Chapter IV: Part 4

Taking the hammer, he began examining the floor of the lower cabin on which he stood. The covering was, he discovered, composed of fiber. To rip it up was but the work of minutes. And there—he uttered a sharp exclamation of joy,—there, countersunk in the solid steel keel of this unsailing craft, was a heavy steel nut. “Thought so,” he murmured.

He had reasoned that, since this float did not move it must be anchored by a cable or chain. The cable or chain must be fastened by a ring-headed bolt with a nut inside the float. And so it was.

Now to remove the nut and let the float go free. He blessed his stars that from early childhood he had monkeyed with tools. A large nut, he had discovered years ago, can be turned off simply by hammering at the corners, thus turning it around little by little, a slow, tedious process, but sure of success in the end.

For more than an hour, the empty world of sea and air might have heard the patient tap—tap—tap of a hammer on steel.

Now and then he paused to listen. Only the ever-rising song of the wind—welcome sound—greeted his ears.

Once he consulted the compass, then climbed to the upper deck to face the wind. After that he resumed his tapping with increased speed.

At last, as a sigh escaped his lips, the nut slid to one side. At the same instant a wave larger than all the rest tilted the float half on its side. There came the grating sound of the threaded bolt slipping from its place. Then a thin fountain of water spurted up.

“Hurray! Free! We win!” he exulted.

“Not bad,” he murmured as, after stopping the hole with a towel, he wrapped himself in a blanket and stretched out for a rest.

This did not last long. He was in no mood for inaction. The battle among the clouds had set his blood racing. His imagination was fairly running riot. The storm was picking up, but not half fast enough. What if the Nazis caught up with him here? They had provided the place with all manner of comfort but no weapons. Perhaps, after all, this float had been intended as a trap.

There was a short-wave radio in the corner. After a brief inspection he discovered that it was both for sending and receiving. Twice his hand was on a dial. Twice, as his fingers trembled, he removed it. He did long to get in touch with headquarters. By this time the remnant of their flight would be back. They would be wondering, dreading, hoping. He could put these uncertainties to rest at least as far as he was concerned. A few well-chosen words would assure them that he was safe and that it was taps for the beloved Johnny.

His heart ached as he recalled his one brief glimpse of the fiddler’s smashed plane before it sank forever beneath black waters. He had seen no sign of life. Yes, the fiddler was gone. God rest his soul.

“But that Wick!” he asked himself. “What about him?”

Yes, he thought he could get that radio going and tell the boys at headquarters about things. But what would the Heinies be doing all that time? Checking his location, beyond a doubt. Sending out a fast little craft to pick him up. Oh, no! Not yet. Some things were best left alone.

After a time he made himself a cup of hot chocolate, then drank it, at the same time munching biscuits and chocolate bar. Very thoughtful of those Nazis to spend so much time and thought on his comfort.

There was even a checker-board and a deck of cards. He played himself a game of checkers, then switched to solitaire. This lasted a long time.

When darkness at last settled down upon the sea, he climbed to the upper deck. Clinging to a rail he watched the waves roll in. Seldom had he witnessed a wilder scene. Racing clouds, racing sea and a moon that appeared to race with them.

Once again he checked the direction of the wind. Yes, unless he had miscalculated, he should land at last on the English coast. When? He had no way of knowing. One thing was sure, if this storm kept up he’d know well enough when he did arrive. One good bump would tell him that.

In the meantime? Well, tomorrow would be another day. He’d be needing all his senses. Might as well sleep while sleeping was good. After fastening his strange craft down good and snug for the night he rolled up in a half dozen heavy blankets and fell asleep.

_Chapter_ XIX
Thrilling Sky Drama

That night watchers on the rooftops of London, those hardy men who all night long, with bags of sand at their side, scan the skies for bombing planes, witnessed a moving picture against the sky that they would not soon forget.

A few minutes after the alarm had sounded, just as Big Ben rang out the hour of nine, the thunder of powerful motors was heard.

At this instant, far above them in the sky, there appeared a light that was like the bursting of the sun. A flare beyond a doubt, but such a flare as had never before been seen. Every housetop, turret and tower stood out in bold relief. Beneath the flare, but far up in that sky, like a gigantic silver bird, a four-motored Nazi bomber appeared to hang motionless.

As the watchers stared speechless something very like a silver bat appeared to drop straight down from the sky.

“It’s a Spitfire,” muttered one hardy watcher.

“An’ it’s suicide,” exclaimed his mate.

As the silver bat curved down toward the bomber it let out a sound as of the ripping up of every sidewalk in London.

At this every watcher threw himself flat on his face, for from above came such a roar as had never been heard before, no, not even in London.

A moment more and fragments of metal came showering down far and wide.

The flare above was still burning. One watcher, braver than the rest, scanned the sky. What he saw was a pair of balloons belonging to a balloon barrage, a trap set for enemy planes. Between the balloons ran cables that in this strange light shone like threads of silver. The thing that caught and held the watcher’s eye was a silver spot clinging to those cables.

“That will be the Spitfire,” he said to his mate who now was sitting up. “The blast from that exploded bomber blew him there. I told you it was suicide. I said—

“And now may the Saints be praised!” His voice rose as he turned his eyes. Some distance below that silver spot a ghost-like circle had appeared.

“A parachute!” the watcher exclaimed. “And may the Nazis be confounded! That pilot of the Spitfire is still alive.”

