"Is that so, Jock?" asked the major, looking at the Scotch laddie, who had scarcely finished his course at Glasgow University when the war called him from his studies.
"Oh, yes, sir, I'd give all I possess to go overseas with Dastral." And the youth's eyes shone with joy at the very possibility of the event coming off, for he had feared that they were now to be separated.
"Very well. Don't expect too much, but possess your souls in patience for another fortnight or so. Goodbye!"
"Good-bye, sir!" and once more after the customary salute, the youths went their way, wondering how soon they would be in France, within sound of the guns.
For the next fortnight they were busy every day at the aerodrome, trying new machines, testing, carrying out imaginary reconnaissances over the German lines, bombing raids, studying war maps and plans, night flying and a score of other things that would prove useful when they found themselves in France.
One morning, about two weeks later, a telegram was delivered to Dastral at his rooms. It came from the War Office, and ran as follows:--
"Second Lieutenant Dastral and his observer to proceed overseas forthwith, on one of the new fighting 'planes, and to report his arrival at -- Squadron, British Expeditionary Force, France."
After the customary interview with the C.O., it was arranged that early next morning the two aviators were to make their first attempt at flying the Channel.