ely developed).

"Rather! Lost four of our chaps yesterday--'Archie' got 'em. Rotten
bad luck!"

"Are they--hurt?" I asked.

"Well, we know two are all right, and one we think is, but the
other--rather a pal of mine--"

"Do you often lose fellows?"

"Off and on--you see, we're a fighting squadron--must take a bit of
risk now and then--it's the game, y'know!"

He brought me where stood biplanes and monoplanes of all sizes and
designs, and paused beside a two-seater, gunned fore and aft, and
with ponderous, wide-flung wings.

"This," he explained, "is an old battle-plane, quite a veteran
too--jolly old bus in its way, but too slow; it's a 'pusher', you
see, and 'tractors' are all the go. We're having some over
to-day--tophole machines." Here ensued much technical discussion
between him and N. as to the relative merits of traction and
propulsion.

"Have you had many air duels?" I enquired at last, as we wandered on
through a maze of wheels and wings and propellers.

"Oh, yes, one or two," he admitted, "though nothing very much!" he
hastened to add. "Some of our chaps are pretty hot stuff, though.
There's B. now; B.'s got nine so far."

"An air fight must be rather terrible?" said I.

"Oh, I don't know!" he demurred. "Gets a bit lively sometimes. C.,
one of our chaps, had a near go coming home yesterday--attacked by
five Boche machines, well over their own territory, of course. They
swooped down on him out of a cloud. C. got one right away, but the
others got him--nearly. They shot his gear all to pieces and put his
bally gun out of commission--bullet clean through the tray. Rotten
bad luck! So, being at their mercy, C. pretended they'd got him--did
a turn-over and nose-dived through the clouds very nearly on two more
Boche machines that were waiting for him. So, thinking it was all up
with him, C. dived straight for the nearest, meaning to take a Boche
down with him, but Hans didn't think that was playing the game, and
promptly hooked it. The other fellow had been blazing away and was
getting a new drum fixed, when he saw C. was on his tail making
tremendous business with his useless gun, so Fritz immediately dived
away out of range, and C. got home with about fifty bullet holes in
his wings and his gun crocked, and--oh, here he is!"

Flight-Lieutenant C. appeared, rather younger than his Captain, a
long, slender youth, with serious brow and thoughtful eyes, whom I
forthwith questioned as diplomatically as