“You’re quite right, Tim, me boy,” the other agreed. “What’s more, if I judge the movement of air rightly, he’ll be landin’ just about here.”

The roof on which the men stood was broad and flat. As the two men watched, the parachute and the dark spot hanging beneath it, which appeared to be the pilot, grew in size. Carried first to the right, then to the left, as if directed by the very breath of the Gods, it came ever closer to that broad rooftop on which the watchers stood.

“Sure he’s alive,” Tim murmured. “I saw his arm move.”

“He—he’s almost down now,” muttered his companion. “There now, he—” Breaking short off the speaker dashed for the far side of the roof.

Just as the daring aviator’s feet touched the roof a sudden, violent gust of wind caught his parachute and sent it skyward. Lifting him off his feet, it carried him forward at a rapid rate. Then, as if to complete its work of destruction, over empty space the parachute collapsed.

The parachutist found himself balanced on the parapet, leaning back with all his might, but apparently doomed to crash to the earth a hundred feet below. Then, of a sudden, a voice said:

“Here, young man, where y’ think y’re goin’?”

A pair of husky arms were wrapped about him and he was dragged to safety. His savior was Tim’s powerful companion.

“Why, you’re little more than a boy!” The big man exclaimed after peering into the rescued one’s face.

“I’m more than that,” the youth replied huskily. “If I were to tell you who I really am you might be a little surprised. But I’m not telling.”

“Whoever you are,” said Tim with a wave of his strong arms, “you’re a darling of the gods. What you done tonight no other man could do an’ live.”

“What’s more,” Tim’s partner added, “you’ve saved the life of many a woman an’ child. There was two tons of bombs in that big ship an’ she was ’angin’ over blocks an’ blocks of tenements. It was early. The first alarm had ’ardly sounded. They don’t get to the subway that quick, the women an’ the children, they don’t.”

The young flyer was pulling at his chute. It caught and tore. “Here,” he exclaimed impatiently, handing the strings to the big guard, “take this home to your Missus. There’s some fine silk in it. And now how do you get down from this place?”

“It’s right over ’ere,” said the astonished Tim as he led the way to a trap door. “You just go down that stairway. There’s a door at the bottom. You’ll find stairways leadin’ to the ground floor an’ the back outside door’s got a spring lock. Spring it an’ you’re outside.

“An’ ’ere’s wishin’ ye luck,” the big man added. “’Ow about shakin’ your hand?” Two hands met in a hearty grip. “’Ere’s ’opin’ we meets again,” said the watcher.

Five minutes later the mysterious flyer reached the good earth once again to lose himself at once in the avenues of darkness that are London in the blackout.

_Chapter_ XX
Dave Comes Marching Home

Next morning Brand, whose time schedule for the day included only a short practice flight in the afternoon, asked permission to cycle over to the Hideout in time for breakfast. Still terribly upset by the losses of yesterday he wished to be among his own people.

While breakfast was preparing he told of the sad misadventures resulting from their first patrol flight.

“Bad business,” he murmured at the end. “The Fiddler gone, Dave gone, soon our flight will be at an end.

“But we’ll fight!” His voice picked up. “We’ll fight to the last man.”

For a time after that all were silent. Then Cherry asked, “Brand, did you hear the late news broadcast last night?”

“No. What was up?”

“The strangest thing happened. It sounds like a miracle. A bright flare, brightest ever seen, hung over a bomber ready to help destroy London, when a single Spitfire plunging down, down, down, loosed a burst of fire at the bomber. Then came a terrible explosion in midair.” “Got him!” Brand’s eyes shone. “But the Spitfire?”

“He was blown against a balloon cable. He baled out. He landed on a roof. Then he vanished. Who does that sound like?”

“Like Fiddlin’ Johnny,” Brand whispered. “But the Fiddler is dead and so is—”

He did not finish for at that moment the door opened. Cherry, who stood facing the door, let out a hoarse whispering cry, then barely missed throwing herself in the new-comer’s arms.

“Careful, Cherry,” said a calm voice. “I’ve had a lot of trouble and a heap of luck these last hours. I couldn’t stand much more.” It was Dave.

“Dave! Are you really alive?” It was Alice who asked this remarkable question.

“Why—yes. I—I think so.” Dave looked from one to the other across the room. “At least that’s the way I like to feel about it.” At this they all burst into a merry laugh and somehow life seemed to begin all over again.

“Tell us about it, Dave,” Cherry commanded.

“Wait. I’ll have to phone headquarters.” Dave looked about for a phone. Then he remembered, there was no phone in the Hideout.

“We’ve had the phone down at the house repaired,” Alice said.

“I—I’ll be back for a cup of coffee.” Dave was away on the run.

* * * * * * * *

At that moment the Commander at the airdrome had just dropped to a place beside the young Lord in the squadron mess room.

“Applegate,” he said soberly, “why did you do it?”

“I had to.” There was a stubborn look on the young Lord’s usually cheerful face.

“Why?” The Commander’s eyes were on him.

“It got on my nerves, those Jerries bombing women and children every night and nothing being done about it.” The young Lord did not look up.

“So you decided to commit suicide by doing something?” The Commander’s voice was low.

“Well, I’m here.” A smile played about Applegate’s lips.

“But you wouldn’t be again. Not one time in a million. Wars are not won that way.

“Look here, Applegate,” the Commander’s voice softened a little. “I’ve always liked you, been proud of you. You were not raised like the rest of us. When the war came you joined up and you’ve played your part like a man.

