"On parade!"

The cry, taken up by a score of youthful voices, echoed and re-echoed along the concrete-paved corridors of the Averleigh T.D.S.—such being the official designation of the Training and Disciplinary School—one of those mushroom-growth establishments that bid fair to blossom into permanent instruction schools under the aegis of the juvenile but virile Royal Air Force.

Ensued a wild scramble. The morning mail had arrived but five minutes before the momentous summons. Some of the cadets had seized upon their share of letters, and had retired, like puppies with dainty tit-bits, to the more secluded parts of the building, in which little privacy is obtainable. Others, with scant regard for their surroundings, were perusing their communications when the order that meant the commencement of another day\'s work brought them back to earth once more.

"Where\'s my cap?—Who\'s pinched my stick?—George, old son, what did you do with those gloves of mine you had last night?—Now, then, my brave, bold Blue Hungarian bandsman, get a move on."

The wearer of the latest pattern of the R.A.F. blue uniform raised his hands deprecatingly. One of a few similarly attired amid a swarm of khaki-clad flight-cadets, he was beginning to feel sorry for himself for having been up-to-date, and vindictive towards the Powers that Be who had given instructions for him to appear thus attired.

"Chuck it!" he exclaimed. "Not my fault, really. If this is the R.A.F. idea of a sensible and serviceable get-up, I\'m sorry for the R.A.F."

"It\'ll come in handy when you sign on as a cinema chucker-out après la guerre, George," chimed in another, as he deftly adjusted his cap and made sure that his brightly-gilded buttons were fulfilling those important functions ordained by the Air Ministry Regulations and Service Outfitters. He shot a rapid glance through the window, for the long corridor was now ejecting the crowd of cadets in a continuous stream of khaki, mingled with blue.

"Buck up, George!" continued the last speaker, addressing a slightly-built youth who, red in the face, was bending over his up-raised right knee. "What\'s wrong now?"

The individual addressed as George—and in the R.A.F. it is a safe thing to address a man as George in default of giving him his correct name—explained hurriedly and vehemently, directing his remarks with the utmost impartiality both to his would-be benefactor and to a refractory roll of cloth that showed a decided tendency to refuse to coil neatly round his leg.

"These rotten puttees, Derek!" explained the victim. "I\'ve had a proper puttee mornin\'—have really. Got up twenty minutes before réveillé, too. Razor blunt as hoop-iron; hot water was stone cold; three fellows in the bath-room before me; an\' some silly josser\'s pinched my socks. Not that that matters much though," he added, brightening up at the idea of having outwitted a practical joker. "I\'m not wearing any. Then, to cap the whole caboodle, I lost a button off my tunic in the scrum at the mess-room door."

Derek Daventry, one of a batch of newly-entered flight-cadets at Averleigh, was a tall, lightly-built fellow of eighteen and a few months. Dark-featured, his complexion tanned by constant exposure to sun and rain during his preliminary cadet training, supple of limb and brimful of mental and physical alertness, he was but one of many of a new type—a type evolved since the fateful 4th day of August, 1914—the aerial warriors of Britain.

The second son of a naval officer, Derek had expressed a wish to enter the Royal Air Force, or, rather, the Royal Naval Air Force as it then was, from the moment when it became apparent that the schoolboy of to-day must be a member of one of the branches of His Majesty\'s Service to-morrow. Captain Daventry, R.N., D.S.O., and a dozen other letters after his name, was equally keen upon getting Derek into the navy by the post-entry of midshipmen process, thus making good an opportunity that had been denied the lad at an age when he was eligible for Osborne.

"It\'s not only now," declared Captain Daventry. "One has to consider what is to be done after the war."

"Time enough for that, Pater," rejoined Derek. "The end of the \'duration\' seems a long way off yet."

"Possibly," said his father. "On the other hand it may be much sooner than most people imagine. Of course I know that there are thousands of youngsters similarly situated to yourself, but the hard fact remains that the war must end sooner or later."

"But the R.F.C. and the R.N.A.S. must carry on," persisted Derek. "Flying\'s come to stay, you know."

"Quite so," admitted the naval man; "but unfortunately that doesn\'t apply to flying-men. The life of an airman, I am given to understand, is but a matter of three or four years, apart from casualties directly attributable to the war. The nervous temperament of the individual cannot withstand the strain that flying entails."

"You\'re going by the experience of pioneers in aviation, Pater," replied his son. "After the war, flying will be as safe as motoring. When I\'m your age I may be driving an aerial \'bus between London and New York. In any case I don\'t suppose the Air Board will turn a fellow down when his flying days are over. They\'ll be able to make use of him."

