_WINGS
OVER ENGLAND_
BY
ROY J. SNELL
_Eight Full Page Illustrations
By
GLEN SHEFFER_
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO.
CHICAGO NEW YORK
_Copyright 1941, by
M. A. Donohue & Company_
_Printed in the United States of America_
Contents
I. Cherry 1
II. Catbirds and Hawk 11
III. Dolls and Nazis 17
IV. Hans Schlitz 25
V. The young Lord 34
VI. Lady Spies 44
VII. Enemy Sighted 57
VIII. Roll Out the Barrel 67
IX. The Hideout 80
X. First Blood 91
XI. Cobbler or Spy? 105
XII. “The House Is Gone” 113
XIII. Lull Before the Storm 123
XIV. A Dungeon Night 131
XV. Until the Very End 144
XVI. Fiddlin’ Johnny 152
XVII. Playing War 166
XVIII. Dave’s Strange Craft 175
XIX. Thrilling Sky Drama 182
XX. Dave Comes Marching Home 188
XXI. The Lark Defends His Home Town 194
XXII. Roll Out the Barrel 203
XXIII. Victory 213
XXIV. Searchers of the Sea 218
XXV. The Rescue 229
Illustrations
That Was a Capital Stroke, Dave _Frontispiece_
We Do Have a Spy 49
Everybody Sing 77
Tat-tat-tat—Down Goes Hun 99
Only Three Walls Remained 117
The Dog Had Found the Fugitive 135
Shots Tore Into His Right Wing 161
Alice—Alice—I Know Your Voice 233
_Chapter_ I
Cherry
It was one of those rare autumn days in England. The sky was blue as
blue. The trees cast dark shadows across the hillside. The sheep
wandered contentedly along the slope. To Cherry Ramsey, for one full
moment it seemed that nothing could possibly be wrong with the world.
Then with a sudden light spring she shot from her sunny corner to scan
the sky and to exclaim softly to the collie at her feet:
“Flash old boy, it’s an airplane. Perhaps it’s a bomb-bomber.” That last
word always choked her. How she hated those Nazi marauders! No, all was
not right with the world! Perhaps it never would be again for a long,
long time!
“But Flash old boy,” there was hot fire in her voice, “we must all do
our best and trust God. That’s what mother always says, and she’s nearly
always right.”
Flash, the splendid golden collie, stood up, appeared to listen, then
whined as if he had truly understood. And who will say he did not?
For one more full moment the scene remained just as it had been. In the
foreground were low hills and sheep feeding. Beyond that lay a level
field where two grown youths in their late teens bent over their task of
harvesting Brussels sprouts. Beyond all this were trees and barns—a farm
home,—Cherry’s own home.
As she stood there, lips parted, ears straining in their attempt to
build up a mental picture of the rapidly approaching airplane, she saw
the two boys straighten up, then gaze skyward.
“Ah! They hear it!” she whispered. Then she tried with a sudden flash of
the imagination to picture the thoughts running through the minds at
that moment of those strangely different boys. The plane proved to be a
German bomber.
Then suddenly her heart stood still. The plane had come zooming out from
behind the nearby hills, and in a flash she had caught sight of the
hated cross on the right of the plane, the swastika on its tail.
At that same instant the taller of the two boys turned to his companion
to say:
“I suppose that’s what you call a bomber?” His was the sharp, brisk
accent of a Midwest American.
“Not precisely that,” was the slow drawling reply of his typically
English companion. “It’s a Messerschmitt 110, I’d say. They do use them
for daylight bombing. But that plane is really a fighter. The best the
Jerries have. If our boys go after one of them when it flies over to do
a little bombing, it lays eggs and puts off at a fearful rate, or turns
in for a scrap.
“And I say!” his voice rose, “There’ll be a scrap! There’s a Spitfire
after her. Good old Spitfire! Go after ’em, old boy! Here we are, with a
ringside seat!” He dropped back to take his place on a bag of Brussels
sprouts. The tall, dark, curly-haired American youth stood where he was,
watching the two planes. His eyes were wide with excitement and wonder.
This was but his third day in England. Until this moment he had seen
nothing of the war. Even now, with the peace of open country all about
him, it did not seem possible that those two silver ships up there in
the sky would really fight an air duel, that men might come hurtling
down from out the sky to a terrible crushing death.
An exclamation from his companion brought him back to reality.
“Oh! I say!” came in sharp, rising tones. “There’s another of our
fighters! Now there’ll surely be a scrap! That Messerschmitt can’t
escape both of them! That,” he said with a sudden intake of breath, “is
one of your American fighters. It’s called a Tomahawk.”
“Are they good?” Dave asked, his eyes still on the sky.
“Good!” Brand exploded, “Of course they’re good! Air cooled engine. Do
350 per hour. And can they climb! Practically straight up! It’s going to
be grand!” he exclaimed, his eyes glued upon the spot where the three
planes were circling. “They’ll do that old Messerschmitt in before you
can say Jack Robinson.”
“They should. Two to one,” Dave Barnes, the other boy spoke slowly, no
sarcasm in his voice, only cool appraisal. He was an American. This was
not his war. For him this was but a ringside seat to something rather
big.
The lips of the English boy, Brandon Ramsey, drew into a tense white
line. This _was_ his war. Perhaps he knew the men in those one-seated
fighters. He could not be sure of that, but there was an airbase for
fighters not three miles from his home. He knew nearly all the fliers.
As for the enemy plane, why was it here? To drop bombs on defenseless
villagers, or to spy out targets for some other plane that carried tons
of explosives. Who could say?
“Two to one.” His was not a happy laugh. “There are three men in that
Messerschmitt. They’re in an armored cabin. Our boys are right out there
in the open.” There was a touch of anger in his voice.