“This fighting in the air is different.” The Commander paused to look away. “It’s a little like the old days that Walter Scott wrote about, Ivanhoe, Kenilworth, Richard the Lionhearted, all that. Each man got him a sword and fought it out with the first enemy he met.

“It’s the same here in a way. You can’t always fight in formation. But you _do_ have to fight under orders. You must, I must, everyone but the King must. And he’s not so free either.

“Last night,” his voice fell, “you took your ship without orders and did a stretch over London. Why?”

“I—I couldn’t stand myself.” The young Lord’s head was bowed. “Going out with five men, coming back with three. Not getting the man I was after. Losing the fellows we all love. What kind of fighting is that?”

“It comes to all of us.” The commander’s voice was gentle now. “Once over in France—

“Wait!” He sprang up. “There’s the phone.”

In the corner the young Lord heard the Commander exclaim into the receiver, “What? Who? Say! That’s great! How’s that? Yes. Certainly. As long as you like.”

The Commander’s voice was deep with emotion as turning back to the young Lord he said:

“That was Dave. He’s back safe. He’s over at Ramsey Farm. They’re just having their biscuits, marmalade and coffee. Want you to join them.”

The young Lord stood up. He tried to speak but failed. With a bow and a salute he left the room. Three minutes later his big car was burning up the road leading to Ramsey Farm.

_Chapter_ XXI
The Lark Defends His Home Town

It was truly a jolly party that sat down to breakfast in the Hideout that morning. Dave had been dead. Now he was alive again. Who could help being happy? It seemed good to be together again, to laugh over recent adventures and to talk in serious tones of the future.

“There really isn’t so much to tell,” Dave insisted, when they pressed him for his story. “I had luck, that was all.”

He told of his landing, the sinking of his plane, his discovery of the Nazi’s float and his work at setting it adrift.

“After that,” he added, “it was just a matter of time and a little more luck. I fell asleep. Of course, I woke up now and then. Who wouldn’t? All I heard was the whistle of the wind and the rush of waves so I dozed off again.

“After midnight the sea settled down a bit. Just at dawn my crazy craft bumped on a sandy beach. Of course I was up and out in a hurry.

“And there!” He laughed. “Leave it to the Home Guard! There on the beach, armed with heavy old-fashioned rifles all pointed straight at me, were three old men. And you could tell by the look on their faces that they’d just as soon shoot me as not.”

“What did you do?” Cherry whispered.

“Do? Why! I let them take me prisoner. What else could I do? There I was on a float marked with the Nazi cross and wearing a Nazi swastika on my shirt.

“I threw them a line and, when a big wave broke on shore, they hauled me in.

“Then I invited them to take breakfast with me. I had bacon in tins, biscuits in a box and a jar of marmalade, also coffee. It was a grand feed. And did those old men eat? They’d been on watch since sun-down.”

“And after that?” Cherry whispered.

“Then I showed them my water-soaked uniform, my American passport in a waterproof pocket and my identification tag.”

“And then they wanted to shoot you more than ever.” Brand laughed.

“No—no, they didn’t.” Dave leaned back in his chair. “They were regular old sports. Took it all as a huge joke. Had a good laugh over it.

“Then,” he added, “I traded them my float for a ride home in a dilapidated old car. And here I am.”

“That float will make them a nice outpost station all winter.” Alice sighed with content. She wanted everyone to be comfortable and happy.

“I’m going to America,” Cherry said. “The doctor advised it for my voice. He says it’s nerves.

“There’s a boatload of children going. I’m to take Peggy and Tillie.”

“Oh—o,” Dave breathed softly. “That will be swell.” And so it would, he thought, for Cherry.

“But you, Alice?” The young Lord turned to the older sister. “Shall you be going also?”

“No—o.” Alice spoke slowly. “I’m staying right here. There’s the dairy, you know. Jock will care for the cattle and tend to the milking. I’ll make the butter. It all goes to your mess, I suppose you know? The butter, I mean. Or didn’t you know?”

“I could have guessed,” said the young Lord. “Our butter’s been uncommonly good of late.”

“Thanks a lot.” Alice made a neat bow. “Anyway we’ve all got to carry on. I shall be quite all right here with old Jock and Flash.”

“And we’ll all welcome an opportunity to drop in for a chat now and then.” Dave added with a genuine sigh of satisfaction. “We’ll always be needing someone to listen to our tall tales or to offer us consolation when we’ve met with defeat.”

“All quite true,” said the young Lord. And he did not laugh.

Strange days followed. The R. A. F. in war time is no respecter of persons. Though the young Lord was of noble birth, he must suffer for his breach of discipline. He was grounded for five days. His battered Spitfire was taken down from the balloon cables and repaired. Armor plate was added to his seat and fitted about his motor, so the time out was not all loss.

Every day the two “cubs”, Dave and Brand went up with the Lark as their leader. Their field of patrol was narrow. Since their last battle the Jerrys seemed to avoid that little patch of the sky over England.

One day an enemy dive-bomber wandered into their “Sphere of Influence.”

Seeing the direction the bomber was taking, the Lark let out a wild whoop, barked “Tallyho!” into his receiver and then they were away. Climbing into the sun they prepared to head the intruder off.

This time neither was, in the matter of speed, a match for the Lark. There was a reason. The town for which the bomber was headed was Renton-by-the-Sea. In that small city the Lark had spent his happy boyhood days. Neither an industrial town nor a seaport, it was one of those charming little cities where tired business men and their families spend their week-ends at play.

