Then came Derek's "Medical Board". He rather welcomed the examination, fully convinced that he would be granted sick leave, and then be ordered to rejoin his squadron. The result was almost equivalent to a knock-out blow between the eyes.
The medicos had no fault to find with the young pilot's arm, but they persisted in harping upon subjects apparently irrelevant to the case, until Derek began to wonder what on earth they were trying to discover.
He found out soon afterwards. His medical history sheet was endorsed "Unfit for flying". Absolutely unaware of the fact, his strenuous flights on the Western Front had resulted in an insidious nervous attack. Although he felt perfectly fit for aerial work, the doctors knew better. Henceforth he was no longer free to soar aloft; the exhilaration of handling the joy-stick of a 'bus was no longer his.
"Won't I be able to fly again?" he asked one of the doctors.
"Possibly you may get another pair of wings some day," replied the R.A.M.C. officer grimly.
"Then I suppose I'm booked for the infantry," continued Derek. "Anyway, that's better than nothing. I want to have a look-in at the finish."
"Not in your present category, my young fire-eater!" replied the doctor. "Aren't there any ground jobs going in the R.A.F.: equipment officer, for example?"
Derek was not enthusiastic. Like Gallio, he cared for none of these things.
"What you want," continued the doctor, "is a job afloat. Nothing like it for fellows off colour after a crash. Do you know anything about the sea?"
"I've knocked about in small yachts," replied Derek. "Nothing in the deep-sea line, unfortunately."