_Chapter_ VII
Enemy Sighted
After they returned from the futile search the three of them, Dave,
Brand and the Young Lord stood for a time beside the car. They had
talked for a moment. Then Brand walked away to the barn for one more
look about before he retired for the night. It had been a strange,
exciting and momentous day. Nothing quite like it had ever happened at
Ramsey Farm before. He felt restless and ill at ease.
After he had gone the Young Lord asked Dave a strange question:
“What are you doing in England?”
“Why—I—nothing really,” Dave hesitated. “You see my uncle is in the news
service here. He was coming over in the Clipper. He invited me to come
along. So here I am. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as simple as all that, but
he fixed it up.”
“I see,” the Young Lord murmured.
Did he? Dave doubted that. He made a second start. “You see I’ve had two
years in college. Didn’t like it any too well, the class-room part. Oh,
math was well enough. In fact I really liked it. But the rest,” he
heaved a sigh. “Well, I majored mostly in football, basketball, tennis
and golf. So—oo,”
“So they didn’t care much whether you stayed on?”
“I suppose not. Anyway, all the colleges in America have been crammed
with fellows who haven’t anything else to do but go to college now,—”
“All that will change fast,” said the Young Lord. “The way things are
going over there now those boys are going to have things to do. Ever do
any flying?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes—a little—quite a bit in fact. Uncle was a flyer in the World War.
Not an ace exactly, but he got to like flying. He’s always had a flying
crate or two about, and naturally I had to have a turn at them.”
The Young Lord guessed, and quite shrewdly too, that Dave was being too
modest about his flying.
“I’m trying out a new plane tomorrow,” he said slowly. “It’s a
two-seater. Want to go up? Just a little sky patrol. Nothing’s likely to
happen.”
Dave seemed to see that Tomahawk of the afternoon plunging downward
apparently headed for destruction. He wanted to say “no”. For some
reason his tongue wouldn’t form the word. So he said:
“Yes. Sure. I’d like to.”
“Righto.” The Young Lord reached for the door of his big old English
car. “I’ll be after you in this bus at 10:00 A. M.”
His motor roared. He was away.
“Now why did I say that?” Dave asked himself aloud.
“Say what?” He started. Brand was at his side.
“I promised to go up with Applegate tomorrow.”
“Sayee! That’s corking! Just what I’d like to do! In fact,” Brand’s tone
was sober, “I want to join up. Since this afternoon I want to more than
ever. Mother objects. Says I’m needed to manage the farm. Says the army
needs our butter and fat cattle. This farm! Of course, we love it. All
of us do. But when all of England is threatened—when the others are
doing their bit—to be tied to the sail! God!” Brand stamped his foot.
“It’s all the way you think, I guess.” Dave laughed lightly. “Well, I’ll
be up having a look at your native land from the clouds in the morning.
So, goodnight.” Half an hour later, in his bed beneath the rafters of
that ancient house, Dave was asking himself: “Why did I come to
England?”
The answer seemed simple enough. This war was too big to miss—that
is—miss seeing. But why had he persuaded Cherry to go with him to London
where bombs were falling? Why had he promised to go up with the Young
Lord in the morning? He did not know the answers. All he knew was that
he felt like a fly caught in a web. The web did not have a very strong
hold on him yet. He could break away if he wished. But did he wish? Not
knowing the answer, he fell asleep.
In another corner of that broad upstairs, her door leading into the
children’s room ajar, Alice was hearing a shrill childish voice cry:
“You’re a spy, a little lady spy. I’m a frog, a great big black frog.
I’m going to swallow you—swallow you right down. Here I come!”
This was followed by a low, half-suppressed exclamation, a giggle, then
a loud “Shish.” After that all was silent.
Alice was nearly asleep when suddenly from far overhead there came the
roar of powerful motors. London was in for one more beating. Would those
terrible bombings never end?
It was with a strange thrill tickling his spine that Dave climbed into
the rear of the lord’s two-seater plane the next day. This, he knew, was
a fighting plane, his very first. This plane carried a sting in its
nose, eight guns capable of firing nearly ten thousand shots per minute.
“Of course,” he thought, “this is broad daylight. Not much chance of
picking up an enemy. And yet, there’s yesterday.”
After fastening his safety belt with great care, he waited for the
takeoff. It came with a roar. They were in the air. Some ship!
