Page 28 of Clive Cussler The Iron Storm
“I thought by now you’d be using some of the new synthetic oils to lubricate your motors.”
“Too expensive, we’re told,” Crabbe answered. “War Ministry says castor works just fine.”
“It’s one of the reasons for the silk scarves,” another of the veteran pilots said. “Helps us filter out the worst of the raw fumes.”
“Let’s not fool ourselves, gentlemen,” Bigalow said. “Since the laundress can’t look any of us in the eye, we all know we breathe in plenty of castor fumes.”
“On the bright side,” one of the younger men ventured, “it’s cleared up my acne in no time.”
“I do love a diapered optimist,” another drawled.
“Evening, gentlemen,” a uniformed pilot called as he came into the room. Unlike the others, his clothes looked clean and recently pressed. He was wiry, with a thin mustache and an easy air about him.
“Thistledown,” they called as one. Someone added, “I thought your leave doesn’t end until tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t, but alas I spent my last sou and was asked to leavemon petit hotel. I’m now denied a final night in the embrace of a lovely coquette.”
“Wait, you were playing lawn games?”
Someone handed Thistledown a glass. He said after a quick sip, “That’s croquet, you philistine. I said coquette.”
“I thought he was talking about hugging a ham sandwich,” another pilot shot out.
“No, that’s not right,” said a third. “You’re thinking of a croque monsieur.”
“I thought he was fondling some swamp monster.”
Thistledown replied, “That’s a crocodile, and I’ve lugged my fair share in the form of matched luggage from Globe-Trotter.” He spotted Bell. “Who’s this, then, a new uncle?”
“An American observer,” Crabbe told his second-in-command. “Isaac Bell, this miscreant is Reginald Thistledown, a middling pilot and lousy wit. Reg, can you take him up tomorrow in the Bristol after dawn patrol?”
“Sorry, bwana. My leave isn’t officially over until noon, and I plan on sleeping until eleven fifty-nine.”
Crabbe looked him up and down in a theatrical exaggerated manner. “You do look a bit piqued, old man.”
“Oh, I peaked every single night of my leave.” He chuckled at his own double entendre. “Besides, Whiddle is more qualified to fly the Bristol.”
“God, that man is an insufferable prig.”
“Also true. So that makes him a qualified insufferable prig.”
“I’ll tell him in the morning,” Crabbe said.
“Problem?” Bell asked.
“No,” Crabbe replied. “Lieutenant Whiddle is a flight instructor sent out with the Bristol to train pilots on its characteristics and the best tactics the Flying Corps has devised for her. He tends to think he knows more about combat flying than we do, even though he hasn’t been on the front line in two years.”
Bell nodded. “I’ve met the type before. In my line of work it’s usually retired cops who work as bodyguards to rich nobodies and act like they still have the backing of an entire police department.”
“That’s our man, exactly,” Crabbe said. “A sense of unearned superiority.”
The pianist finally packed it in for the night and the pilots left the room in ones and twos, each reluctant to sleep for fear of their dreams. Bell remained behind with Crabbe and his friend Thistledown and accepted a second short whiskey.
“I don’t know how you do it,” Bell said, giving voice to that which should never be discussed.
“We do it,” Crabbe said without looking at him, “because we have to.”
Thistledown added, “And because if we don’t, some other poor sod would be here in our place.”