“I—I’m sorry,” Dave murmured, brushing a hand before his eyes. “I’ve
been in England for so short a time. Guess I don’t see things your way
just yet.”
“That’s all right,” was the prompt and generous response. Brand gave
Dave’s knee a slap. “You’ll pick it up fast. That is,” he added, “if
that Messerschmitt isn’t still carrying its bombs and if he doesn’t land
one of them right on us.”
“Why would he do that?” The American boy’s eyes opened wide.
“Lighten his load. Besides, a bullet might strike a bomb. Then whew!
He’d fly into a thousand pieces. He—”
The English boy stopped suddenly, for at that instant there came a
sput—sput—sput from the sky.
“They’re at it!” Dave’s voice was low and tense.
The burst of fire which was short and sharp had come from the Spitfire.
“Short, broadside,” Brand explained. “You can’t do much with a
broadside. Other plane’s going too fast. They’re out of range, just like
that. They—
“Look!” he exclaimed in a voice tense with emotion. “The Tomahawk is
going after that plane from behind! He—
“Nope.” He let loose a low hiss of disgust.
“He’s gone into a power dive.”
It was true. All the planes had been high, perhaps up 15,000 feet. Now
the Messerschmitt slipped into a dive that took it half the distance to
earth. The American boy was ready to dodge and run for it when just as
suddenly as it had gone into the dive the Nazi plane came out of it to
level off just above the farm home.
“Look!” Brand gripped his companion’s arm hard. “He’s dropped a bomb!”
Terror stricken, fascinated, white-hot with anger, the English boy
watched a silver spot against the dark blue sky go down—down—down.
And on the hillside, far above her home, tall, slender, beautiful
twenty-year old Cherry Ramsey, with the color gone from her cheeks, also
watched the terrifying missile speed from the sky.
“Where will it strike?” Her alert mind registered the question her lips
did not speak, while her eyes took in the house, the barn, the
out-buildings, the orchard—every spot dear to her childhood.
And then the silence of the countryside was torn by a sudden burst of
sound that made the very hills tremble.
For one full moment while the trio on the hillside kept their places,
breathless, expectant, a cloud of dust and smoke obscured the view.
During this moment Cherry became conscious of the dog that lay whining
at her feet. Bending low, she patted his sleek head. “Yes, I know it’s
terrible,” she soothed. “You don’t like it. We don’t either. But we all
must endure it for England’s sake.”
As if he understood, the dog nestled silently at her feet.
The smoke cleared. The girl sighed with relief. The bomb had fallen in
the orchard. A single apple tree, one of the early pippins, had been
uprooted. A slight loss. The tree was quite old.
And then with a shock it came to her that everything—the house, the
barn, the dovecotes,—all about the place was old, old and very dear.
Then again her lips parted in sudden fright, for a second silver spot,
larger than the first, had appeared against the sky. Watching its swift
descent, she grabbed at her painfully beating heart. At first it seemed
that it must fall upon the house. “Alice is there,” her reeling brain
registered the thought. Then came a sense of relief. The house would be
spared. Then it was to be the barn where two fine colts were housed that
would receive the full force of the blow.
“No,” she sighed. “Farther up the hill.”
The bomb fell not ten feet from a small square building. Like a tree,
uprooted by the blast, this tiny house leapt high in air, then
collapsing, crashed to earth. At the same instant dust and smoke
concealed all.
As if struck a blow from behind, the girl leapt forward, stood there
tense, motionless for a period of seconds, then disregarding the loyal
collie whining at her heels, went dashing down the hill.
The apparently insignificant building had once been a smoke-house.
Perhaps that had been fifty years before. When Cherry was a child it had
been converted into a playhouse. There, hours on end, she and her sister
Alice had played with their dolls and at keeping house. They, to be sure
had abandoned both dolls and playhouse long ago. But from time to time
other children had come to live on the Ramsey Farm. Both playhouse and
dolls had been theirs. At this moment two cute children, Tillie and
Peggy, from the London slums, were staying at the Ramsey Farm. This old
smoke-house was their favorite haunt. As Cherry sped down the hill
allowing herself not one glance at the brightening sky, she dared not
ask the question that haunted her terror-stricken mind. “Oh, God!” she
whispered, “It can’t be true!”
_Chapter_ II
Catbirds and Hawk
From the spot where Dave and Brand stood the ancient playhouse could not
be seen. That tragedy might have befallen some member of their household
they did not so much as dream. Enough that by some miracle the house and
barns had been spared and that the hated enemy plane, having delivered
its load, was now speeding away.
But not so fast. The speedy British Spitfire had made a broad circle and
was prepared to meet the enemy head on.
As Brand Ramsey stood stiffly at attention, watching every move of those
fighting planes, his fingers clenched and unclenched nervously. Not so
his American companion. Standing at ease, smiling a little, his lips
parted, he might have been at a tennis match.
How often, during his early days on an American farm this boy, Dave
Barnes, had watched a fight between two catbirds and a hawk. How
insignificant the catbirds had appeared, how terrifying, with curved
beak and needle-like claws, the hawk. And yet how often, quite
disheartened, the gray intruder had soared away. In the fight being
fought above them now he saw the battle of catbirds and hawk. Which
would win? His sympathies had ever been with the catbirds. It was so
now. And yet he whispered to himself, “It’s not my war.”
His war or no, he followed every move of those birdlike things that
whirling, zooming, dipping, soaring, appeared at any moment ready to
crash head on and burst into flames.
Now the Spitfire was beneath the enemy, coming up. Now! Oh! Now! The boy
drew a deep breath. Now the Spitfire was on the Messerschmitt’s tail.
“Now!” he breathed.
Once more a sharp exclamation escaped his lips, for banking sharply, the
enemy slid out of the trap. At that instant, with tail to the enemy, the
Tomahawk was doing a broad circle to re-enter the scrap.