“My home town!” the Lark roared into the receiver. “He’ll send some of the very houses I’ve known and loved for years spouting into the sky! Only he won’t.” Dave could hear his teeth crack.

And then the strange fellow’s voice boomed forth in song. “It’s a long way to Tipperary. It’s a long way to go.”

The Lark was now flying straight away from the sun. The dive-bomber’s pilot had not seen him. He was circling like a gull preparing for a sudden dive when the Lark came straight at him. Not troubling to get on his tail, the brave young defender of his home town let out a burst of fire, then went swooping past him.

An answering burst rattled against the Lark’s plane but did no harm. Banking sharply, the Lark came up beneath the bomber, stood his Spitfire on its tail, let out a second burst, then gripping his emergency lever he thundered out from under and away.

He was not a second too soon. The bomber heeled over to rocket toward the earth. It burst into flames then blew up with such force that Dave, some distance away, was set into a spin and barely escaped a crash.

Once more singing Tipperary, The Lark led the way home. After a time he broke off to shout:

“The small boys of my home town will be hunting souvenirs from that bomber for weeks to come. Oh, boy! How I wish I was a child again, just for tonight.”

When there was time off Dave enjoyed striding Brand’s bike and riding away to the Hideout. It was good to drop back into the old, quiet, nearly normal life. Alice and Cherry were there and sometimes the children. Cherry seemed to take her trip to America very quietly, as a matter of duty. She spent hours sitting by the fire asking Dave about his native land, but always in that quiet, matter-of-fact whisper of hers. The children were vastly excited about the trip and eager to be away.

At times Dave thought of the days to come when Alice would be alone with the aged veteran and the dog, Flash. The thought troubled him a little. There were, he supposed, enemy spies about. He had come into contact with one of these.

Ramsey Farm seemed to have been marked for destruction. He often asked himself why. A prisoner of war had once worked here. He had been treated with kindness and as an equal. Why should he have gone away embittered? “Twisted sort of mind, I suppose,” was his final conclusion.

Had this spy, Nicholas Schlitz brought destruction upon himself that night by the castle, or was he still prowling about? This question needed answering.

Late one afternoon he rode over to the castle. Coming upon a workman who cared for the castle grounds, he stated his problem.

“Perhaps this will answer your question,” the man said simply. He held out a metal disc. There was a name and number on the disc.

“Tom and I found it two days after the bombing,” the man said. “There was more to it than that, but I needn’t trouble you with the details. Tom and I, we figured it all out and reckoned the least said soonest mended.

“We reported this ’ere business to the proper authorities, sir,” he went on. “It’s all in order, sir. We should have turned the tag in at headquarters. You’ll be doin’ us a service if you’ll attend to that for us, sir.

“And,” he added after a moment, “you’ll put in a few words of explanation. Words come handier to you than they does to Tom and me. I’m a thinkin’ you know the details.”

“I shouldn’t wonder.” Dave spoke slowly. “Thanks a lot. I’ll feel better about Alice being over at the Hideout with only old Jock and the dog to protect her.”

“No doubt of that, sir,” the man agreed as they parted.

War, Dave thought, was strange.

_Chapter_ XXII
Roll Out the Barrel

Sunday came and with it the knowledge that before dawn of the next day the good ship Queen Bess would be on her way to America. And on that ship would ride Tillie, Peggy and their escort, Cherry.

Early Sunday morning the social worker from the subway and the little red-headed Irish pianist arrived in a car before the door of the Hideout.

“All the people of our subway have read in the paper about your trip to America,” the social worker said to Cherry. “They want you to attend a farewell party.”

“But I can’t sing. Can’t even speak out loud,” Cherry whispered.

“We know that,” exclaimed the little redhead. “They know it and are sorry for you. But you can still smile.”

“Yes.” Cherry proved her answer by a happy smile.

“That’s all that matters,” exclaimed the social worker. “Then you will come?”

“Yes.” Cherry swallowed a happy lump in her throat. “I’ll come.”

“We’ll all go down in my car,” the young Lord said later in the day. “When the party is over it will be about time for you to take the train for your port.”

“And we’ll all go down to the port to see you off,” Alice added with a grand smile.

That party in the subway was like nothing that ever happened before. So happy were the people at sight of their Singing Angel that they stood on their feet and shouted for a full five minutes.

It was Sunday night, but as if they must crowd weeks of joy into one wonderful night the people took the program in their own hands and sang everything from “Roll out the Barrel” to “God Save the King” and from “I’ve got my Eyes on You” to the “Glory Song.”

Ah yes! That was a night Cherry would not soon forget. One moment they were bowing before the Old Rugged Cross, the next they were Rolling the Old Chariot along. When at the very end someone started “God be with you till we Meet Again,” many an eye was moist. But at the very middle of the song a huge man who could stand no more emotion roared out in a terrific basso:

“We’ll roll the old chariot along.” And so, with a glorious shout they once again rolled the old chariot. Then the party was at an end.

It was a jolly party that, as Big Ben struck the hour of ten, boarded the train bound for the seaport town where the Queen Bess lay at anchor. Children with their sponsors filled every compartment of the train.

When they at last reached their destination and swarmed out on the platform the children began singing:

“Roll Out the Barrel.” And no one said, “Hush, this is Sunday.” But everyone took up the song. For this was the children’s hour.

