Grabbing half a dozen missiles, Derek ran upstairs; Kaye, out of loyalty, joined him, and Dennis threw in his lot with the weaker side. Ensued a battle royal. From the first-floor landing bundles of tightly-rolled bunting came flying down with tremendous force, while the attackers of the ground-floor retaliated with similar missiles, until the air was stiff with a hurtling galaxy of signal-flags. For a time it seemed as if weight of "metal" and superior numbers would prevail. Already the attackers were half-way up the stairs, dauntlessly facing an overhead fusillade, when the youthful Adjutant was seized with a "toppin' brainy idea". Grasping one of the filled fire-buckets, he balanced it on the balustrade, then, awaiting his opportunity, poured the cold contents upon the heads of his opponents. Kaye and Derek, fired by Dennis's example, followed suit, and the attack melted away. "Gosh!" exclaimed Dennis, "won't little Wells be in a horrible tear when he finds his precious signal-flags used like this?" It was indeed a scene of chaos. Partly unfolded the flags lay everywhere. Pools of water lay in the hall, while a considerable quantity had made its way down into the basement to the discomfiture of the batmen. "It's merely a change in the day's occupation," declared Kaye. "Blame Daventry; he must have a safety-valve to let off superfluous energy after having tried his level best to provide the fishes with roast meat for Christmas." "Who's turning in?" asked Derek, stifling a yawn. "It's ten o'clock, and I've been at it since six this morning." Before anyone could reply there came from outside the officers' quarters a voice singing the words of a well-known carol. "What's this stunt?" asked Dennis. "The sergeants," replied the Orderly Officer. "They've come to serenade us, I believe. It'll mean a bottle of whisky against the mess." "Invite them in," suggested another. The suggestion was acted upon, but little did the mess know what it was in for when it invited the roystering serenaders into its fold. Very solemnly the sergeants filed in--eleven N.C.Os., of whom every man save one had been in the Royal Navy before transferring into the Royal Air Force. Headed by a sergeant with a side-drum, and followed by two with fifes, the motley-arrayed crush took up semi-circular formation at one end of the ante-room, the Sergeant-Major acting as master of the ceremonies. In half an hour their repertoire of carols was exhausted, so they "switched on" to the old-time sea-chanties. Followed an interval for refreshments and speechmaking, to which Derek, in his capacity of Deputy Mess-President, had to reply. "It's about time they piped down," thought Derek, glancing at his wristlet-watch. But no! "Would the officers like to hear Sergeant Butler sing 'The Long-Lost Cabin-Boy'?" asked the Sergeant-Major.