“Oh! Oh! Watch out!” Brand, the English boy shouted, as if he could call
a warning to the pilot in the American plane. The Messerschmitt had
turned the tables and was at the Tomahawk’s back. Brand wanted to stop
his ears from the rat—tat—tat that he knew must come. Instead, he stood
there mute, staring with all his might.
And then it came, a ripping, tearing burst of sound, as if the very sky
was being torn to shreds.
“He—he got him!” Brand’s lips went white as the Tomahawk, after banking
so sharply it seemed to stand on its right wing, went into a spin.
Only then did the American boy realize to the full that this was a
battle, not a show affair that these were men and planes, not birds, and
that the brave fellow in that spinning airplane was apparently about to
be beaten to a pulp on the cruel earth of the hillside. Instinctively he
closed his eyes and began to count,—“One—two—three.” Thirty seconds, he
thought, then all will be over.
He had counted only to fifteen when a sharp cry—“Hooray!” sent his eyes
wide open again.
“He—he came out of it!” Brand exulted with a wild wave of his arms.
It was true. The apparently doomed pilot had somehow pulled his plane
out of that fateful spin. What was more, he was not leaving the field.
Instead, he was once again climbing rapidly.
“Look!” Brand exclaimed. “That Messerschmitt has had enough! She’s
climbing! She’s afraid of that Tomahawk. Thinks she can outclimb him.
The Tomahawk’s motor is not so good at dizzy heights. But, boy! How they
can climb! Half a mile a minute!”
They were climbing now, all three planes. The enemy plane had the lead
by many hundreds of feet. First after her came the Spitfire. Then the
Tomahawk.
It was an all but perpendicular race, a glorious thing to see. Slowly,
surely, the game little Spitfire, seeming only a nighthawk at that
distance, closed in upon the enemy. Behind her, closing in faster,
faster, ever faster, was the Tomahawk.
“See! What did I tell you!” Brand’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “That
Tomahawk is a climber! You Americans should be proud of that ship!”
“I suppose we are.” Dave scarcely heard. A born mathematician, he was
trying by some occult system to determine the outcome of this strange
race.
“In twenty seconds,” he pulled out a thin gold watch, “the Tomahawk will
pass the Spitfire. Forty seconds more and—well—you’ll see.” His lips
trembled as his words trailed off.
Hardly had he finished speaking when the small planes were abreast.
Brand even imagined he saw the Tomahawk’s pilot wave to the other as he
passed.
Forty tense seconds and then there came a ripping of the sky, longer,
more terrifying than any they had yet heard. Half below, and half on the
Messerschmitt’s tail, the Tomahawk was finding sweet revenge.
“That’s enough. No ship can take that and keep on flying!” the English
boy breathed. At the same instant the attacking Tomahawk slipped away in
a graceful spiral glide.
“What a ship!” the American boy breathed. “It can take it, and dish it
out!”
The Messerschmitt had had more than enough. Black bits of wreckage began
dropping from the mortally wounded plane. Among these were three larger
spots, darker than the rest. Presently above these three white mushrooms
blossomed against the sky. “Parachutes!” Brand exclaimed. “They’re
coming down! Land somewhere up the slope. Come on! We’ve got to get
them!”
Gone from Dave’s mind was the thought that this was not his war, as he
sped after his companion. Two facts were registered on his mind as he
raced ahead—a one-legged man using a crutch had stopped his plow-team in
the field and was racing toward the slope—a large collie dog was
scooting across a low meadow. The dog appeared intent upon joining the
one-legged man.
_Chapter_ III
Dolls and Nazis
In the meantime, quite ignoring the battle in the sky, two streaks of
red and gold—Cherry the girl, and Flash the dog—had gone racing down the
slope. In her golden sweater and red plaid skirt the girl seemed little
more than a sprite. The collie might well have been her golden shadow.
That she was quite a real person she herself knew full well. Her
painfully beating heart told her that.
Even as she raced on, her eyes were searching the ruins that had once
been the playhouse of her childhood. They were looking for some trace of
red or blue calico,—shocking proof that her fears had been well founded
and that two small girls had been in the playhouse at the time the bomb
fell.
It was only after she had reached the top of the stile leading from the
field to the house that she caught a loud: “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo, Cherry!”
One look, and she crumpled down on the stile steps to burst into a flood
of tears, tears of pure joy.
All gay in red and blue calico Tillie and Peggy stood in the farmhouse
doorway. A moment more and they had left the house to come racing toward
Cherry.
In the meantime the fighting planes had gone beyond the hill, quite out
of her sight. Soon she was hugging two tumble-haired young sprites to
her bosom, and exclaiming: “Tillie! Peggy! You are safe! I was, Oh! So
afraid!”
“But the playhouse is all blowed up.” Tillie dabbed at her eyes.
“Yes!” exclaimed Peggy, dancing a jig. “But were we bombed! And was it
exciting! Just like fireworks! Only bigger! Much louder! There was
smoke, and then Oops! Up went everything!”
In vast astonishment Cherry stared at this small bit of humanity from
the slums of London. Her eyes were on the child for a full minute. Then,
mustering up her courage she managed a low chuckle. Then, springing to
her feet, she cried: “Come on! Let’s go see! We’ll make it a race!” And
so the four of them, three girls and a dog, went racing away.
When at last they stood by the ruins of what had once been a grand
playhouse, almost a living thing to her, Cherry was ready to weep.
How very much that playhouse had meant to her! It was only an abandoned
smoke-house, with the pleasant odor of burning wood and smoking meat
still clinging to it, but she had made of it a sort of second home. What
grand times she and Alice had known there! And of late, how Tillie and
Peggy had gloried in it! They had called it “Home of our Dolls.”