There was no singing as, after finding their compartment for them, the little group from Ramsey Farm prepared to bid goodbye to Cherry, Tillie and Peggy.

Every one of them knew that their little group was breaking up and perhaps forever. They had shared joy and sorrow. A brother, two sisters, a life-long friend, a new-found pal from across the sea and two little waifs from the slums of London, they silently shook hands in the dark, then whispered, “Goodbye-Goodbye! Goodbye! And lots of good luck!”

On the way back on the train Alice whispered to Dave, “I wish Cherry hadn’t gone.”

“Why?” Dave stared.

“I don’t know. I just wish it, that’s all.”

And so, through the blackout, the little English train carried them back to London.

Next day Alice returned to her improvised buttery and her churn. But the song that so often had enlivened her task as the dasher went up and down was silenced.

For Dave the joy of flying increased with every morn. To climb up from the earth, to greet the dawn, to lose himself in the clouds, ah! that was joy beyond compare.

“If it only weren’t war,” he whispered to himself. And yet war did give it an added tang. It was like the nipping frost in the air that greets the ice-skater or the singing of the sled runners that delights the ears of the dog-team racer. He did look forward to the day when the young Lord’s penalty should be paid and the four of them would again be in the air.

The day came and they thundered away with the break of day. On this day, however, Heinie apparently was content to stay at home. Not a speck marred the blue of that little patch of the sky over England they claimed as their own.

“We’ll meet them again,” the young Lord’s tone was confident, as at last they returned to earth.

“Wolves, weasels, skunks, and all kinds of varmints visit the same little corner of the earth time after time. So do the Jerries. That big boaster, Wick, will return. And then!” It was clear that he had not forgotten the loss of his most beloved flying mate, Fiddlin’ Johnny.

“I wonder,” Dave said thoughtfully. “Does Wick always fly his men in that V-shaped formation?”

“Always, I am told,” was the answer.

“He assumes that we want to get at him and that we’ll go for the man protecting his tail,” Dave said thoughtfully. “That gives his other men a chance to close in and clean us up. Supposing we fooled him by taking off his three men on the other line, one at a time?”

“It’s an idea,” the young Lord replied. “Perhaps we’ll try it. Yes, I think we shall—when the time comes. And it will come, never fear!”

“Alice must be lonesome with Cherry and the children gone,” Dave suggested to Brand that evening. “Let’s go over.”

“I can’t tonight,” was Brand’s reply. “The Lark is giving me a lesson on handling a Brownie. You can’t learn too much, you know, not in this man’s war.”

“Nor half enough,” Dave agreed.

Mounting Brand’s bicycle, Dave rode over the pleasing country roads to Ramsey Farm. Night was just falling. There was a glorious freshness about the night air. The war seemed far away. “As if it couldn’t touch any of us,” he thought. How wrong he could be at times.

He found Alice doing the dinner dishes. Flash was curled up by the fire. Old Jock was at the stables. Dave grabbed a drying towel and helped with the dishes. Then they sat by the cheerful fire. He spoke of his day’s work. “No luck,” he concluded. “Perhaps tomorrow. Brand and I are getting better with our planes every day. We’ll be fighters yet.”

Alice smiled.

“Tonight _they_ seemed very far away,” she said, after a moment. Her voice was low. “It’s the first time Cherry and I have been parted for long.”

He knew who she meant and was silent.

From outside came the sound of a car. It stopped. There was a hand on the latch. Mrs. Ramsey stepped into the room. A large, healthy, good-natured woman, on arriving it was her custom to shout a cheery greeting. Tonight there was nothing of that.

“You’re here, David?” she said as she took his hand. “I’m glad.” She gave Dave her heavy coat, then took a place by the fire.

“It’s a bit chilly outside tonight,” said Alice.

“Quite.” Mrs. Ramsey’s voice seemed strange.

“But still and peaceful,” Dave suggested. “As if there were no war.”

After that for a full minute there was silence.

When at last the mother spoke her voice was high-pitched and a little strained. “I don’t know how to say it,” she began. “I’m not good at such things. I’m always too blunt about my speech. ‘Out with it’, that’s been my motto.

“You must know how I feel,” she went on after a pause, “So why all the beating around the bush? A rather terrible thing has happened. The Queen Bess has been attacked and sunk.”

Dave started and stared, yet neither he nor Alice spoke a word.

“It came to me by secret message,” Mrs. Ramsey went on. “The general public doesn’t know about it yet.”

“And did—did—” Alice’s words stuck in her throat.

“We have only the most meager details,” the mother said. “It was a sea raider that did it, not a submarine. The raider came in firing a broadside. Then it vanished into the night.

“In twenty minutes the Queen Bess was gone, down by the bow. There was a sea on. Some of the lifeboats were swamped. The children were magnificent! Perfectly magnificent!” Mrs. Ramsey swallowed hard. “All of them sang ‘Roll out the Barrel’ through it all.”

“Oh—o!” Alice breathed, then hid her face.

“That’s all there is to tell.” Mrs. Ramsey rose. “I must get back. I practically ran away. There was a frightful raid last night. All our wards are full. We—we’ll hope for the best.” She was gone.

They sat there in silence by the fire for a long time, the boy and the girl, in a troubled world.

At last Dave rose to walk slowly back and forth across the well-worn floor.

It was Alice who at last spoke. “Dave. She is not gone. She’s out there somewhere. You can’t kill such a spirit as Cherry’s. You just can’t.”

