“Huh? Oh, they always do that when some bird gets bumped,” answered the tall man. “You’re in Section 13, same as me. We go to rotary motors in the morning, and then machine gun.”
“What do you mean, rotary motors?” inquired Tommy.
“Oh, they’ve got one of these Le Rhone motors like they have in the Nieuports mounted on a block over at the hangars, and some goof gives a lecture about it, and then we practise twiddling the little levers—‘manettes’, they call ’em—that make it go. We’ve had it four or five times already. They always give it to us when they can’t think of anything else for us to do.”
“But I’ve flown hundreds of miles with rotary motors,” Tommy exclaimed. “I made all my _voyages_ and my altitude test for my brevet with them.”
“Never mind that,” returned Long John. “You’ll probably have all the more lectures about ’em on that account.”
They returned to the barrack, and Tommy started to unpack his things. From his bed roll he produced a pair of rubber boots, made in such a close imitation of regulation officers’ boots that it took a close inspection to see that they weren’t the real article.
“What a trick for roll call mornings,” exclaimed Fat, looking at them enviously. “You know we have roll call at six o’clock, and then we have to wait until seven for breakfast. Most of the fellows just put on boots and overcoats to stand the call, and then come back to bed again. You can pull those things on in a minute and get by with them.”
“A good idea,” proclaimed Tommy, and went to bed with that idea in mind. He was going to dig out his heavy underwear that night, but decided that it was too cold, and that he would do it in the morning.
Meanwhile there was another conference going on at headquarters. Major Krause, the commanding officer of the field, a red faced, apoplectic man, whose military heroes were Frederick the Great and Baron von Steuben, was roaring at the adjutant, his “yes man”.