“The dolls!” Cherry exclaimed as she recalled it all. “Where are they?”
As if in answer to her appeal, the dog, Flash, went racing about to
return almost at once with the remains of a doll held lightly between
his teeth.
“Oh! Poor Wilhelmina!” Peggy cried. “She has lost her head!”
“Yes,” said a sober voice behind her. “And if those terrible Nazis had
succeeded as they hoped to, in dropping a bomb on our house you and I
would have been minus our heads too.” It was a tall, strongly built girl
in her late teens who spoke. She wore a blue calico apron. Her hands
were white with flour.
“Alice!” Cherry demanded, as a look of terror came into her eyes. “Do
you really think they meant to bomb the house?”
“Of course they did!”
“Why? What have we done?”
“They did it because we belong to England. They hate all of England.
They will destroy every bit of England if they can!” The girl’s voice
rose. “But they can’t! They shall not. There will always be an England!”
At that moment the plain, strongly built girl with flour on her hands
appeared transformed. No Joan of Arc could have looked stronger, more
daring, than she.
Cherry looked at the headless doll and was silent.
In the meantime, racing breathlessly, the two boys watched the drifting
of the white enemy parachutes across the sky. It had seemed at first
that they would land not so far from the spot where they had stood. But
a brisk wind carried them farther and farther away.
“It’s going to be a race,” Brand panted, “but we’ve just got to make it.
They may—may be spies. They—they must not escape!”
After climbing the sloping pasture they came to a place of scattered
shrubs and trees. At last the parachute nearest them vanished behind a
broad beech-tree.
“Come on!” Dave spurted ahead. “It’s now or never!”
At last, bursting out from behind a clump of trees they came upon a
silken bag lying on the ground. At the same time a dark shadow vanished
into a clump of low shrubs. Without a word the boys separated, one going
right, the other left. The clump was small. One or the other would come
upon the man. And then—
It was Brand’s luck to meet the man face to face. He was young,—not more
than two years Brand’s senior. There was a savage, haunted look on his
face.
“All right!” he growled, showing his teeth like an angry dog, “You asked
for it. You get it!” All this in guttural English. An automatic gleamed
in his hand. The English boy did not move.
The automatic rose, jerkily but steadily. Now it was aimed at the boy’s
feet,—now at his thigh—his belt—and now—
At that instant something with the force of an avalanche struck the Nazi
flier across the knees. As he went crashing to earth the automatic
exploded harmlessly, then fell into the tall grass. Ten seconds later
both Brand and Dave were holding the man down, as Brand panted:
“Tha—that was a capital stroke, Dave! I sup—suppose you’d call that a
tackle!”
“Right,” Dave agreed. “It’s really quite old stuff. They do it in the
movies. I guess you’d call it a part of our American way of living.” He
laughed softly.
Brand went over the Nazi flier for weapons. Finding none, he searched in
the grass, found the automatic, then turning about, said:
“You may get up.”
The reply was an ugly snarl. But the man, who wore a pilot’s insignia,
stood up.
“Mind leading the way?” Brand said to Dave.
“Certainly not.” Turning his back on the prisoner Dave started toward
the farmhouse.
“All right, you. March!” Brand snapped. The prisoner followed Dave.
With Brand bringing up the rear, they had not gone a dozen paces when
from somewhere, not far distant, there came a most astounding roar.
Starting in sudden shock, Brand all but dropped his weapon.
“Wha—what’s that?” Dave’s voice trembled as he came to a dead stop.
“That’s old Jock! Something terrible is happening. Here!” Brand thrust
the automatic into Dave’s hand. “You know how to use it. Press the
handle, that’s all. March him down into the pasture. Don’t hesitate to
shoot. This is war—our war!” He was gone. As he dashed through the
brush, Brand felt his blood fairly boiling in his veins. “If anything
serious has happened to good old Jock,” he thought savagely, “if one of
those devils harms the old man I’ll tear him to pieces with my bare
hands!”
Since no further sound reached him, guided only by that one agonizing
roar, he made his way as best he could along the slope. Then breaking
through a cluster of young beech-trees, he stopped short to stare. The
little tableau before him seemed unreal. It might have been taken from
some picture.
A young man dressed in civilian clothes, minus a coat, lay flat upon the
ground. His eyes gleaming, white teeth showing in a snarl, a golden
collie lay with his fore-paws on the prostrate man’s chest. Over them,
leaning on his crutch, towered a great gray-haired one-legged Scot. He
was saying: “Keep ’im Flash! Don’t ye let ’im stir an inch!”
At the same moment, from the pasture below came the confused murmur of
many voices. This was followed by a shout: “Come on, men. They’re ’iding
up ’ere somewheres!”
_Chapter IV_
Hans Schlitz
While the sound of voices from below grew louder, Jock said in a steady
voice:
“He was changin’ to civies.”
“His uniform must be hidden somewhere close,” suggested Dave.
“Aye. That it must,” Jock agreed.
Brand was not long in locating the uniform half hidden by dead leaves.
In a pocket he found an automatic.
“It’s good he didn’t have that in his hand,” said the sturdy Scot, “else
I shouldn’t ha’e been here. I caught him doin’ the lightnin’ change act.
“Plannin’ to do the spy act, eh?” He spoke to the man on the ground. The
answer was a surly curse.
“All right.” Brand spoke quietly to the dog. “Let him up.”
Flash looked at Jock, read an answer in his eyes, then left his post.
“Get up.” There was a sound like clinking steel in the English lad’s
voice.
“He knocked me over,” Jock explained quietly. “That was easy enough, an’
me with but one leg. Then he went on to finish me off. He’s got
astonishin’ strong hands, that lad has. He’s all for shakin’ a man. If
it hadn’t been fer good auld Flash now—”
“He would have killed you.” Chilled hate was in Brand’s voice.