“That’s right,” Dave agreed. “It can’t be done.” He meant just that. “Well,” he sighed, “I’ll be going back. Let me know about things. I—I’ll bring Brand tomorrow night if we can make it.”

“Dave, I’m sorry,” Alice said as she clasped his hand in farewell. She was thinking of him just then, he knew that. She was trying to tell him she was sorry their happy evening together had been spoiled. How sort of magnificent she was! How marvelous these English girls!

_Chapter_ XXIII
Victory

When Dave told Brand and the young Lord the news of the sinking, true to their British tradition they had little to say. Next day, however, they appeared on the field prepared for the dawn patrol. Dave saw new, hard lines about their lips.

“I’d hate to be their enemy today,” he thought, as a thrill ran up his spine.

They had been cruising, four of them, the young Lord, Brand, The Lark, and Dave, for an hour when out of a very small cloud, for all the world as if it had been waiting there for days, came that same formation, five planes in a V-shape. One plane following the leader on the right and three on the left.

“Can I believe my eyes?” The Lark shouted into his speaker.

“You can.” The young Lord’s voice was low. “Not another word. No shouting, please. You all know how we planned it. I’ll take the talk man of the three on the left. You know the rest. Tallyho!”

“Tallyho,” came echoing from the others. They were away.

Since they were a thousand feet above the enemy and in the end they came swooping down from above. They were not seen until the young Lord was all but upon his victim. His was a murderous assault that could have but one ending. As if in rehearsal, The Lark slipped into the place left vacant by the young Lord as he dropped into a power-dive. The Lark’s man went down in flames. Deserting his post, the third man tried flight, but with the luck of a beginner, Brand shot downward, then climbed straight up to riddle the Messerschmitt’s motor and send it down in a cloud of yellow smoke.

As for Dave, the whole affair had gone off with such speed that he found himself in a half daze, headed straight for the side of a gleaming Messerschmitt. Then his eyes registered an astonishing fact. He was facing the boasting Wick himself, he who called himself a deadly killer. On the tail of his plane was a black blotch. Dave knew this to be fifty-six black lines, one for each victim Wick claimed. For a space of seconds Dave’s blood was turned to ice. Then, with a rush, it was like molten steel.

They were close now, dangerously close, yet each was out of range of the other. Suddenly gripping his emergency lever, giving his motor its last ounce of power, Dave banked sharply, saw the terrible Wick rise into his sight, pressed the firing button, heard for one brief second his machine-guns speak, then went into a spin. Whirling over and over and going down, down, down where the good soil of Merry England lies, he thought, “This is the end!”

He was wrong. He came out of the spin. How? He would never know.

After levelling off he looked up, then down. To the right of him a Messerschmitt was falling in flames. Even as he looked it exploded in mid-air.

Far in the distance the one remaining enemy was speeding away. Off to the left the young Lord’s line was forming. Climbing slowly, Dave at last joined that line. Then, in the Sky Over England that was once more England’s own, they cruised the blue until the young Lord gave the word and they went thundering home.

As they left their ships on the landing field the young Lord walked over to Dave, put out a hand, gripped Dave’s hard, then without a word walked away. It was enough. Dave understood and was glad.

Just at mess time that evening an old man, member of the Home Guard appeared at headquarters. Under his arm he carried a flat, paper-wrapped package.

“Thought you might like it, sir,” he said as he placed it in the young Lord’s hand.

As the others gathered around the flight leader unwrapped it, then handed it to Dave. It was the tail of a Messerschmitt. On it had been painted two letters, H. W. Below these letters were 56 long, black lines.

“This,” said Dave, “should be yours.” He gave it back to the young Lord. “All trophies belong to the leader of the flight.”

“To the entire squadron,” the young Lord replied huskily. “Come. We’ll put it up where all may see.” He placed it on the mantle. “Not that we need to boast,” he said quietly, “but that all men may know that the Sky Over England is England’s alone.”

_Chapter_ XXIV
Searchers of the Sea

Next morning the squadron commander received a strange request. Young Lord Applegate walked into his quarters, saluted, then said:

“Commander, I wish to ask for a transfer.”

“A transfer?” The Commander sat forward in his chair. “Why? You are doing magnificently. Only yesterday—”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Applegate broke in, “that has no bearing on the case. I ask for a transfer to the bomber service that patrols the sea. I was trained for that work, had a full year’s training. That should be enough.”

“But you are a born fighter.”

“Perhaps,” the young Lord admitted. “And perhaps too one may fight with a twin-motored bomber.”

“There’s seldom an opportunity on sea patrol.”

“We will make an opportunity. My men, Ramsey, Barnes and The Lark, wish to go with me. Old Jock, from Ramsey Farm, a gunner, first-class, who lost a leg in Flanders, will join us.”

“I still don’t see—”

“Commander,” the young Lord’s face was tense with emotion, “with me this is a personal matter. You’ve heard of the sinking of the Queen Bess?” The Commander nodded.

“Cherry Ramsey was on that ship. You know her, I’m sure.”

“I have met her. A charming girl. She was doing a grand piece of work. Was she lost?”

“Her name is not on the list of those rescued. But it is believed,” the young Lord’s voice rang with hope, “that one life-boat, not swamped by the storm, remains unreported.

“If I am granted a transfer to the Sea Patrol I shall ask that we be allowed to patrol that portion of the air over the Atlantic beneath which the Queen Bess was fired upon and sunk.”

