Armistice night was, to quote the general consensus of opinion, a topping rag. Earlier in the evening all the men who could be spared were taken into the town by "liberty-boats", otherwise three large motor-lorries. Shortly afterwards the officers followed, every available motor-vehicle on the station being pressed into service. Derek and Kaye, together with seven other kindred spirits, crowded into and upon a car normally constructed to hold five, including the driver, two officers riding on the footboard, while another perched himself upon the bonnet.
Fifty yards behind came another similarly-laden car, followed by a third, and possibly it was solely tolerance on the part of the local police that every officer of the depot was not summoned to appear before the Bench for exceeding the speed limit.
Upon approaching the limits of the town the speedy cortège reduced its pace considerably. Through crowds of wildly-excited people the cars threaded their way. No one yet knew the terms of the Armistice. They were perfectly convinced in their own minds that the war was virtually over and that the Allies were top dog. It was an occasion for jollification, and the opportunity was seized.
"Some crowd, eh, what?" remarked Kaye.
"Rather," agreed Derek. "But what strikes me most is the display of street lamps. After years of almost total darkness at night one can hardly recognize the town in its blaze of light. Hallo! here we are."
The cars came to a standstill outside the theatre. Into the first two rows of the stalls trooped the Royal Air Force contingent, determined to have, at all costs, a topping rag. It was a dull play, but the audience amply atoned for its shortcomings. The members of the orchestra were invited to partake of bitter lemons, to the discomfiture of the wind-instrumentalists; the principal actors were presented with huge bouquets of cabbages and carrots; the manager was bombarded with requests for a speech, and was unmercifully ragged when he responded to the vociferous invitation. The pièce de résistance was the appearance upon the stage of His Worship the Mayor, who did his level best to deliver a patriotic harangue, at the conclusion of which he was solemnly presented with a titanic replica of a gorgeous jewel (tinselled cardboard) purporting to be the O.B.E.
Then, at the conclusion of the impromptu performance, the R.A.F. contingent filed out into the crowded street, to make their way to an hotel to enjoy a sumptuous supper in the unwonted setting of a brilliantly-lighted room with uncurtained windows. It was merely one way of bidding defiance to D.O.R.A., but it was symbolical of the beginning of a new regime.
During the ensuing week there was very little serious work done at the depot. It was a period of rejoicing, to which was added the disquieting consideration that sooner or later demobilization would bring its disturbing influence to bear upon efficiency. Followed a series of congratulatory calls between the officers of the various naval and military establishments in the district.
One of these was a visit to the Coastal Airship establishment at Downbury. Why the motor-cars on the return journey took a wrong turning and did not arrive at Sableridge till two o'clock in the morning was never satisfactorily explained, but upon returning the Adjutant discovered that he had left behind his favourite stick, fashioned from the blade of an air-propeller, with a top turned from the fuse-cap of a Boche shell that, fortunately for the present owner, had failed to explode.
Enquiries on the telephone next morning elicited the information that the stick was left in the mess at Downbury, and would be sent during the day.