They sat for a moment in silence, thinking the same gloomy thoughts that were so staggering to all the people of the allied nations. "What if the squadron should be sent up?" Larkin asked at last. "Just where would we get off?" McGee shook his head. "Don't know, I'm sure. It's strange how we've received no word on our applications for repatriation. I guess we are stuck for the rest of the war. Instructors! Bah! I'm developing an itch for action." "So am I," Larkin agreed. "When we were first sent back from the front, I'll admit I was glad enough to come. I was fed up. But I'm fed up here now. And what can _we_ do about it?" "Well, for one thing I can go to bed," McGee replied yawning. "To-morrow is another day." He began unwinding one of his wrapped puttees. "Ever notice how much longer these blasted things are when you are sleepy?" he asked. Just as he had finished with one, and had rolled it into a neat ball, a motor cycle came popping into the yard. Buzz looked at Red inquiringly. "Wonder what that is?" he asked. The downstairs front door opened; heavy hobnail shoes sounded on the stairs. "Dunno," McGee answered, looking at the puttee roll in his hand. "But I'll wager it's something that will force me to put this thing on again. I never got an order from headquarters in my life when I hadn't just finished taking off my putts." A heavy knock on the door. "Come in." An orderly entered, saluted smartly, and handed McGee a folded paper. "A note from Major Cowan, sir. He said there would be no answer." "Very well. Thank you, Rawlins. For a moment I thought it might be orders for the front." "No chance, sir. We're the goats of the air service. The war will be over before we get a chance. I say they'd as well kept us at home where we could get real food and sleep in real beds instead of these blasted hay mows us enlisted men sleep in." "Right you are, Rawlins. I'll speak to the Commanding General about it to-morrow. In the meantime, carry on, Rawlins." "Yes, sir." A smart salute, a stiff about face, and he was gone. They could hear him grumbling as he went down the stairs. McGee looked at the folded paper. On it, in Cowan's hand, was written; To Lieutenants McGee and Larkin. "What is it?" Larkin asked, impatiently. McGee unfolded the sheet. Scrawled across it were these electrifying words: "Just finished talking over the phone to Wing. They inform me that orders have been received approving your application for repatriation. The order will come down in the morning. Congratulations. Cowan." Red slapped Larkin on the back with sufficient force to start him coughing and then began tousling his hair. "There, you old killjoy!" he was shouting. "Now stop your worrying. What do you think of that?" Larkin began a clownish Highland fling that eloquently spoke his thoughts. At last he came to rest, snapped his heels together, saluted smartly and said: "Lieutenant Red McGee, U.S.A., I believe. How do you like that--you little shrimp?"