“I see.” The commander’s face was thoughtful.

“That is not all.” The lines on the young Lord’s brow deepened. “I shall ask that we be allowed to carry two five-hundred pound bombs and be commissioned to search for the merciless sea raider that sank that shipload of children. It is still at large.”

The commander nodded. “She attacked a convoy last night. Gave no warning. Sank three ships, then was away.”

For a moment the commander sat staring at the wall. “It’s very irregular,” he murmured.

“This is an irregular war, not fought by rules. Fought by men. Thank God for that!” The young Lord’s chin was up.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.” The commander stood up. “Report to me here at noon.”

The young Lord saluted, then marched away.

An hour later he was engaged in a heated argument with his good friend, Alice. “But, Alice!” his voice rose. “It’s impossible! A woman on a sea-patrol bomber! Suppose we catch up with that ruthless pirate.”

“All right.” Alice stood up sturdy and tall. “Suppose we do?”

“It won’t be a one-sided fight. That raider carries anti-aircraft guns. Death may be waiting at those crossroads of the sea.”

“Death.” Alice’s voice was low. “In this war not just young men are giving their lives for the land they love. Men and women and children are. It’s everybody’s war.

“Harm!” (She seldom used that name of other days. In her soul was written traditional homage to nobility.) “It is Cherry who is out there on those black waters. Our Cherry! Peggy and Tillie are with her. A woman’s eyes are always sharper than a man’s. Always when we were children it was my eyes, not yours, that saw the lark soaring skyward or the finches hiding in the hedges. Harman, let me go!”

“But the farm, Alice?” The young Lord was weakening.

“Surely you can spare Jeff Weeks and his wife for a few days to look after this farm.”

“A few days? Yes. But suppose it is forever?” The young Lord’s voice was low. “Alice, more important than our search for Cherry, much as we all love her, is to be our hunt for the sea-raider. And if we find it there will be no quarter! It shall be that ship or our plane. Such is war.”

“If it is to be forever?” There was a smile on the girl’s lips. “We die but once. The farm will not matter. Let me go!”

The young Lord threw up his hands. “I surrender,” he whispered hoarsely.

And so it happened that, when the transfer had been granted and the young Lord had been put in command of a sea-scouting bomber, one of the fastest in the service, and when it sailed away into the blue, it carried not five but six men. One of these “men” had short, bobbed hair, and as he stood by the one-legged, gray-haired rear gunner, he looked remarkably like a girl.

At dawn, in a bomber that made their little Spitfires seem like gulls, the young warriors rose high in air, far above the clouds, to zoom away.

When land was lost from sight the young Lord studied his compass and his chart, set a course south by west to at last drop down close to the sea.

After that, hour after hour, with eyes that burned from watching and hearts that ached with longing, they studied the dark surface of the never-ending sea.

Twice they came upon British ship convoys and dipped low to greet them. Once they thought they saw a life-boat and hope ran high. But, as they dropped low, the supposed boat submerged.

“Whale or a submarine?” the young Lord barked into his receiver.

“Whale,” was old Jock’s instant response. So they soared on.

It was only after their gasoline supply began running low that they at last rose into the blue to go zooming to a landing field in the north of Scotland.

There, after darkness had fallen, Alice slipped away to a little hotel where no questions were asked. When, however, she told what she dared of their mission, she was accorded the hospitality due a queen and in the morning not a cent would her hostess accept.

“It’s our own war,” said the good lady, “and may the good Lord bless you.”

The second day was more than half gone. The girl’s eyes were red with watching when she called in her phone, “I—I hear the sound of firing.”

Every headset was removed.

“Not a sound but the motors. Not a sound,” was the report.

“Climb. Then shut off your motors,” Alice insisted.

It was done, and from the west to their listening ears came the roar of heavy guns.

“Prepare for action,” the young Lord barked. “See that the bombs are in their place. Make all fast.

“And,” he added softly, “say a prayer.”

Their ship was fast. Smoke loomed on the horizon. Ships, a large convoy, took form. A minor sea-battle was in progress. Doughty captains of freighters were pitting their small guns against the heavy ones of a raider.

They were rapidly approaching the scene when with a joyous battle cry the Lark sang out, “Man! Oh, man! They’ve spotted us. Look! There they go! Running at full speed.”

“We’re after them.” The young Lord’s lips were drawn into a straight line.

Old Jock was at the bomb controls, Dave and Brand at the one-pound cannons, the Lark at the radio.

They climbed a thousand feet, three, five, then twenty thousand feet. They were all but above the fleeing raider now. Dave tried to imagine the wild commotion and the frenzied preparation on board that raider at that moment. Just what the young Lord meant to do, he knew. Life and death hung in the balance.

As for the young Lord, his brow suddenly wrinkled. He had caught a glimpse of two specks against the sky.

“Here,” he called to Alice. “Have a look through the glass. Off to the right! Enemy or friend? Tell me—Quick!”

One look and she told him. “Enemy! Twin motor interceptors. Two of them.”

“Good! We’ll show them how it’s done.”

Ten seconds later he barked, “All set for a power dive!”

The big ship’s nose pointed toward the sea. Far below the raider seemed a speck. As it grew in size it could be seen to zig-zag this way, then that.

“All or nothing,” had been the young Lord’s order. “When I give the signal release both bombs.”

As Dave watched it seemed they could not win. Yet the young Lord had a keen mind. He had been well trained.

