well that the roar of the engine and the hum
of the propeller compelled the use of speaking-tube communication, for
when a man uses bad language he isn't cool enough to pour his sentiments
through a pipe. But we were coming down, gliding down on a long angle,
with the engine giving a spasmodic kick. Down, down towards a light fog
that the breeze had brought down from the north-west; down, down till we
could see below us trench lines that were not our own! Then the engine
stopped!

Nap looked out, turned to me and pulled a face. Putting his mouth to the
tube he shouted "Lean over and wave your hand like...."

Several grey-coated soldiers were now running over to a bare patch to
which we seemed to be sliding. I waved frantically--the soldiers
hesitated to fire and waved back again! Down, down, with Nap working
like a fiend at the engine! Down, down to within a few hundred feet of
the ground, when something happened. The engine, after a splutter, set
off at its usual rattle, the propeller caught up its momentum and
descent was checked.

Nap leaned over and joined in the waving demonstration and, knowing that
an attempt to rise abruptly would give away the fact that we were trying
to escape, he kept at a low level, flying over waving Germans, past a
long line of German troops breakfasting behind the trenches; then back
again to try and convince them that we were of their own, then circling
around till we reached a safe height above the thickening fog, our
aching arms stopped waving. We headed for home, and repaid the kindness
of our German friends by having their position shelled for the rest of
the day.

"That was a tight fix," Nap ventured, as I gave him a tribute from the
Squadron Commander--one of the most coveted of prizes of the campaign--a
cigar!

"Yes, that waving stunt was a bit of spice," he said.

"But what beats me," I replied, "is why they didn't fire on us, as we
carried our distinguishing mark."

"That's easy," said Nap, sucking his cigar, "they've got some of their
own 'planes carrying our mark and guessed we were one of them. But as
the song says: 'We're all here, so we're alright.' Some of these days
I'm going to invent an apparatus that can change signs--press a button
and the Germans' black cross will cover our mark, and so on--and then
we'll fly where we like."

"It's unfair to fly an enemy's flag, you know, Nap," I ventured.

"How?" he queried. "That's where the Allies, particularly you
hyp