All of a sudden hands parted the branches of a small oak and there stood
the brawny blacksmith from Warmington, the village below Ramsey Farm. He
carried an antique fowling-piece.
“So you got one of ’em? That’s grand, me boys!” he approved. “Where now
would you say the others be?”
By that time a dozen members of the Home Guard had gathered in.
“My friend from America, David Barnes, has one of them just up here a
little way,” Brand replied.
“I’ll say you’ve done a fine job of it,” the blacksmith approved.
“And now then.” He turned to the prisoner. “What may your name be?” He
drew pencil and notebook from his pocket.
For a moment the Nazi stood sullenly silent.
“Come now,” the blacksmith insisted. “It’s part of the regulations.”
“Hans Schlitz,” came in a low, defiant voice.
“Hans Schlitz!” The words sprang unbidden from Brand’s voice. “That’s
the name of the prisoner who worked on our farm during the World War!”
“I’m his son,” the prisoner snarled. “I’ve paid you a visit to square
accounts. I’m sorry we missed.”
“So you meant to bomb our house!” Brand stared almost in unbelief.
“Why not? Your father treated my father, a prisoner of war, like a dog.”
“That,” said the gray-haired blacksmith, “is not the truth. I mind it
well. He was housed and fed as one of the family. He worked no harder
than the men of the household. He—”
“That’s a lie!” the prisoner snarled. A crimson flush o’erspread the
giant blacksmith’s face. He took a step forward. Then he muttered
low—“No. It won’t do. Not at all it won’t do. Not to be brawlin’ with a
swine like him.”
He stood there for a moment, head bowed as if in prayer. Then his head
lifted as he said:
“Here you, Bill and Hugh, take this fellow to the guard house.
“The rest of you,” he waved an arm, “spread out an’ search for the one
that’s still free. There was three of them, you all mind countin’.”
There was a murmur of assent. Then they were away. “Come on,” Brand said
to Dave after the first man they had captured had been turned over to
the blacksmith and a companion. “All this leaves me a bit groggy. Think
of their deliberately planning to blow our house off the map!”
“Terrible!” Dave agreed.
“And my father did treat that prisoner well,” Brand said. “I remember
his telling of it many times. We saw where their plane cracked up.”
Brand’s voice rose. “Finding that plane is important. That third fellow
may have been there and finished wrecking it. If not, we’ll be the first
to look it over.”
The discovering of the wreck was no great task. The plane had cut a path
through a cluster of young trees. In doing this it had stripped off its
wings, but its cabin, motor, and instrument board had been left in fair
condition.
“The R. A. F. will want to look at this,” Brand said. “They’ll want to
know if the Huns have discovered any new tricks,—a bomb sight, or
something like that.”
He tried the cabin door. It stuck. Seizing a bar from the smashed
landing gear he pried the door open. As he did so something fell at his
feet. It was a long, flat pigskin billfold.
Throwing back the flap, he pulled out a handful of papers. The first of
these appeared to be some sort of flying orders. He could not read the
German print, but the names, written in by hand, were plain enough.
“Fritz Steinbeck,” the boy read aloud. “That may be the dark-haired
fellow we caught first.”
“What are the other names?” Dave asked.
“Hans Schlitz, and Nicholas Schlitz. Sayee—” Brand stared. “They may be
brothers.”
“And they are!” he exclaimed in a low, tense whisper ten seconds later.
“Look! Here’s their picture together.” He held up a thin card.
“Look almost like twins,” Dave suggested.
“Nope,” Brand concluded after a second look. “The one we caught is the
older of the two. I only hope,” his brow wrinkled, “that they get this
fellow Nicholas. If they don’t—well—” he heaved a deep sigh. “His name
may be Nicholas, but for us, if he harbors a grudge, as his brother
surely does, he may prove to be Old Nick, the devil himself.” He did his
best to suppress a shudder. “I’ll put this in my pocket.” He stowed the
billfold away. “Turn it in at the airport tomorrow. Mother will be down
tonight. I want to talk the affair over with her.
“Hey, you!” he called a moment later as a boy who could scarcely have
been past sixteen put in an appearance. “You’ve got a gun.”
“That I have,” the boy grinned.
“Want a job?”
“That I do. I’m tired of tramping.”
“Right. You just keep an eye on this wreck until someone from the R. A.
F. comes along.”
“A Royal Air Force man.” The boy grinned again. “I’ll sure enough be
glad to meet one.”
“You’ll get a chance, all right,” Brand promised. “They won’t miss
this.”
To Dave he said: “Come on. We’ll go down now.”
They made their way through the shadows cast by young trees in silence.
Arrived at the upper side of the broad meadow overlooking the homestead
and the village beyond, as if struck by the beauty of the view, they
paused to stand there motionless.
How different were their thoughts at that moment!
The American boy was thinking: “How strangely beautiful it all is, as if
it had been arranged with great care so that a famous artist might paint
it.”
It was just that—the farmhouse built of native stone, centuries old,
stood in the midst of orchards and gardens all green and gold with the
colors of autumn. Brightest speck of all was Cherry sitting on the gray
rocks.
“How like a sprite she is,” Dave was thinking. “And how like an angel
she can sing!”
Beyond the farmstead was a broad, green pasture dotted with black and
white cattle. To the right of this its walls shattered but still
upright, a great, gray Norman castle cast a long, dark shadow.
“It’s like the shadow of war on a weary world,” the boy thought.
As his gaze turned to the left his face brightened. “The village,” he
whispered. Never before, he thought, had there been such a village. With
its winding street following the whimsical meandering of a narrow
stream, with its houses set irregularly along hillsides that sloped away
on either side, with gardens running back to the edge of a great grove
of beech, oak and yew trees, it all seemed part of a picture-book dream.
