"We shan't see much to-day," he opined, "low visibility—plafond only about a thousand!" Which cryptic sentence, by dint of pertinacious questioning, I found to mean that the clouds were about a thousand feet from earth and that it was misty. "Plafond," by the way, is aeronautic for cloud-strata. Thus I stood with my gaze lifted heavenward until the Intelligence Officer joined us with a youthful flight-captain, who, having shaken hands, looked up also and stroked a small and very young moustache. And presently he spoke as nearly as I remember on this wise:—
"About twelve hundred! Rather rotten weather for our business—expecting some new machines over, too."
"Has your squadron been out lately?" I enquired, (I have the gift of inquiry largely developed).
"Rather! Lost four of our chaps yesterday—'Archie' got 'em. Rotten bad luck!"
"Are they—hurt?" I asked.
"Well, we know two are all right, and one we think is, but the other—rather a pal of mine—"
"Do you often lose fellows?"
"Off and on—you see, we're a fighting squadron—must take a bit of risk now and then—it's the game y'know!"
He brought me where stood biplanes and monoplanes of all sizes and designs, and paused beside a two-seater, gunned fore and aft, and with ponderous wide-flung wings.
"This," he explained, "is an old battle-plane, quite a veteran too—jolly old 'bus in its way, but too slow, it's a 'pusher,' you see, and 'tractors' are all the go. We're having some over to-day—top-hole machines." Here ensued much technical discussion between him and N. as to the relative merits of traction and propulsion.