He studied it with great care. It had a dual control. If something
happened, just happened to go wrong with the Young Lord, he could bring
the ship to earth. He might, in a pinch, do a great deal more. The
firing of those guns seemed simple. He had had a great deal more flying
experience than he was willing to admit,—at least 200 hours.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Applegate gave a slight squeeze at his
firing button. In no uncertain tones the guns spoke. Dave was thrilled
to his fingertips.
He began studying the electric switches, the emergency boost, the petrol
switch, the air-speed indicator, the directional gyro, the climb
indicator, and all the other instruments. A born mechanic, he could
study these out one by one, eliminate the ones least needed, then
picture himself guiding the ship.
Watching a mirror, studying his face, Applegate nodded in approval to
the sky. As they climbed to 10,000 feet Dave saw London in the distance.
Smoke hung over it. There had been a bombing, fires started. Homes of
simple, honest, hard-working people who had not asked for this war had
been destroyed. He hated all that.
White clouds, like distant snowbanks, were drifting through the blue as
blue sky.
“Take her for a minute, will you?” The Young Lord spoke in a
matter-of-fact voice.
Dave’s hands trembled as he gripped the controls. He kept the ship going
on an even keel while his companion, after unstrapping heavy binoculars,
studied the sky.
Suddenly Applegate threw out a hand. Swinging it to the right, he
directed Dave into a fluffy white cloud.
“That’s it,” he approved. “Now just lurk around in here for a bit.”
With a tickling sensation at the back of his neck Dave “loitered round”.
At the same time he was asking himself, “Why did I let myself in for
this?”
Twice they came out of the cloud, but on the wrong side. At last, after
one more wave of the lord’s hand, Dave headed straight out, on the side
from which they had entered.
He caught his breath sharply as, on breaking out into blue sky, he
sighted an airplane beneath and beyond them. He trembled as he saw the
hated swastika on its tail.
“Will there be a scrap?” he asked himself. Strangely enough he felt
quite cool about it. The Young Lord took the controls. The motors
roared. This gave Dave time to study land and sky. As near as he could
tell the other plane which was slowly circling, was just about over
Ramsey Farm. “That’s why Applegate is putting on such speed,” he
thought.
Just then, like a squirrel darting for shelter, the enemy plane leapt
upward and into a cloud.
“You better!” Applegate growled, at the disappearing enemy.
Only when they were near the cloud did he slacken his speed. Then, like
a dog waiting for a squirrel, he loitered about in the sky.
“If the enemy really wished to get away,” Dave thought, “every advantage
is with him.” A whole string of clouds was drifting in from the distant
sea. Was he glad or sorry? At that moment he could not have told.
After a time, like a dog watching clumps of bushes where a rabbit is
hiding, the Young Lord began skirting that long procession of clouds.
They had followed almost to landsend and the shore when suddenly the
Young Lord pointed to a black speck against the distant sky. Dave heaved
a sigh of relief. Turning about, they headed for the airdrome.
“He was bashful, that Hun,” Applegate laughed into his mouthpiece.
“Perhaps he came over to find his pals who paid us a visit yesterday.
Sorry to disappoint him. Even the wreck has been carted away.”
“One of his friends is still at large,” Dave suggested. “Might have set
up a signal. Black cross cut from the sod would do the trick.”
“That’s right,” Applegate agreed. “Anyway,” he laughed as they began
circling for a landing, “we’re back just in time for lunch. It’s cold
beef and plum pudding. You’ll stay, I hope.”
“Oh! Sure!” Dave agreed.
His visit to the flying corps’ mess was one not soon to be forgotten. He
had read magazine stories of these fighters. Loud, boisterous, wild and
a bit coarse, that was how they had been pictured. To his surprise he
found them a simple, kindly lot, with manners that would have put many a
college group to shame.
“You’ve really got to be up to things to be a-flying in this squadron,”
the Young Lord explained. “And in any other, for that matter. Drinking,
loud laughs, roughness—well, it doesn’t seem to go with life-and-death
flying, that’s all.
“You have to be a man,” he added after a pause. “And a man’s nearly
always a gentleman as well.”
_Chapter_ VIII
Roll Out the Barrel
When late that afternoon Dave walked with Cherry to the village to catch
the bus to London, he carried a parcel under his arm. “My hiking boots,”
he explained. “These hard roads have worn the soles thin.”
“Oh! I’m glad,” Cherry exclaimed. “You are going to like Uncle John.