“And yet,” he thought, “the people in that village are quite human. They
are kind, simple and good. The baker, the blacksmith, the cobbler, and
all the rest,—how really wonderful they are! And so kind to a stranger!
And yet,”—He was thinking what it might be like tomorrow, or the day
after—if the war lasted. And it would last!
As for Brand, he was thinking quite simply and steadfastly, “That’s my
home down there. It’s always been my home—has been the home of my people
for generations. And yet, if the purpose of one man, or perhaps two, had
been carried out on this perfect autumn day, it would have been no
home—only a pile of rocks. And beneath that pile would have been the
crushed forms of three persons I love.”
“This,” he said aloud, “is war. Come on.” His voice was hoarse. “Let’s
get on down.”
_Chapter V_
The Young Lord
The house in which the Ramseys lived was large. Its kitchen was
immense—large as the entire first floor of a modern American home. Its
fireplace took a five-foot log at its back. Walled round with two-foot
thick stone, with flagstone floor and massive beamed ceiling, this room
seemed the inside of a fort. And that, in days long gone bye, it might
very well have been, for a moat—in these days dry and grown up to
shrubs—ran round the house.
It was in this great room, when the day’s work was done and night had
shut out both the beauty and the horror of the day, that the family
gathered about the cheery fire.
Over the massive glowing logs a teakettle sang. By the hearth lay Flash,
the golden collie. Back of him, on a rug, the two young girls played at
jacks. Dave, who sat nearest to them, noted with approval that their
hair was now neatly combed, their dresses clean, their faces
shining—“That’s the part Alice plays,” he thought with approval.
As his eyes swept the circle, Alice knitting, Cherry smiling over a
book, Jock and Brand talking about cattle that had strayed, he thought:
“This is indeed a happy home.”
At that moment there came the sound of a motor, followed by a loud honk.
At once Cherry, with cheeks aglow, was at the door.
She ushered in a young man of medium height, with smooth dark hair and
smiling black eyes.
“Good evening, everybody,” he exclaimed. “Thought I’d just drop by to
see how you liked the bombing. Stirred you up a bit. I’ll bet on that.
I—” He paused as his eyes fell on Dave. Dave was new to him. So too were
the small girls who stared up at him.
“Lord Applegate,” Cherry began, “I want you—”
“Forget about the Lord part,” the young man laughed. “I’m not yet a
lord. If ever I receive the title it will never fit. Call me Harmon, as
you’ve always done, or Lieutenant Applegate of the R. A. F.”
“That,” Brand exclaimed, “is an honor indeed. I only wish—” He did not
finish but stared enviously at the Lieutenant’s uniform. “I’d be content
if I were only a private,” he whispered under his breath.
“Well, anyway,” Cherry laughingly began all over, “I want you to meet
David Barnes. He’s from America. His uncle is a war reporter who knew
father in the World War. And so—”
“So he’s paying you a visit. That’s fine.” The young lord who wasn’t yet
a lord but was a Lieutenant in the Royal Air Force shook hands with
Dave, then accepted a place beside him.
“Where did you get the children, Cherry?” Applegate asked, looking down
at the pair who had resumed their game.
“Oh, they are Alice’s,” Cherry laughed.
“Nice work, Alice,” the Young Lord said. “It must have been a very long
time since I was here.”
“It has been,” Alice agreed. “Quite too long. But these children,—they
are refugees from London. Bombed out, you know.
“You should have seen them when they came!” she added in a low voice,
with a grimace. “Their mothers came with them. But they couldn’t stand
the eternal silence of this place.”
“So they left you the children?” said Applegate. “Good old Alice!”
“Oh, they’re really a joy!” The girl’s face lighted.
“But Harm!” Her face sobered. “That plane dropped a bomb on the old
playhouse. Blew it to bits. You know, you used to come and play with us
sometimes long ago—with dolls and things,” she added teasingly.
“With dolls! Good heavens!” he exclaimed.
“And today the dolls had their heads blown off,” Cherry added. “Just
think! It might have been our heads that were blown off!”
“Yes,” the young man’s face sobered, “it might have been. That was a
real scrap. Didn’t come out so badly on the whole. Did they catch the
men who bailed out?”
“Two of them.” Brand’s brow wrinkled. “The Home Guard tells me the other
got away.”
“Oh, they’ll catch him,” Applegate prophesied cheerfully.
“I’m not so sure about that.” Brand did not smile. “They did find his
parachute and his uniform half hidden under leaves.”
“Oh! Fixing to turn into a spy!” Applegate’s face sobered.
“Alice,” the younger of the two children called. “What is a spy?”
“A spy,” said Cherry, “steals secrets.”
“And blows up castles and bridges. A terrible man!” said Alice. “I know
all about it. I’ll tell you a story about a spy when it’s time for bed.”
“Ooo.” Peggy gave a delectable shiver. “After that we won’t dare go to
sleep!”
“The most astonishing thing,”—Brand leaned forward in his chair—“is that
one of the men we captured today is the son of the prisoner who worked
on this farm more than twenty years ago.”
“What?” Applegate exclaimed. “It can’t be possible!”
“How do you expect us to believe that?” Cherry demanded with a wave of
the hand.
“I’ll leave it to Dave and Jock,” Brand defended.
“That’s right,” Jock agreed. Dave nodded his head.
“See?” Brand’s voice was low. “What’s more, I’m almost sure the fellow
who eluded us is his brother. If you don’t believe that, look at this
picture.” He passed the paper and the photo around.
“Hans Schlitz,” Applegate said, musingly, “That’s the name, right
enough. I’ve often heard my mother speak of him. Gloomy, brooding sort
of fellow, he was. Probably went back to Europe after the war to tell
his sons vile tales of the way he was treated. Poisoned their minds with
hate.”
