BILLY BARCROFT R.N.A.S.
CHAPTER I
"YOUR BIRD!"
Two Bells of the First Dog Watch somewhere in the North Sea.
To be a little more definite it was bordering that part of the North Sea that merges into the narrow Straits of Dover and almost within range of the German shore batteries of Zeebrugge.
It was mid-October. The equinoctial gales had not yet arrived to convert the placid surface of the sea into a regular turmoil of short, broken waves. Hardly a ripple ruffled the long gentle undulations. Not a cloud obscured the sky. The slanting rays of the sun played uninterruptedly upon the sloping deck of H.M. Seaplane Carrier "Hippodrome" as she forged slowly ahead, surrounded by an escort of long, lean destroyers.
Her day's work was apparently over. The operations against the Zeebrugge defences—operations of almost a daily occurrence—had been carried out according to orders. The observation "kite" balloon had been hauled down and stowed in the "Hippodrome's" after-well; her brood of seaplanes had, save one, returned from their task of "spotting" for the guns of the monitors, and everything had been made snug for the run back to her base. She awaited only the reappearance of the stray "duckling" to increase speed for home waters.
"Billy's getting properly strafed, I fancy," remarked Flight-Lieutenant John Fuller as the distant growl of innumerable "antis" reverberated in the still air. "Wonder what the deuce he's doing? When we swung about over Position 445 he was heading almost due east."
"Billy won't suffer from cold feet," rejoined his companion—"a regular glutton for work. Give him a chance for a stunt (bombing raid) and he's all there. For a mere youngster, I say, he's——"