stuck in the mud getting shelled tokingdom-come by someone you couldnât even see, was it, sir?â the sergeant persisted. âI mean, at least you blokes were out in the open. More of a duel, like.â The sergeant dropped a duster onto the linoleum and worked it with his foot, removing a couple of faint prints. He should really have left it for the defaulters to do, but he hated looking at smudged linoleum. âI read somewhere that your average RFC pilot lasted three weeks, sir,â he said. âThree weeks!â He shook his head.
âOh, I knew a chap who lasted two years,â Kellaway said. The sergeant smiled politely but Kellaway could tell that he was disappointed. âOn the other hand the new boys usually got knocked down pretty swiftly,â he added. A runner emerged from the fog. Kellaway opened the door and waved. âMy goodness, Bartonâs absolutely covered in mud â¦â He went out and counted the gasping runners as they finished their first lap and began their second; waited for a while; came in and shut the door. âTwo missing,â he said. âMaybe theyâve got cramp.â
âIâve seen that tree before,â said Cattermole.
Stickwell stopped, and looked at the twisted trunk climbing into the fog. âDonât be preposterous, Moggy,â he said coldly.
Cattermole went over and touched it. âDefinitely the same tree,â he called back. âIâd know it anywhere.â
âImpossible. Weâve never been in this field before. Youâre imagining things.â
âSame tree,â Cattermole insisted. âYou know what that means, donât you?â He walked back to Stickwell.
âI never trusted that bloody silly path in that sodding great wood,â Stickwell muttered savagely. âDamn thing went round and round like a drunken corkscrew.â
âTalk sense, Sticky. You canât have a drunken corkscrew, for Christâs sake. Itâs not possible.â
Stickwell glared. âAll right, then. All right. Since youâre the expert, you pick a route. Go on.â
Cattermole sighed, and looked unhappily at the wandering gray walls of damp and cold that blotted out all landmarks except the twisted trunk. âThereâs only one way out of this,â he said. âDead reckoning.â He tapped his wristwatch. âPoint the hour hand at thesun, bisect the angle between that and twelve oâclock, and youâve got true north.â
Stickwell wiped moisture from his face. âWhere did you learn that?â
âBoy Scouts. I was nearly a patrol leader.â
âNearly? What went wrong?â
âIâd rather not say, if you donât mind.â
âOh, oh, oh.â
âWhereâs the sun?â Cattermole asked, raising his wrist.
The fog had a slightly more luminous quality in one area. âOver there,â Stickwell said. He waved his arm through a wide arc.
Cattermole shuffled about until the hour hand was pointing in that general direction. âBisect the angle â¦â he muttered, and carefully pointed with his right hand over his left shoulder. âIf thatâs north, then the airfield must be â¦â He looked inquiringly.
âSouth,â Stickwell said confidently. âMain gateâs on the north side, isnât it?â
âJesus, Iâm cold,â Cattermole said.
They strode briskly into the fog. âWhatever happens we must stay on this bearing,â Stickwell said. Cattermole, trying to look at his watch and also avoid cowflaps, grunted.
Within a minute the ground underfoot began to be boggy. They plodded on. Stickwell lost a gym-shoe, sucked off by a particularly greedy bit of bog. They came to a ditch, waded through it, and climbed the bank to find a barbed-wire fence on top. Cattermole went over first and got his shorts hooked while straddling the wire. Stickwell tried to free him and dragged the