"You are optimistic, Derek."

"Yes, Pater," admitted the flying aspirant, "I am. It\'s a new thing, and there are endless possibilities. I only wish I were six months older. It\'s a long time to wait."

Captain Daventry still hesitated. An experienced and thoroughly up-to-date naval officer, he understood his own profession from top to bottom. The navy, notwithstanding rapid and recent developments, was a long-established firm. There was, in his opinion, something substantial in a battleship, in spite of U-boats and mines. But the wear and tear of an airman, the fragile nature of his craft, and above all the uncertain moods of the aerial vault made flying, in his estimation, a short-lived and highly-dangerous profession, albeit men look to it with all the zest of amateurs following a new form of pastime.

"Hang it all, Pater!" continued Derek, warming to his subject; "the Boche has to be knocked out in the air as well as on the sea. Someone\'s got to do it; so why can\'t I have a hand in the game?"

"I\'m not thinking of the war, but after," replied his father. "Since you\'re keen on it, carry on, and good luck. The after-the-war problem must wait, I suppose."

And so it happened that in due course Derek Daventry presented himself for an interview at the Reception Depot of the newly-constituted Air Ministry. That ordeal successfully passed, and having satisfied the Medical Board, after a strenuous examination, that he was thoroughly sound in mind and body, the lad found himself an R.A.F. cadet at a large training-centre on the south coast.

Here his experience was varied and extensive. In a brief and transitory stage, the mere soldiering part of which he tackled easily, thanks to his school cadet training, he was initiated into the mysteries of the theory of flight, the air-cooled rotary engines, wireless telegraphy, aerial photography, and a score of subjects indispensable to the science of war in the air. Then, punctuated by regular medical examinations—for in no branch of the service is the precept mens sana in corpore sano held in higher esteem—came additional courses in the arts of destructive self-defence: machine-guns, their construction, use, and defects; bombs of all sizes and varieties; aerial nets, their use and how to avoid them; the composition of poison-gas and "flaming onions"; how to avoid anti-aircraft fire; and a dozen other problems that have arisen out of the ashes of the broken pledges of the modern Hun.

The days are past when the ranks of the old flying-corps were filled by and rapidly depleted of hundreds of hastily-trained pilots—specimens of the youth and manhood of the empire who were passed through the schools in desperate haste and pitted against the scientific but undoubtedly physically-inferior German flyers. Now the R.A.F. trains its "quirks" deliberately and methodically. While on the one hand there is no dallying, there is on the other no injudicious haste, and before a cadet takes his wings he must thoroughly master the intricacies of a \'plane while the huge monster lies pinned to the earth. In due course, provided the most critical of instructors are satisfied, the budding flying-man develops into a flight-cadet and finally emerges, trained and provided with the best machines that money and brains are capable of producing, to help to gain the mastery of the air.

Derek Daventry had now entered into the flight-cadet stage, and on the morning following his arrival at Averleigh T.D.S. he found himself entering upon a new and highly-interesting phase of his career—the actual experience of flight.

"I\'ll give you a hand," he said, addressing the youth with the refractory puttee. "We\'ll lash the job up somehow. After all there\'s a medical inspection after parade, so the jolly old thing\'ll have to come off again. The main business is to fall in before the parade starts."

With Derek\'s assistance Flight-Cadet John Kaye contrived to encase his leg in the long strip of khaki cloth. True, there were projecting folds and creases that might cause sarcastic comment from his flight-inspecting officer, but the fact remained that his attendance on parade was an accomplished fact.

The cadets and airmen had fallen in in their respective "Flights"—R.A.F. equivalent to platoon—when the bell gave out its four double clangs, for at Averleigh they kept ship\'s time, possibly as a sop to the naval element absorbed from the old R.N.A.S. The Sergeant-Major, having satisfied himself as to the dressing and alignment, advanced to within a few paces of the Adjutant, the latter a youth who was within a few months of attaining his twenty-first birthday, and on whom weighed the responsibility of a thousand odd men. Round-faced and boyish in appearance, he already sported three metal bars upon his sleeve—the only outward and visible signs of three wounds received in action with the Huns in Flanders and on the Somme.

The Sergeant-Major saluted. The soft south-westerly breeze carried away the sound of his voice from the stiffly-motionless ranks. The salute was returned, then—

"Parade—stand at—ease! Fall in the officers!"

