Dinner over, payment was promptly demanded—another difference compared with the way they ran things at Sableridge, where any strange officer who happens to blow into the mess is given hospitality and never charged for his entertainment.
"I've secured a room for you in the new building, sir," announced the steward. "There'll be a car ready to take you up in twenty minutes."
Derek spent the time in revisiting his men. They were none too happy, although making the best of things. There were abundant evidences that Wagshot was what is known as a "Mouldy Station", but worse was to follow.
Up rattled the car; Derek took his seat, and off the ramshackle vehicle went. It may have been owing to the state of the road, but the jolting of the car was worse than any he had experienced in France. Over narrow-gauge railway lines, sometimes grinding on shingle, at others sinking in sand and mud, the car held on its way. The road was narrow, with the sea on either side, for Wagshot Air Station is built on a natural peninsula of which the isthmus is long, narrow, and rugged. The shore was littered with the skeletons of burned sea-planes and flying-boats, the gaunt framework of which stood out clearly against the misty sky.
Presently the car gained the mainland, swung round several sharp corners, and pulled up outside the quarters known as the New Buildings.
An orderly conducted Derek to his temporary quarters, which were well termed "New", for they were still in the builders' hands. After traversing several hundred yards of corridors that looked like those of a prison, with dozens of doors exactly alike, his guide stopped, produced a key, and threw open the portal of the "cabin".
It was a small room lighted by a feeble electric lamp. Walls and floor were of concrete that literally ran with moisture. There was neither carpet nor rug on the floor, while the furniture was of a most Spartan character, comprising two beds—one already occupied by a soundly-sleeping officer—a trestle table, and a chair.
"Hope you'll be comfortable, sir," remarked the batman ironically. He had seen strange officers "blow in" many times before, but he could not resist the temptation to indulge in mild plaisanterie. "Lights are turned off at ten-thirty," he added, with infinite relish; "and if you shut the door on the outside you can't get in unless you come to me for a key, sir."
Left to the sole companionship of the soundly-snoring officer, Derek prepared to turn in. Investigations showed that the bed had a wire mattress, a straw pillow, and two army blankets. The pillow showed signs of disintegration; the blankets felt damp and smelt musty. Daventry felt inclined to use strong language. On active service on the Western Front he would have borne the discomfort with equanimity; in a permanent home-station there was no excuse for the wretched accommodation.
Kicking off his sea-boots and tunic Derek turned in practically "all standing", to pass a fitful night, and to awake to find a white mist enveloping everything.