To the roar of the motor and the screaming of the plunging plane was added the burst of anti-aircraft fire. Death rode the air.

And then Dave realized that the instant had come. Fascinated, he watched a bomb glide from its place, then another. A second later there was a lurch as the plane began coming out of its dive.

To Dave, the time of waiting, only a few seconds, seemed endless. Then came a boom, followed almost at once by a second. And then a roar far greater than the others. There was a push that lifted them high, then all but dropped them into the sea.

“Right on the nose!” The Lark roared from his tail gunner’s position. “Blew up their magazine. Raider, whose captain has a heart of stone, has met its end.”

“We’ll let those Nazi planes get what satisfaction they can out of that,” said the young Lord in a surprisingly quiet tone of voice. “We’ll just hop over and do what we can for that convoy.

“But stay in your places. Man your guns,” he warned. “Those planes may attack. If they do, give ’em all you’ve got!”

The enemy planes did not attack. Perhaps they had seen quite enough.

Thankful to be alive, the young Lord and his men flew to the rescue of those British seamen whose ships of the convoy had been sunk. Never before had Alice been so close to war as now. Helping these cold seamen, some of them frightfully wounded, from the water into the wings and into the cabin of their plane, then to the ships that had escaped the raider, she realized for the first time what it was costing these men to keep her native land fed, defended and free.

When their two hours of rescue work were over and they were prepared to take to the air once again, she was shocked to find that in her work for others she had quite forgotten her bright-eyed sister who must at this moment be drifting on this very sea or sleeping far beneath its waves.

It all came back to her like a sudden shock of pain as they rose above the sea.

Another hour of futile search, then the big ship pointed her nose toward the home base.

“Orders,” the little Lord explained, “just came in on the radio. The news of our good stroke has reached London. We are to come in for reassignment.”

“Reassignment!” Alice stared but said never a word.

_Chapter_ XXV
The Rescue

The news of their success had gone on before them by radio. At the airdrome they were given a royal welcome. Congratulations were the order of the day. The entire crew was invited to the Squadron Commander’s home in a near-by village for dinner.

Somehow the word that Alice had been on the bomber at the moment of its triumph had got about. Ignoring every precedent, the commander’s wife invited her to the dinner and fitted her out with a dress suited to the occasion. She was quite the queen of the occasion.

For all her gayety, deep down in her soul the girl was broken-hearted. A half hour before they went in for dinner the young Lord had told her in steady, even tones that only served to reveal his hidden emotion that the invasion of their land seemed near at hand, that the R. A. F. was sadly in need of heavy bombers for breaking up troop-concentrations on the other shore. “Five powerful bombers are waiting, all equipped, on American shores,” the young Lord had said. “My orders are to pick up crews for these bombers—they are waiting for me at a Scottish airdrome—and to fly these crews across the Atlantic.”

“No—no more search?” Alice’s tongue had gone dry.

“Perhaps a little coming and going,” he replied, striving to ease her pain. “We shall sail over those same waters.”

“Then I shall go with you,” she flashed.

“That is as the Commander may decide.” Once before the young Lord had tried refusing her. Never again.

“He can’t deny me that much.” Alice’s words were steady and sure. Nor was she wrong.

As the plane took off next day for its long hop across the Atlantic, it carried twenty-six men and Alice. Perhaps she had been commissioned to prepare and serve hot drinks for the long journey. No one knew or seemed to care. She was there. That was all that mattered.

Every man of the company knew her story. When the time came to sail over the waters close to the spot where the Queen Bess went down for a full hour every eye was on the sea. Nothing showed, so at long last they settled back for the hours that were yet to come.

One hour out of every three Alice busied herself serving refreshments. She slept a little and thought a great deal. Long, long thoughts those were. Then they were at their secret destination, a cold, bleak shore somewhere in North America.

A few hours of sleep, then again they were away. This time six powerful ships zooming away toward the distant skies that are England’s own.

After weary hours of waiting they found themselves once more above the waters from whence had come the last S. O. S. of the good ship, Queen Bess. There were five of them now, Alice, Dave, Brand, the Lark and the young Lord.

As Alice studied first the compass, then the chart, she looked at the young Lord who was at the controls and he understood.

He wanted to say, “Alice your hopes last too long. Forget the boat. It can’t be there.” But “forget” he knew full well was one word not to be found in the girl’s vocabulary. So, pointing the ship’s nose toward the sea, then stepping down its speed, he sailed close to sparkling waters. It was midday. The sun was bright. They could see for miles.

A half hour passed. Hope seemed all but gone when, of a sudden, Alice gripped the young Lord’s arm.

“Harm!” she screamed in his ear. “Off to the right! See! There’s something white!”

The young Lord saw nothing. He did bank away to the right.

Then they all saw it, a white spot. It seemed to move backward and forward. Every muscle tense, they waited. The spot loomed larger. Beneath it appeared a dark form.

“A boat!” Alice cried. “It is a boat! There are people, living people! They are waving something white!”

“Steady, girl.” The young Lord framed the words with his lips.

Yes, she knew. Other ships had been lost, other life-boats had wandered away. And yet. It just must be true. It must be the boat from the Queen Bess.

As they dropped to the surface of the sea, she found herself holding her breath. On the prow of the life-boat was a name. Two words. It must be ‘Queen Bess.’ The first letter of each word was large.

“Yes!” she cried at last. “Q. B.—Queen Bess!”