“Oh—ah!” Cherry shuddered. “Gives me the creeps to think of that son of
his prowling about here at night.”
“Oh come!” Applegate sprang up. “It’s not as bad as all that. Come on,
Cherry.” He put out his hands. “How about a song. I’ll do the honors at
the old grand. Happy days.”
“I’d love it!” said Cherry, allowing herself to be led away to the
corner where a huge grand piano loomed out of the shadows.
Taking up a candle, Alice carried it to that corner, set it on the
piano, then tiptoed back.
With this pale light playing across their interesting mobile faces the
young Lord and Cherry took their places.
The moments that followed will linger long in David’s memory. Never
before had he seen or heard anything like it. The pale light playing on
two bright happy faces, eager for all life, and most of all the perfect
blending of mellow tones from the ancient piano with the fresh, free joy
of Cherry’s voice. Ah! That was something indeed! More than once,
without knowing it, he whispered:
“Oh Cherry! I didn’t know you could sing like that!”
From moment to moment the mood of the music changed. Now the girl’s
slender form was swaying to “It’s a Lovely Day Tomorrow,” the next she
was bringing back for good old Jock’s sake a song loved by all those of
twenty years before:
“There’s a long, long trail awinding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And the white moon beams.”
And then, springing to a place on the long piano bench she cried: “Now!
Let’s all sing, Roll out the barrel.”
Long before this songfest was over Dave found himself bursting with a
wonderful plan. No, it was not his war. But he could do his bit,
couldn’t he? And he would.
When quite out of breath after her last rollicking song Cherry was led
to her place by the fire, she exclaimed:
“Oh! It’s wonderful just to live!”
“Yes,” the Young Lord agreed. “It is grand. And yet, perhaps tomorrow we
die.
“Come!” He took Brand by the shoulder. “Let’s go out and see the holes
those bombs dug for you. I’ve got to report to my C. O. about them.” And
so the two of them disappeared into the night.
“Come Peggy. Come Tillie,” Alice called. “Time for a goodnight story.
And then to bed.”
“Will you really tell us a spy story?” Peggy begged.
“Perhaps.”
“A real, true spy story!” Tillie was fairly dancing.
“Yes, I guess so.”
At that Alice, the two children, and Flash, the dog, marched into the
small dining room to close the door behind them.
“It was the Young Lord who piloted that Tomahawk plane this afternoon,”
Jock said in a hoarse whisper. “I have it on good authority, the very
best.”
“And he said never a word about it!” Dave marvelled.
“He’s like that.” Cherry’s lips went white. “He never tells of such
things. But just think! He nearly crashed!”
“So near I closed my eyes,” Dave replied admiringly. “Young Lord,” he
thought. “Not a bad name for a chap like that!”
_Chapter VI_
Lady Spies
When Jock had gone stomping out to follow the Young Lord on his tour of
inspection, Dave found himself alone with Cherry.
“Listen, Cherry.” He was more excited than the girl had ever known him
to be. “I’ve got a grand idea!”
“That’s what England needs right now,” the girl laughed nervously. “Just
think what happened today, and is likely to happen more and more.”
“That’s just it!” Dave leaned forward eagerly. “In all of England there
are thousands of anxious people, millions, really, who need a touch of
youthful cheer. And you can give it to them!”
“I?” The girl caught her breath. “How?”
“By singing for them as you sang for us tonight—singing over the radio.”
“Oh—o!” Cherry drew in a long breath. “I hadn’t thought of doing that.
You—you see, I’m only a local song bird in a little country village.
Easter at the church, you know, Christmas carols, parties, and all that.
But the radio! I—I—just—”
“Don’t say you couldn’t,” Dave pleaded. “Please say you’ll try. We must
each do our bit.” He had forgotten for the moment that this was not his
war.
“Yes, I know,” Cherry breathed. “There’s mother, you know. She was a
World War nurse. Now she’s directing an entire ward. Alice has her
refugee children. And I—I just sit in the sun and tend the sheep.”
“Yes. And you might be the most talked-of girl in England!” Dave was
bursting with his new idea. “Just go up to London with me tomorrow. My
uncle has a trans-Atlantic news broadcast. He’ll arrange it all. Wi—will
you go?”
“Sure! Shake on it.” The girl put out a slim hand.
“It’s just as I thought,” declared the Little Lord, as the men came
stomping back into the room a moment later. “Those bombs were rather
small. A Messerschmitt can’t carry a heavy load. But they can keep all
of England on edge with their nuisance flight.”
“Cheerio!” Cherry sprang to her feet. “At least one Messerschmitt has
ceased to be a nuisance, and that, I’m told, is because a certain Young
Lord learned how to fly long ago.”
“All part of a day’s work,” the Young Lord grinned. “I’d like just such
a scrap every morning before breakfast.”
At that the cook brought in cakes and steaming coffee and they all took
seats by the great broad three-inch thick table that had served the
Ramsey family for more than a hundred years.
In the meantime Alice was telling her young refugees the promised spy
story.
“Once,” she began, “in that other terrible war, the one in which my
father and your grandfather fought, there were two spies named Louise
and Charlotte.”
“Oh!” Tillie exclaimed with a sudden start. “Are there really lady
spies?”
“To be sure,” was the quiet reply.
“Goody!” Tillie clapped her hands. “I’m going to be a lady spy!”
“Yes sir!” Peggy broke in with her high, piping voice. “We’ll both be
spies. You be Louise, and I’ll be Charlotte!”
“Wait and see!” the story teller warned. “Let me tell you the story.
Then you may not want to be a spy at all!”
“Oh, yes we will!” Tillie insisted. “Aunt Alice (they called her aunt)
do we have a spy right here on our farm?” The child’s voice was low,
mysterious.
“Hush!” Alice warned. “Don’t dare to breathe a word about that.”
