Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise. (Pocomoke City, Md.) 1921-1953, 1941-05-30
CHAPTER 4

n IOL SICW eAitu q
glass of stout did to David Hutchin-
son what they have done to many an
Raj. pilot-revived his sinking
spirits and made him feel that after
all the world was a fit place to live
in and, at the moment, rather on the
exciting side. He had all the resil-
iency of youth and good health, and
his nervous reactions were as normal
and perfect as his physical. 1t was
natural for him not to be respondent
for long. Captain Johnny Mccall
was dead, had died gloriously defend
ing his country like so many other
British pilots. All said and done, one
had to die sometime, and that was the
best possible way. He put Macs
memory away in little corner of his
heart reserved. for his fighting friends
who had bought it, which is the pilots
way of saying that they had died in
combat. He wondered, watching the
smoke from his cigarette curl up in
to the rude rafters of the hastily con-
structed mess hall, who would take
Macs place as squadron leader. Not
young Bruce, of course. He would
merely replace the pilot who would
be promoted. Perhaps it would be
Arthur Stafford, Or
Stafford himself came in and in
terrupted this train of thought.
Hello" he said, slapping Hutch on
the shoulder. "Hear you've done it
again. Stout fellow" He studiously
avoided any reference to Mccall, or
dered the mess boy to bring him food
and a bottle of ale, and continued to
chat about anything but flying. He
was typical of the pilots, about Da-
vid's age, clean cut, enthusiastic,
chatty, and enjoyed good joke, at
which he laughed heartily. Like the
others, death seemed to have no mean
ing for him; defeat and downhearted-
ness were words that were not in his
vocabulary. To most of his friends
he was known as Art, sometimes Ar
ty, and only Rusty Ransome, the red
headed practical joker from faroff
Australia, found another name. To
Rusty he was the stafford of Life.
Rusty left the crib game that was
a fixture in one end of the hall when
the squadron was on the ground, put
a swing record on the battered over
worked gramophone, and joined the
men at table. His genial manner
had won the friendship of his fellow
pilots, and not even his love for pun
ming and practical joking, which at
times were trying to say the least,
could shake this friendship. He had
just returned from a twenty-four
hour leave in London and was full
of news of the trip. Two girls he
met in dance hall had made deep
impression, and when asked if the
bombing was as bad as it was re-
ported to be, he said he hadn't no.
ticed, but that both the girls and the
swing band were wizard. He freely
offered the phone numbers of the
girls and the address of the dance
hall to any of his friends who might
be going up to town.
"Bottle of Asses Bale" he shouted
to the mess boy who knew that it
was just the Let'tenant's way of call
ing for Bass Ale. Then he settled
down to retell the story of his adven-
lures and conquests in London. "The
little blonde named Suzy was the bet
ter dancer, but Babette, she make re
beautiful eyes, and says she lauves
me veeeery much! So asked her
when we would be married, and"
The C. o. had work to do and ex-
cused himself. The story was not