The journey from St Omer to Savy was about half as long as his pleasure trip to Vert Galand had been. After a detour south to St Pol, the Rue Nationale had taken him towards Arras and, halfway there, the little village of Savy. Captain Stanley's narrow nosed Prince Henry made the trip in an hour and a half.
The aerodrome was to the north west of the village proper. Stanley's route took him past the tiny railway station and into another of the areas many sunken lanes. The chalk and earth banks obscuring any view of what lay in the fields beyond.
Soon the car emerged in a field where a row of hangars stood with their backs to a small wood that separated them from the railway line. Tents and huts cluttered a smaller field to Stanley's right. The sound of Schubert's Unfinished Symphony was coming from one of the huts. Stanley was surprised to see that this was the sergeants' mess.

In the main squadron office, the new arrival found an earnest looking man with a major's uniform and a widow's peak.
“Smith-Barry's the name,” Stanley's new CO shook his hand after exchanging salutes. “How much experience have you got on Nieuports?”
“None really sir, I have taken one for a spin at St Omer. I have previously been flying DH2s and before that Quirks, sir. One hundred and twenty hours or so since going solo.”
Smith-Barry walked around his desk and examined a report.
“Your hours are a welcome relief, Captain. As are five confirmed victories. Shows you know what you are doing.” He looked up at Stanley. “Your lack of experience on Nieuports is a concern. They are lovely to fly when you know how to handle them, but liable to lose a wing and crash if you don't. I want you to take up a machine a few times so that I can see how you fly.”
“But before that,” Smith-Barry continued, “head to the Mairie in the village. That is where most of the officers are.”

Savy was a scattered collection of houses that loosely followed the medieval road to Arras. Here and there a few houses lined the road, turkeys making wobbling noises in the gardens and farmyards. At a crossroads that served as the village centre, a large sugar refinery sat incongruously opposite an old, tall-spired church. Adjoining the church, the Mayor's House stood on the crossroads itself. On the roadside walls, only a few small and high windows broke the sheer white walls.

As Stanley climbed a short flight of steps to enter the yard, he discovered that the south side was completely different. The almost defensive looking stonework gave way to a farmhouse style courtyard with many large windows. From this direction it was an inviting home. From the other side, it was a foreboding fortress.
One of the offices downstairs, Stanley found the Officers' mess. Here a cheerful Canadian was trying to persuade two English officers to play poker.

“Oh no!” One of the Englishmen laughed, “not again Irving. My pocket is still sore from last time.”
“Come on Grenfell!” Bell-Irving urged. “Its better than sitting here watching Gilchrist wax his moustache. Well hello,” he said as Stanley entered the room. “Good to see a new face. You don't happen to play poker do you?”

Stanley looked at Lt Irving's honest face and smiled reassuringly.
“I am unfamiliar with the game. I am sure that you can teach me.”
“I'm sure I can. I'm lieutenant Bell-Irving, by the way,” Irving held out a hand. “And these are Grenfell, and Gilchrist.”
“Stanley. A pleasure,” William shook hands. “I need to get my gear stowed. Does anyone know where my room is?”
Gilchrist nodded and pulled himself from his armchair. “We have to share, I'm afraid. It's us flight commanders together. Follow me, I'll show you.”