He’s our shoemaker. We call him that though I’m sure he’s really uncle
to no one. He’s very old and still does all his work the hard way, by
hand. Wonderful work it is, too.”
Dave did like Uncle John. Seated there at his bench, a leather apron on
his lap and nails between his teeth, he seemed to have just moved out of
a very old story book.
“Do you still make shoes as well as repair them?” Dave asked.
“Oh, yes, now and then.” The old man’s smile was good to see. “I’ve made
all the Young Lord’s shoes since he was a baby.
“But then,” he sighed, “times have changed. You can’t get the leather
any more. It used to be that I could make a pair of shoes and guarantee
them for five years. Those times are gone.
“But perhaps it is best that it should be so,” he added cheerfully.
“Nowdays people like change. If you only pay one pound for a pair of
shoes, you can afford more than one pair.” Taking a tack from his mouth,
he drove it home, then another.
“He lives in two small rooms behind the shop,” Cherry said when they
were outside. “His little wife was just like him, always cheerful and
kind. She died three years ago.
“Nearly all the people in the village are like that,” she added as they
walked on. “The butcher has his stall in front of his home. The baker’s
shop is in his basement. So is the grocer’s. Everyone works. All are
kindly. They never have much, but they make it do—and are happy.”
Dave was to recall this picture with a sudden pull at his heartstrings
in the days that were to come.
The bus came lurching in. They climbed aboard and were away for London.
Arrived in London they hurried up to the radio studio for Cherry’s
audition. Singing in a bare studio with a strange accompanist, the girl
was far from doing her best. For all that the director gave her a small
spot on the “People’s Choice” program at 9:00 P. M.
Once more on the street where shadows had grown long and dark, and
people by hundreds were hastening home before the air raid siren
sounded, Cherry gripped Dave’s arm as she said in a tragic whisper:
“David, I never can stick it out. It will only be a dismal failure.”
“Nonsense!” Dave laughed. “It’s only stage-fright. Come on. My uncle
took me to a rare little basement eating place once. They serve good old
American coffee and waffles with maple syrup. That will put you on your
toes.”
In the quiet of the sub-cellar, they drank great quantities of coffee
and ate their waffles joyously.
“I—I guess I’ll make it now,” Cherry murmured. Once more they were on
the deserted streets.
Then, as if to crush her high hopes, all hell let loose. The roar of
powerful motors, the scream of sirens, the boom and bang of
anti-aircraft guns filled all the night with terror.
“I can’t let you in ’ere now,” said a burly guard at the entrance to the
broadcasting station. “It is quite impossible. You shouldn’t be ’ere at
all.”
“But this lady is to sing over the radio at nine!” Dave protested.
“Can’t be ’elped.” The guard was firm. “Orders is orders. No ladies
hallowed in the station during an alarm. If you’d ask me sir, I’d
hadvise a subway station at once, sir. Yonder’s one not ’alf a block
haway.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there came a low, whining
sound, followed by a flash that lit all the sky. Then came a roar fit to
burst their eardrums, and a tremendous push that tossed them to the
pavement five yards away.
Without a word Dave scrambled to his feet, picked the slight girl up in
his arms, dashed half a block, and was down two flights of stairs to the
subway station before he fully realized what he was doing.
Seated on the hard floor of the station, with thousands of people all
about them, for a full moment they were completely silent. Then Dave
began to laugh. Cherry joined in, and the spell was broken.
The laugh over, they looked about them. The whole long platform was
filled with people. Young and old, rich and poor, salesgirls in thin,
shabby coats, gray-haired ladies in mink and ermine, they all were
there. And all, it seemed, were bent on making the best of an unpleasant
situation. Bye and bye they would do their best to snatch a little
sleep, for tomorrow would be another day.
“Look at them.” There was a catch in Dave’s throat. “They seem almost
happy.”
“Yes.” Cherry’s chin went up. “They’re not going to let Hitler get them
down. He wouldn’t be pleased if he could see them now!”
In a bright corner four old men were playing cards. In the shadows a
shopgirl was whispering to her young man. Sitting on their bedrolls, two
sedate matrons were knitting. Children were everywhere, and all of them
whooping it up in hilarious fun.
“Excuse me,” said a smiling young lady. “Aren’t you Cherry Ramsey?”
“Why—why yes, I am.” Cherry looked into a pair of eager blue eyes.
