"Let's see--yes," said one or two. "We were talking about the joke of that couple to-day being so scared by a bit of fast driving on a clear road." "Right," said the other, and laughed. "Heaps of people out here know those two, and it's a standing joke that you can't hire them to sit on the front seat of a car or a tender or travel anything over fifteen miles an hour in anything on wheels." He waited a moment for some jests and chuckles to subside, and finished, grinning openly. "They are the two I told you about--Charger Wicks and Billy Bones!" There was dead silence for a minute. Then, "Good Lord!" said one of the quartette faintly, and "Wh--which was Charger?" faltered another. "In their flying kit we couldn't----" "The smallest--the one you called the pale-faced, nervy-looking little 'un," said "A" Flight Commander. "Help!" said the other weakly. "And I--I recommended him 'Sulphurine Pills for Shaken Nerves.' Oh, help!" "Yes," said the last of the demoralised quartette miserably, "and he thanked us, and said he'd write it down the minute he got back." There was another pause. Then, "Such a joke!" said someone, quoting from the opening chapter of the quartette's story--"_such_ a joke!" And the Mess broke in a yell of uproarious laughter. The quartette did not laugh. IV A GOOD DAY Half an hour before there was a hint of dawn in the sky the Flight was out with the machines lined up on the grass, the mechanics busy about them, the pilots giving preliminary tests and runs to their engines. There had been showers of rain during the night, welcome rain which had laid the dust on the roads and washed it off the hedges and trees--rain just sufficient to slake the thirst of the parched ground and grass, without bringing all the discomfort of mud and mire which as a rule comes instantly to mind when one speaks of "rain" at the Front. It was a summer dawn, fresh, and cool, and clean, with the raindrops still gemming the grass and leaves, a delicious scent of moist earth in the balmy air, a happy chorus of chirping, twittering birds everywhere, a "great," a "gorgeous," a "perfect" morning, as the pilots told each other. A beautiful Sabbath stillness, a gentle calm hung over the aerodrome until the machines were run out and the engines began to tune up. But even in their humming, thrumming, booming notes there was nothing harsh or discordant or greatly out of keeping with the air of peace and happiness. And neither, if one had not known what it was, would the long heavy rumble that beat down wind have wakened any but peaceful thoughts. It might have been the long lazy boom of the surf beating in on a sandy beach, the song of leaping waterfalls, the distant rumble of summer thunder ... except perhaps for the quicker drum-like roll that rose swelling every now and then through it, the sharper, yet dull and flat, thudding bumps and thumps that to any understanding ear marked the sound for what it was--the roar of the guns.