“Tillie!” The younger child’s voice rose sharply, “Let her tell the
story!”
And so, while the children lay back among the cushions, Alice told the
story of Louise and Charlotte.
“They had lived in France.” Her voice was low and mellow. “Then had come
the terrible German soldiers. Louise fled before them. Charlotte hid in
a cellar.
“Louise was very bright. She had been a teacher. She could speak French,
German and Belgian.
“A great soldier asked her to be a spy. This frightened her nearly out
of her wits. But she said ‘all right. I will do it.’
“One dark night a great giant of a man named Alphonse, who had been a
smuggler and was a friend of her country, took her hand and said: ‘We
will go.’”
“Wh—where did they go?” Tillie was growing excited.
“They went to the border.” Alice smiled. “At the border there was a very
high barbed wire fence. You couldn’t go over it. If you tried to go
under it you might touch an electric wire that would sound an alarm.
Then you would be shot. If you tripped on something it might set off a
mine, and you’d be blown to bits.”
“And wa—was—” Tillie got no further. Her sister’s fingers were on her
lips.
“Alphonse knew all about these things,” Alice went on. “He made a hole
under the fence. The earth was very loose. He had gone under before.
They got across safely. Then they were in the land where German soldiers
were. And, just when they were breathing easy, a blinding white light
swept along the barbed wire fence. It was searching for them.”
“And—did—”
“Alphonse and Louise dropped flat and lay there hiding their faces in
the damp earth. The sweeping searchlight came and went, came and went,
then came to go away for good.”
“Oh—oo!” Peggy breathed. “They didn’t get them.”
Just then Tillie sat straight up. “Aunt Alice!” she cried. “We _do_ have
a spy on our farm. I saw his face at the window. I really did, just
now.” At that same instant the dog Flash growled softly.
Visibly shaken, Alice managed to regain her poise. “Shish!” was all she
said. Then she went on with her story.
“When this loyal French girl reached her home where German soldiers now
were living, she began making lace and selling it from town to town.
What was more important, she was finding friends to help her work as a
spy. One was a scientist who could do strange things with chemicals,
magnifying glasses, cameras and printing presses. Another was a map
maker who in shorthand could write three thousand words with invisible
ink on a piece of transparent paper so small Louise could paste it to a
spectacle lens and carry it across the line that way.”
“What for?” Tillie breathed.
“So none of the German spies could read it,” Alice explained.
“You see,” she went on, “things were happening over there that great
French and English officers needed to know. And Louise could tell them.
Once there was a terrible battle. Thousands of Germans were wounded. How
many? Louise must find out.
“There was a house close to the railroad track where all the cars filled
with wounded soldiers were passing. Someone hid in the dark room. Every
time a car passed, she’d tap on the floor, tap, tap, tap. In the next
room, seeming to study her lessons, was a school girl.”
“Just like you and me!” Tillie squeezed Peggy’s arm.
“This school girl was making marks on paper,” Alice went on. “Four
marks, then one across, four more and one across.”
“Keeping track of the taps. I could do that.” Tillie was growing excited
again.
“When all the trains had passed,” Alice whispered, “Louise counted up
all the marks. Then she multiplied that by the number of wounded men in
each car, and so she knew how many thousands had been badly wounded. But
how was she to get that number across the line?”
“Paste it on her spectacle,” suggested Tillie.
“Not this time, she didn’t,” Alice smiled. “She wrote it on a paper and
hid it. You’d never guess where.”
“In her shoe—in her glove—in her hair,” Tillie exploded.
“Nope. None of these.” Alice shook her head. “Let me tell you all about
it, then you may guess.”
“Al—all right.” Tillie drew a long breath as she settled back.
“You see,” said Alice, “Louise was going down a dark road in the night.
In one hand she carried her bag of laces, in the other a lantern. It was
a tin lantern. The tin was all full of holes. Inside a candle flickered.
It didn’t give much light, just enough. Suddenly a gruff voice
commanded:
“‘Halt!’
“Louise was taken to a rough cabin where a short broad German spy woman
lived. Everyone called her Le Grenouille, the frog. Louise and Charlotte
feared and hated her.
“‘Take off your clothes’, that’s what the Frog said to Louise.
“Before obeying, Louise carefully blew out the candle in her lantern,
then set it in the corner.
“All her clothes were taken off. Everything was searched,—dress,
stockings, shoes,—everything. Nothing was found.
“‘All right. You may dress and be gone,’ said the Frog.
“When Louise had dressed she went on her way. That night our High
Commander way across the line in France knew how many Germans had been
wounded in that battle.”
“Louise, the spy, had told him,” Peggy whispered.
“She showed them the paper on which the number had been written,” said
Alice. “Where do you think it was hidden?”
“In her basket!” Tillie cried.
“No.”
“In her hair,” Tillie guessed again.
“I know!” Peggy jumped up and down. “In her candle!”
“Good! That’s right! How did you guess?” Alice’s face shone.
“She—” Peggy did not finish. At that instant old Flash leapt from his
corner, dashed up to the window which was above his head, and barked
angrily.
At the same instant Tillie cried: “We do have a spy on our farm! I saw
his face in the window! Saw him plain as day!”
They all rushed to the kitchen where the others were talking. A few
excited words and the boys, with Flash at their heels, were out
searching in the night.
But for one thing they might have succeeded in making a capture. The
moment they stepped outside, the sky was lit by a sudden flash. Then
came the roar of an explosion.
“They’re at it again,” Young Lord murmured.
“Here Flash!” Brand called. “Go find him!” But Flash only whined at his
feet. The roar of that distant explosion had paralyzed him. And so, in
the end they returned empty handed.
“Aunt Alice,” Peggy whispered as she was being tucked in bed, “will you
tell us more about those lady spies?”