“I knew it!” the young lady exclaimed. “I heard you sing at Lady
Applegate’s home once. It was truly quite wonderful. Now—” she
hesitated, “well, you see, I’m just helping out down here, sort of
social service work, don’t you know. And I thought you might not mind,
well, you know,”—she hesitated—“well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind singing
a song or two for these people. They’d think it quite the berries if you
would.”
“Well, that—” Cherry laughed, “that’s what I came to town for, to sing
on the radio. But the guard wouldn’t let us go up to the station.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Miss Meeks, the social worker murmured. “Listen!”
There came a deep, low rumble like the roll of distant thunder. “You
can’t help loving these people, don’t you know.” Her tired face
brightened as she spread out her arms. “Not one of them knows whether
his home will be standing in the morning. But you see how they are.”
“Yes—yes I see.” Cherry swallowed hard.
“The radio,” Miss Meeks murmured. “Now I shouldn’t wonder. Will you sing
for them, Miss Ramsey?”
Cherry nodded.
From somewhere a small piano was made to appear. A little Irish girl
with a tumbled mass of red hair took her place before it. A small
platform—a heavy packing box—was placed beside the piano.
After shedding her heavy coat, Cherry stood before her strange audience.
All lovely in gold and blue, she caught their eyes at once. Leaning
over, she whispered to the girl at the piano, giving her the name of her
first song. The social worker clapped her hands for silence. Deep,
appreciative silence followed.
“Miss Ramsey, a friend of Lady Applegate, from Dorset way, will sing to
us,” Miss Meeks announced. “Let’s give her a hand.” The applause was
tumultuous.
Somehow, a light, not too strong, was made to play on the slender girl
as she sang.
“In the gloaming, Oh my darling,
When the lights are dim and low.”
She sang the song through to the end. The applause that followed drowned
out the sound of exploding bombs.
“More! More!” came from every corner.
The social worker slid a microphone before the singer. Bending over, a
smile on her lips, Cherry once more whispered a title. Then, lifting her
voice high, she cried: “Roll out the Barrel! Everybody sing! Let’s make
it ring!”
Everybody did sing,—more people than Cherry will ever know, for through
the microphone that had been placed before her, Cherry was at last
singing on the radio. From end to end of England the song boomed on:
“Roll out the Barrel.”
Every platform in the subway had its radio. Station by station they
joined in until the whole tube, miles on end, echoed with the song.
“Roll out the barrel! We’ll have a barrel of fun
Roll out the barrel! We’ll put the blues on the run.”
It seemed to Dave as he listened after that song was over, that even the
Führer must have heard the applause that followed, heard and shuddered.
Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters who recalled that other
terrible war, Cherry sang:
“There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingale is singing
And the white moon beams.”
Then, scarcely pausing for breath, leaning far forward, a bewitching
smile on her face, she sang: “No! No! No! Papasista.”
When the roar of applause had died away, Dave heard a gray-haired lady
in a Persian lamb coat say:
“Such a vulgar song!”
“Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar and wonderful. I quite
love this war. It has given me one more chance for a fling at life.”
“All out for England!” Cherry called into the megaphone. “Everybody
sing, ‘We’ll roll the old chariot along’.”
They sang. They roared. They sang.
“If Hitler’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
If Tubby’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
If Il Duce’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
If the devil’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
We’ll roll the old chariot along
And we won’t tag on behind.”
In the hush that followed, Cherry announced in a low, husky voice: “God
save the King.”
There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man, woman and child was on
his feet. Even the enemy planes above seemed to hush as the glorious
National Anthem rolled over England from Dover to Newcastle.
There were tears in the social service worker’s eyes as she took
Cherry’s hand. “You’ll come again, won’t you?” she said in a low voice
full of meaning. “Often and often.”
“If—if you need me,” was the quiet reply.
“And you said you couldn’t do it!” Dave laughed happily as he guided her
up the stairs and back to their sub-basement for one more cup of good
American coffee.
