The Airship: A Young Readers Classic By Percy F. Westerman! AAA+++
Excerpt:
Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal Air Force. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient is it to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save their own they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Force details of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit given to the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "get out," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with a highly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount as that given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the Hotel Cecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to the limbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quickly their gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of His Majesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the German menace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidity of the Profiteer.
They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such there was now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trick flying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a very small percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in the reconstituted Air Force.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They had pluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within a twelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners and sole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operating over the greater part of the South of England.
But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over those strenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the good times they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until they could afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind up badly."
Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came a telegram from Sir Reginald Fosterdyke, asking the chums to see him on the morrow.
Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, to employ service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation he went to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on high ground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left his country-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and his friends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezy Fosterdyke. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondence was brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then he meant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-end house parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset, was an additional source of attraction to Fosterdyke's guests. But the war, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests were to be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced, the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald's friends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy." They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-like existence. Fosterdyke knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by no means ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attaining its zenith.
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Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal Air Force. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient is it to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save their own they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Force details of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit given to the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "get out," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with a highly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount as that given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the Hotel Cecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to the limbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quickly their gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of His Majesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the German menace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidity of the Profiteer.
They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such there was now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trick flying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a very small percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in the reconstituted Air Force.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They had pluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within a twelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners and sole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operating over the greater part of the South of England.
But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over those strenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the good times they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until they could afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind up badly."
Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came a telegram from Sir Reginald Fosterdyke, asking the chums to see him on the morrow.
Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, to employ service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation he went to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on high ground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left his country-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and his friends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezy Fosterdyke. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondence was brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then he meant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-end house parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset, was an additional source of attraction to Fosterdyke's guests. But the war, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests were to be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced, the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald's friends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy." They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-like existence. Fosterdyke knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by no means ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attaining its zenith.
The Airship: A Young Readers Classic By Percy F. Westerman! AAA+++
Excerpt:
Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal Air Force. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient is it to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save their own they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Force details of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit given to the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "get out," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with a highly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount as that given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the Hotel Cecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to the limbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quickly their gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of His Majesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the German menace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidity of the Profiteer.
They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such there was now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trick flying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a very small percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in the reconstituted Air Force.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They had pluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within a twelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners and sole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operating over the greater part of the South of England.
But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over those strenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the good times they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until they could afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind up badly."
Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came a telegram from Sir Reginald Fosterdyke, asking the chums to see him on the morrow.
Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, to employ service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation he went to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on high ground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left his country-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and his friends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezy Fosterdyke. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondence was brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then he meant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-end house parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset, was an additional source of attraction to Fosterdyke's guests. But the war, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests were to be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced, the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald's friends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy." They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-like existence. Fosterdyke knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by no means ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attaining its zenith.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were both ex-flying officers of the Royal Air Force. What they did in the Great War now matters little. Sufficient is it to say that had they belonged to any belligerent nation save their own they would have been styled "aces"; but since in the Royal Air Force details of personal achievements were deprecated, and the credit given to the Force as a whole, they merely "carried on" until ordered to "get out," or, in other words, be demobilised. Then, each with a highly-prized decoration and a gratuity of precisely the same amount as that given to an officer who had never served anywhere save at the Hotel Cecil, they found themselves literally on their feet, relegated to the limbo of civilian life. It was not long before they found how quickly their gratuities diminished. Like many other ex-members of His Majesty's Forces, they began to realise that in smashing the German menace they had helped to raise a menace at home--the greed and cupidity of the Profiteer.
They were just two of thousands of skilled airmen for whom as such there was now no need. Commercial aviation had yet to be developed; trick flying and exhibition flights lead to nothing definite, and only a very small percentage of war-time airmen could be retained in the reconstituted Air Force.
Kenyon and Bramsdean were not men to "take it lying down." They had pluck and resource and a determination to "get a move on," and within a twelvemonth of their demobilisation they found themselves partners and sole proprietors of a fairly prosperous road transport concern operating over the greater part of the South of England.
But it wasn't the same thing as flying. Looking back over those strenuous years of active service, they remembered vividly the good times they had had, while the "sticky" times were mellowed until they could afford to laugh at those occasions when they "had the wind up badly."
Then, with a suddenness akin to the arrival of a "whizz-bang," came a telegram from Sir Reginald Fosterdyke, asking the chums to see him on the morrow.
Sir Reginald Fosterdyke had been Bramsdean's and Kenyon's O.C., or, to employ service phraseology, a Wing-Commander. On his demobilisation he went to live at Air Grange, a large old-world house standing on high ground, a good five miles from Blandford. Very rarely he left his country-house; his visits to town were few and far between, and his friends wondered at the reticence of the versatile and breezy Fosterdyke. He seldom wrote to anyone. When he did, his correspondence was brief and to the point. More frequently he telegraphed--and then he meant business. In pre-war days Air Grange was famous for its week-end house parties. The shooting, one of the best in the county of Dorset, was an additional source of attraction to Fosterdyke's guests. But the war, and afterwards, had changed all that. Few, very few, guests were to be found at Air Grange; the staff of servants was greatly reduced, the well-kept grounds developed a state of neglect. Sir Reginald's friends came to the conclusion that the baronet had become "mouldy." They wondered what possessed him to live an almost hermit-like existence. Fosterdyke knew their curiosity, but he merely shrugged his shoulders and "carried on." His work in the world of aviation was by no means ended. It might be said that it was yet a long way from attaining its zenith.
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The Airship: A Young Readers Classic By Percy F. Westerman! AAA+++
The Airship: A Young Readers Classic By Percy F. Westerman! AAA+++
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Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940015859867 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | BDP |
| Publication date: | 11/13/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 144 KB |
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