Of course I must have a pass, which was a duplicate in mimeograph with my name as passenger in place of "machine gunner;" or, to put it another way, I was one joy-rider who must be officially delivered from an aerodrome in England to an aerodrome in France. Youth laughed when I took that view. Had I ever flown before? Oh, yes, a fact that put the situation still more at ease.
"What kind of a 'bus would you like?" asked the master pilot. "We have all kinds going over to-day. Take your choice."
I went out into the field to choose my steed and decided upon a big "pusher," where both aviator and passenger sit forward with the propeller and the roar of the motor behind them. She had been flown down across England from the factory the day before and, tried out, was ready for the channel passage.
"You'll take her over," said the master pilot to one of the group waiting their turn.
Then it occurred to somebody that another official detail had been overlooked, and I had to give my name and address and next of kin to complete formalities which should impress novices, while youth looked on smilingly at forty-three which was wise if not reckless. They put me in an aviator's rig with the addition of a life-belt in case we should get a ducking in the channel and I climbed up into my position for the long run, a roomy place in the semi-circular bow of the beast which was ordinarily occupied by a machine gun and gunner.
"She's a good old 'bus, very steady. You'll like her," said one of the group of youngsters looking on.
There were no straps, these being quite unnecessary, but also there was no seat.
"What is à la mode?" I asked.
"Stand up if you like!"
"Or sit on the edge and let your feet hang over!"