Louis Deschamps had gone, with his mother, to France. Fat Benson
had been passed on to a more important job. His work had been so
thorough in the stores department that he was now being used as
an inspector, traveling over half a dozen states, visiting all sorts
of factories that were being broken-in gradually to turn out the
necessary aeroplane parts in ever-increasing quantities as the war
progressed.
Then came the day when the contingent into which the Brighton boys
had been drafted started, at last, for France. Final good-bys were
said, last parting tears were shed, the cheers and Academy yells
at the station died into the distance as the train pulled out, and
the six young airmen, proud in the security of full knowledge that
they were no novices, were truly "off for the front."
The days of embarkation, the dash across the Atlantic, and the landing
in France came in due sequence. They had expected some excitement
on the ocean voyage. The group of transports, of which their ship
was one, steamed warily eastward, convoyed by a flotilla of grim
destroyers, swift, businesslike, determined.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97