Making her distinctive signal, GV 7 circled around the landing-ground until the coast was clear, for there was much aerial activity in progress, machines rising and descending almost ceaselessly.
"All clear, sir!" reported one of the battleplane's crew, as a tri-coloured flare rose from the gathering shadows betwixt the hangars.
"Right-o!" rejoined Derek. "Down we go."
A succession of jerks announced that the battleplane had renewed acquaintance with the earth, although it was the first time as far as the soil of France was concerned.
Derek stood up in his "office" and pushed back his goggles. The scene that awaited him was very much like that of an aerodrome in England. There were mechanics hurrying towards him, while in a few moments a couple of flying-officers strolled up.
"New 'bus?" enquired one casually. "Just out? What's doing in town?"
Daventry did his best to reply to the widely-divergent questions, and dared to ask how things were going out there.
"Doing? Heaven only knows!" replied one of the two officers. "Apparently we're doing a sort of fox-trot backwards. 'T anyrate we've orders to pack up before morning. The Boche is, we understand, about twelve miles away, and during the last three days has been pushing on at three miles a day. Come along to the mess and see what's going."
The hut signified by the name of mess was the result of a poor attempt to turn an inadequate building into a dining- and living-room for hungry airmen. The furniture consisted of a few trestle-tables each covered with an army blanket of different shades. Long wooden stools contrasted with aggressive hardness with the dark browns and greys of the tables, while a solitary chair, resting insecurely on three legs, indicated the appointed place of the C.O. In one corner was a much-battered piano, a partly-reconstructed derelict from a now demolished château. The inevitable gramophone, which proclaimed in wheezy tones "The Parson's waiting for me and my Girl", occupied the top of the piano in partnership with a decrepit melodeon. The windows were heavily curtained with blankets, while the blue-washed walls were adorned with a vivid selection of Kirchner prints.
Curled up around the almost red-hot tortoise stove were some of the animals that are to be found in every well-ordered mess: three dogs and a large yellow-and-white cat, all serenely indifferent to a lively scrap between two lively young bloods who were settling an argument as to who should not pay for certain liquid refreshment. The rest of the mess were deriving exhilarating enjoyment from the friendly little bout, the din completely outvoicing the gramophone's announcement as to a certain padre's present occupation.