital Kiwi had been stretched out on his back gazing up at the cloud-flecked, blue sky above him. A pilot in a very old type of plane had been doing the most spectacular flying just over his head during the whole story. He was dressed in ordinary clothes, had no helmet, but flew with a peak-cap worn backwards. Diving vertically, he pulled out just over their heads, grinning at them as he did so. Then he climbed straight up until he was a tiny speck in the blue and repeated his hair-raising dive.