And, more than that, these men at the station were not waiting for danger to come to them.  Day after day they were engaged in the most perilous business of the war.

At this station some of the queer anomalies of a volunteer army were to be found.  So strongly ingrained in the heart of the British youth of good family is the love of country, that when he is unable to get his commission he goes in any capacity.  I heard of a little chap, too small for the regular service, who has gone to the front as a cook!  His uncle sits in the House of Lords.  And here, at this naval air station, there were young noncommissioned officers who were Honourables, and who were trying their best to live it down.  One such youth was in charge of the great van that is the repair shop for the airship.  Others were in charge of the wireless station.  One met them everywhere, clear-eyed young Englishmen ready and willing to do anything, no matter what, and proving every moment of their busy day the essential democracy of the English people.

As we went into the administration building that afternoon two things happened:  The observers in the water tower reported a German aeroplane coming toward the station, and a young lieutenant, who had gone to the front in a borrowed machine, reported that he had broken the wind shield of the machine.  There are plenty of German aeroplanes at that British airship station, but few wind shields.  The aeroplane was ignored, but the wind shield was loudly and acrimoniously discussed.

The day was cold and had turned grey and lowering.  It was pleasant after our tour of the station to go into the long living room and sit by the fire.  But the fire smoked.  One after another those dauntless British officers attacked it, charged with poker, almost with bayonet, and retired defeated.  So they closed it up finally with a curious curved fire screen and let it alone.  It was ten minutes after I began looking at the fire screen before I recognised it for what it was—­the hood from an automobile!

Along one side of the wall was a piano.  It had been brought back from a ruined house at the front.  It was rather a poor piano and no one had any music, but some of the officers played a little by ear.  The top of the piano was held up by a bandage!  It was a piano of German make, and the nameplate had been wrenched off!

A long table filled the centre of the room.  One end formed the press censorship bureau, for it was part of the province of the station to censor and stamp letters going out.  The other end was the dining table.  Over the fireplace on the mantel was a baby’s shoe, a little brown shoe picked up on the street of a town that was being destroyed.

Beside it lay an odd little parachute of canvas with a weighted letter-carrier beneath.  One of the officers saw me examining it and presented it to me, as it was worn and past service.

“Now and then,” he explained, “it is impossible to use the wireless, for one reason or another.  In that case a message can be dropped by means of the parachute.”