_Chapter_ IX
The Hideout
That night members of that motley subway throng shared their beds with
their new-found friends. Dave found a place with a young disabled
veteran of the battle of Flanders. They slept on a thin pad and were
covered by blankets none too thick. The subway was cold and drafty. For
two hours Dave lay there thinking. Those were long, long thoughts. Back
to the pictured walls of his mind came the peaceful pastures of Ramsey
Farm, the racing planes overhead, the falling bombs, and the drifting
parachutes. He rode once more with young Lord Applegate in that
two-seater. His blood raced again as they played hide-and-seek with an
enemy plane in the clouds. Again he heard the thundering crash of a bomb
that had exploded, not, he supposed, more than two blocks from where he
and Cherry had stood. What if it had been only one block, or no block at
all? He tried to think this last question through, and could not quite
make it. Nor could he answer to his complete satisfaction, his second
and third questions,—why had he come to England? And why did he not go
home? There would be a plane for Lisbon the day after tomorrow. Would he
take it? He doubted it. And yet it seemed to him a voice whispered, “It
is to this or no other. Think it over.” He did not think. Instead, he
fell asleep.
Cherry had been given a welcome by a bright young lady who sold shoes in
a great store. This young lady was wondering whether a bomb had
scattered her shoes over a city block, and her job with them. In the
midst of her chatter Cherry fell sound asleep.
Before they could leave the subway next morning two people were after
them.
The manager of the radio station, who the night before had given Cherry
such a lukewarm reception, came bustling down the stairs. She, he said,
had been “Splendid! Splendid! Quite remarkable indeed! How the people
had taken to her! There had been wires, phone calls,—everything. Would
she come back at nine that night and sing at the studio? She should have
a competent accompanist and every courtesy. Would she come?”
“No.” Cherry favored him with her brightest smile. “I won’t sing in your
studio. I can’t sing in a stuffy little box with no one about except a
man in a glass case who waves his arms, pretends to cut his own throat
with his fingers, points to the tip of his nose, and goes through all
manner of other contortions just to tell me what to do.”
All this left the man staring at her, speechless.
“But if,”—Cherry burst into a merry laugh—“if you’ll let me sing on my
box with my glorious red-headed Irish girl to tickle the ivories, I’ll
come back, not tonight, but very soon, and often.”
“Oh! My dear child!” the manager exploded. “You are generosity itself.
But the subway is cold and drafty.”
“No place,” said Cherry, and she did not smile, “can be cold where so
many warm hearts are beating as one.”
The man stared at her in speechless silence for a moment. Then he
murmured, “May God forgive me if this child is not a genius.”
But here was her mother. She too had heard the broadcast and thought it
marvelous. This was her day off. Her small car was just around the
corner. She would take them back to Ramsey Farm in time for scrambled
eggs, coffee and scones. And she did.
Mrs. Ramsey, David realized at once, was a strong, efficient person,
with a will of her own. She directed the affairs of her household as the
O. C. directs his squadron. Breakfast over, she called in the entire
group to discuss farm affairs. She commended Jock for his fine job of
plowing, and the boys for their work in the turnips and Brussels sprout
patches.
“England is going to need food,” she declared. “We must all do our best.
The nights are growing cold. We may get a freeze at any time, so—oo—”
“So it’s the potatoes next.” Brand gave vent to a good-natured groan. He
hated picking up potatoes. Stooping over made his back ache. But theirs
was a fine crop, and it must be gathered in.
Jock got out the potato plow. Soon they were all hard at work. David
joined in. So too did Alice. Even the “enfants terrible”, Tillie and
Peggy, helped a little. They were, however, at their best throwing
clods, so in the end they were banished.
The place where the potatoes were stored held for Dave a real
fascination.
“We call it the Hideout,” Alice explained, dropping down on a sack of
potatoes for a short rest. “It’s as old as the hills. Did you note the
moss on the roof?”
“Six inches thick,” Dave agreed. “And look at the walls! Solid masonry!”
“We believe it goes back to Feudal days.” Alice’s eyes took in the one
large room, its broad stone fireplace, two narrow windows, and massive
beams. “In those days it was a real hideout, I shouldn’t wonder,” she
murmured.
“And might be again,” Dave suggested.
“Yes, if the Huns really come,” she agreed. “But they’ll never get this
far—England will beat them back even if they swarm in on the shore like
the waves of the sea.”
All that day Cherry sat curled up in a great chair before the fire in
the farmhouse kitchen. She sometimes slept, sometimes thought soberly,
and sometimes dreamed. To this her wise mother offered no objections.
Cherry, she realized for the first time, had a great gift. She might, it
seemed, be of extraordinary service to all England. She could bring them
the spirit of youth, buoy them up, give them courage for the great
ordeal that lay ahead.
The potatoes were stored in a narrow, dark underground tunnel that one
entered through a door at the back of the Hideout.
“A grand air raid shelter,” suggested Dave.