lower cabin. He studied the wind, then consulted the compass.
“O. K.,” he muttered. “If only—”
On a shelf he found a hammer and a box of wooden pegs. These, he
concluded, would be for stopping up holes made by machine-gun bullets.
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.