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through them. That’s what I used to do.”
    They hooted their derision. Flight Lieutenant Kellaway had flown in the Royal Flying Corps; he was now forty-two; they treated him like an ancient. Stickwell said: “And my advice to you, adj—”
    â€œYes, yes, I’m sure. Off you go, then. Have a good time. The Ram will be along to see you finish.”
    Grumbling loudly, they trotted away and joined the road that ran alongside the aerodrome. The talking soon stopped. Kingsmere was a big field, at least three miles around.
    After about fifty yards, Stickwell jogged alongside Cattermole. He jerked his head toward the rear. Gradually they dropped back. Stickwell slowed to a walk and let the others disappear into the gloom. “What’s up?” Cattermole asked.
    â€œI’ve had a better idea, Moggy. Let’s double back and hang around at the other side of the main gate until those twerps turn up. Then we can just tack on the end again.”
    â€œThe adj is there. He’ll see us go by.”
    â€œNot if we cut across the fields. Come on.”
    They crossed the road and looked for a gap in the hedge. There was none.
    â€œThere’s bound to be a lane turning off this road somewhere near,” Stickwell said.
    They walked for a quarter of a mile before they found the lane. It was deeply rutted and very muddy. “I don’t fancy that,” Cattermole said. “It’s knee-deep in dung.”
    â€œIt’s heading in the right direction, though. Come on, Moggy. I expect it links up with a decent road further on.”
    â€œYes, but look at all that manure.”
    Stickwell looked at it. “All right. What’s your suggestion?”
    Cattermole frowned. After a moment Stickwell set off up the lane. Cattermole watched him and, without enthusiasm, followed. Trapped between high hedges, the fog seemed, if anything, thicker and colder.
    â€œShit!” Cattermole said. He stood on one leg and looked at the other foot. “Come
on,
Moggy,” Stickwell called, “or we’ll be late.” Cattermole put his foot down and squelched after him. The lane angled sharply to the left. After fifty yards it was crossed by another and even more primitive lane. Stickwell paused briefly, and then turned right. Cattermole followed. Both his feet were soaking wet, and having wet feet was a condition that Cattermole had disliked intensely, ever since childhood.
    â€œOne thing’s certain, sir,” said the sergeant of police, “it won’t be a bit like last time.”
    â€œMmm.” Kellaway didn’t want to talk about the last time, but he was drinking the guardroom’s tea and eating the guardroom’s biscuits so he had to be polite. “Ah well,” he said.
    â€œI mean, I can’t see us going through all that business with trenches and stuff, can you, sir?”
    â€œHope not, sergeant.”
    The sergeant broke a biscuit in half, considered dunking it, glanced at the adjutant, and thought better. “You were in the last lot, weren’t you, sir?”
    â€œYes.” Kellaway walked to the window. The fog drifted past like wet smoke.
    â€œStill, I don’t suppose it was all bad, was it, sir?” The sergeant dunked while he had the chance. “From what I hear there used to be quite a bit of what-you-might-call chivalry when you and Jerry had a scrap.”
    â€œChivalry?” Kellaway gave it some thought. After a while he saw his own reflection in the window and blinked with surprise. He didn’t think he looked forty-two. He thought he looked a rather rumpled twenty-one. “Oh, in the beginning I suppose … Of course I wasn’t there then, but for the first year or two I don’t think either side took flying all that seriously. Later on, when it mattered and things got somewhat desperate, I can’t honestly remember much in the way of chivalry.”
    â€œBut it wasn’t like being