And instantly, the men in the guard tent turned out in time to salute the Commanding Officer of the Squadron, who came by with Dastral, the pilot, and Fisker, the observer.
Simultaneously, the air mechanics sprang to attention, as they stood about the hornet. Then, after a couple of minutes spent in chatting with the adventurers, who were about to sail forth on the wings of the morning, the O.C. and the pilot flung away their cigarettes and gave a few apparently casual glances over the framework by the aid of the hand-lamps.
"Better load up with a few twenty pound bombs, Dastral," laughed the O.C. "You may have the chance of using one going over seas. You never know your luck."
"Yes, sir," replied the youth.
A moment later the pilot and observer were seated in the biplane, snugly wrapped in their thick leather coats, their hands encased in huge gauntlets, and their helmets tightly drawn about their ears, ready for the morning adventure.
Dastral gave a final glance around, his hand already on the controls, then gave a nod to the chief of the ground staff.
"Swing the propellor!" came next, followed by "Stand clear!"
"Whiz-z-z!" went the huge blades, and, as the pilot switched on the current, the engines--powerful 100 horse-power ones, capable of some 1400 or 1500 revolutions a minute--broke into their wonderful song, and with a final word of parting from the Squadron Commander, the machine taxied off rapidly over the level turf.
"Burr-r-r-r!"
The air seemed full of a mighty sound, and a terrible vibration filled the heavens. It was the song of the aeroplane.