Derek, standing by the side of his chum Kaye in the front rank of No. 4 Flight, was conscious of the approach of his Flight-Commander. Along the face of the Flight the Captain passed, swiftly "overhauling" the appearance of every cadet. Yet, somehow, Kaye\'s delinquency in the matter of the absent tunic button was passed unrebuked.

"Rear rank, one pace step back—march!"

Cadet Kaye breathed freely once more. The ordeal, as far as the front rank men were concerned, was over.

But before the inspection was completed came an unexpected diversion. It was all the fault of Gripper, the Major\'s bull-terrier and mascot-in-chief to the Averleigh T.D.S. If Gripper hadn\'t forgotten time and place, and hadn\'t taken it into his head to chase the mess-room cat across the parade-ground, the inspection would doubtless have gone on without a hitch. But the bull-terrier was off, nearly capsizing the Colonel, while in his wake a heavy cloud of dust rose sullenly in the air. Gripper had no intention of hurting Satan—the huge black cat. It was merely an effort on his part to pass the time of day with his feline chum; but unfortunately Peter, the large sheep-dog, and Shampoo, the Skye terrier, had misgivings on the score, or perhaps they felt that they were being left out in the cold by Gripper\'s sudden disappearance from the parade. They, too, joined in the chase.

Evidently Satan regarded three tormentors as being beyond the limit. Climbing upon the balustrade of the verandah in front of the officers\' mess the cat eyed the three excitedly-leaping dogs for nearly a quarter of a minute. Then, before the animals realized what it was about, Satan gave the bull-terrier a smart scratch on the tip of his nose just as Gripper reached the zenith of a prodigious leap. Then, following upon the initial success, the feline sprang fairly and squarely upon Peter\'s woolly back, administered a cuff with a taloned claw, and immediately directed his attention to the luckless Shampoo.

The Skye, finding himself pursued by the namesake of the Prince of Darkness, bolted precipitately towards the ranks of No. 4 Flight; while Gripper and Peter, having first shown an inclination to chastise each other for being the cause of their discomfiture, started in pursuit of Satan.

So far, officers, cadets, and men had thoroughly enjoyed the diversion, but when the terror-stricken Skye ran yelping between the lines, and Satan, finding himself exposed to a rear attack, promptly leapt upon the shoulders of a cadet-sergeant, No. 4 Flight began to grow unsteady on parade. To make matters worse Gripper and Peter, dividing their attention between the cat and themselves, were scrapping and yelping around the men\'s feet. Later on many of the cadets faced Hun "anti" and machine-gun fire with equanimity, but the knowledge that only a few folds of puttees intervened between their calves and two jaws armed with particularly aggressive teeth was too much for their newly-instilled habits of discipline.

For quite a minute pandemonium reigned in the shattered ranks of No. 4 Flight, until the Colonel, in stentorian tones, suggested that it was time that the performance drew to a close.

It was not until Gripper had been enmeshed in the folds of a leather flying-coat, and Peter deftly capsized by a sergeant who seized him by his legs, that things began to assume a normal aspect. Satan\'s claws were disengaged from the cap of the cadet who had formed his pillar of refuge, while Shampoo was curtly bidden to clear out; and once more No. 4 Flight formed up and "right dressed".

"Parade—\'shun!"

Accompanied by the characteristic clicking of hundreds of heels, the parade stood rigid while the C.O. received and acknowledged the Adjutant\'s salute. Then—

"Parade—stand at ease; caps off!"

Every head was bared as the Colonel began to read the short form of Divine Service. Simultaneously the "church pennant"—another concession to the naval side of the R.A.F.—was hoisted to the yard-arm of the flagstaff.

"... we pray Thee to give thy Fatherly protection to us and to our Allies on land, on the sea, and in the air."

The drone of a biplane two thousand feet overhead served as a fitting accompaniment to the invocation. It reminded the budding airmen that ere long they, too, would fall within this category of suppliants for Divine protection. Soon they would be tasting of the joys and perils of flying; of life, perhaps of death, in that domain that was every day becoming more and more under the sway of man.

"Parade—caps on! March off!"

The morning ceremonial was over.

"No. 4 Flight: move to the right in fours. Form fours—right! Left wheel—quick march!"

It was not until the cadets were marched to a remote corner of the vast parade-ground and ordered to stand easy that Daventry turned to his chum.

"You got through that all right, old man," he observed. "The Captain didn\'t spot your missing button."

"Didn\'t he, by Jove?" replied Kaye, a broad smile overspreading his features. "He did—but he couldn\'t say a word. He\'d a button missing himself. What\'s the move now?"

"Medical inspection, and then our first flight," replied Derek.