"Something wrong here, Daventry," remarked the Adjutant, tossing over a slip of paper on which a pay-room sergeant had written down certain particulars. "George Townley, born 1899, at Itching Abbess--sounds like the head of a nunnery plagued with vermin, eh, what?" "I'll have the man in and see what it means," suggested Derek. He opened the door. Just outside was the Sergeant engaged in questioning the new arrivals, One was an ex-R.N. able-seaman who had re-engaged for transfer to the R.A.F. "Three good-conduct stripes, eh?" exclaimed the N.C.O. disdainfully. His acquaintance with conduct stripes was rather a distressful one, he having been disrated twice before he turned over a new leaf. "My opinion of a three-good-conduct-badges man is one who keeps the Commander, Master-at-Arms, and the Mainmast all in a straight line--savvy?" Catching sight of Derek the Sergeant pulled himself up. He was one of those men who, unfortunately, do exist in all three services--sarcastically overbearing to those under him, and fawningly civil to those in authority. "What's this, Sergeant?" asked Derek, holding out the paper. "There seems to be some mistake about this man's birthplace." "No, sir," replied the N.C.O. with conviction. "I looked the words up in the dictionary to make sure. 'Taint the first man I've come across who can't spell." "Where's the man?" asked the Lieutenant. "Here, sir!" "Well," began Derek, addressing the airman, "there seems to be some slight doubt concerning the place in which you were born. What is it?" A suspicion of a smile flitted across the man's face. "Itchen Abbass, sir; a village near Winchester," he replied. "I tried to explain to the Sergeant, but he would have his own way." For the next month or so Sableridge Training Depot was passing through a dark period of its history. Like other army and air establishments it was suffering from the blight of demobilization. Those officers and men who knew that they might be returned to civil life any day didn't trouble in the slightest about duty. Their one idea was to pack up and clear out as quickly as possible. Discipline was lax; vague rumours of the closing down of the station were in the air. On parade the numbers steadily, nay, rapidly, dwindled, until the four "flights" were reduced to a tenth of their former strength. In the harbour expensive motor-boats were rotting and rusting at their moorings for want of hands to man them and keep them in a state of efficiency. All this was a disconcerting outlook for men of Derek's type. The departing units exercised an undesirable influence on those who were staying on, while, what was worse, they gave a cue to the new recruits. "We're sending you to the doctor this morning, old son," announced the Adjutant to Derek. "All officers applying for permanent commissions are to be medically examined before noon."