FLIGHT OF THE BLACK PIGEON
“I’m going to miss you terribly,” Norma said to Betty, as they all
gathered at the fisherman’s wharf next day.
“Wish you were going along to Black Knob,” said Betty. “I know it’s
going to be loads of fun, and there might be a thrill or two. Who
knows?”
“Thrills,” Norma shuddered. She had not fully recovered from the shock
of being sat upon by a white-robed figure in the dark. Every muscle in
her body ached and there were three long scratches on her cheek.
“Tell me all about it, when you get to work,” she whispered, drawing
Betty to one side.
“Tell you!” Betty exclaimed. “Why, my voice doesn’t carry that far!”
“No, but your hands will.” There was a note of secrecy in Norma’s
voice. “They have a wonderful way of talking to the folks on shore,
from over there—”
“Ah! A mystery!” Betty exclaimed in a whisper.
“Just that!” Norma agreed. “Sorry I can’t tell you more, but they’ll
tell you more, when they learn to trust you and that will be very soon,
I’m sure.
“Goodbye and good luck.” She gripped Betty’s hand hard. “Watch out for
the bad Gremlins and give my love to Patsy.”
“Okay, I will.” Betty sprung into the motorboat and they were away.
Norma returned to Harbor Bells to sit by the fire for a long time
thinking and dreaming, then to eat her dinner and retire for a few
hours of sleep. Her shift at the Sea Tower for the present was to be
the wee, small hours of the morning. “The most important of all,” had
been Lieutenant Warren’s words for it. “It is during these hours that
thieves, housebreakers, and safe-crackers prowl a city’s streets, that
ghosts walk, and spies fly the skies or creep beneath the sea.”
“And that the bad Gremlins get in their dirty work,” Norma laughed.
In spite of their fun Norma knew that the task she was undertaking was
a serious one. Rosa and a girl named Marie were to work with her but
she was to be in charge.
When at last Norma took her place at the chart table with Rosa at the
switchboard and Marie ready for any task that might come her way, there
was a sober look on her face such as had seldom been there before.
Two hours passed. Norma’s eyelids were growing heavy; the first night
was going to be hard. Then the switchboard rattled and Norma repeated
after some voice:
“Two heavy twin-motors going south, fast!”
“That’s from Kittywake,” said Rosa. Norma searched her chart, then
marked a spot while Marie was droning through a phone:
“Two heavy twin-motors going south, fast. That’s from Kittywake.”
“Okay, stand by!” came back in a man’s voice.
A moment later the switchboard again rattled and once more Rosa
repeated:
“Two heavy twin-motors going south.
“That’s from Brink’s Point,” she said this time.
Norma marked the spot and marveled at the distance that had been
covered. “If they’re enemy planes!” She chilled and thrilled at the
thought of a sky battle.
Before Marie got in her second report, there came a buzz and the man’s
voice from below reported:
“Those are Army planes of the Ferry Command. A little off their course,
but they’ll take care of that. As you were.”
They all settled back to await the night’s next little adventure.
At 3:16 a small plane was reported off Crow Point. It turned out to be
a Navy patrol plane that had lost its way in an early morning mist.
A few moments later a wavering light was reported off Preston Beach.
The watcher said it was six miles off shore. It was really only one
mile and was a lantern atop the mast of a fishing schooner.
And that was the total bag of missing, misled, and enemy planes.
“Not so exciting,” was Marie’s sleepy comment as they went off duty.
“No,” Norma agreed, “but standing guard at the edge of no man’s land
when nothing happens for months on end over there on the other side
isn’t exciting either. But let the patrol relax—”
“And then comes trouble.” Rosa finished.
“Yes, and if we relax it will come here,” said Norma. “Look at last
night!”
“Okay,” Marie agreed good-naturedly. “When it comes you’ll find me
right here with you, and I’ll hope to do my bit.”
“I know you will,” said Norma with a friendly grip on the arm.
That first night might have served for the whole week’s pattern, and
for another half week after that. A plane lost and found, three planes
off their course, a fast speed boat taken for a plane, these were the
simple little stories recorded in Norma’s book. But, for all that, they
were learning their tasks, going through their work with greater skill
every day, preparing themselves for any world-rocking and
nerve-wracking events that lay ahead.
That is not to say that in this week and a half nothing exciting
happened. Many things did happen, but these came during off-duty hours.
One day, with Tom McCarthy as her escort, Norma peddled back to Carl
Langer’s studio. Her excuse for coming was to leave an unimportant film
to be developed, her real reason to talk to Carl Langer about his
estate up in the hills.
“Mr. Langer,” she said, after the film had been listed and stored away,
“that’s a fine farm you have back in the hills.”
The photographer started and stared.
“So you have seen it.” He regained his composure instantly.
“He didn’t see me on my bike,” she thought.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I rode up that far on my bike.”
“That farm,” he said, swelling a little with pride, “occupies all my
spare time. I am particularly fond of it because it belonged to my
father before me.
“You see,” his voice took on a conversational tone, “I was born in
Portland. My father was a man of business. This farm was for him, you
might say, a sideline. He kept a man to farm it. He spent week-ends
there. I, too, enjoyed it when I was a boy. So now, you see—” he
smiled, “it brings me great pleasure.”
“That’s quite wonderful,” said Norma. “And did your father also raise
black pigeons?”
“Black pigeons?” It seemed to Norma that Carl Langer started again, but
once more he made a quick recovery. “Pigeons? Oh! No—this is something
I have done. These pigeons, they are quite rare.”
“I thought they were,” said Norma.
“Oh, yes—very rare indeed. I only wish you had come in, when you were
by my house. Gladly would I have shown you the choicest ones of the
lot. And besides, I have something I should wish to show you. It is in
the house, a picture. It is a masterpiece, I think.”
“A—a picture,” Norma’s voice cracked. “There it is,” she thought, “but
I must not betray myself.”
“Oh! A picture,” she exclaimed. “A masterpiece—how fine! I’d love to
see it. And I have a friend who is very much interested in pictures.
But then, she’s a very important and busy person.”
“Surely she must not be too busy to look at a masterpiece. I truly
think it is by Millet, the man who painted the Angelus.”
“Oh! Then I’m sure she would come,” said Norma. “She’s a lover of
Millet’s work. His characters are so simple, so human and real.”
“Ah! I see you also know pictures.”
“A little,” Norma admitted.
“Bring your friend out any time, just any time.” The photographer’s
face fairly beamed.
“I’ll bring her some time,” Norma agreed.
“What’s all this about a masterpiece?” Tom asked on the way home. “I
don’t get it.”
“Oh, that!” Norma laughed low. “That’s a sort of military secret
between my big, high chief and myself. When it—well, when the story
breaks, you might say, I’ll try to let you in on it. But for the
present mum’s the word.”
“Have it your own way,” Tom grinned, “but, see here, sister, if you go
out to that old geezer’s house, don’t go alone. Take that from me. I
don’t like his looks!”
“I won’t,” Norma agreed.
* * * * *
That night, on lonely Black Knob Island, Betty had a rather weird
experience.
To make life safer for the plane spotters on the island, six enlisted
men had been sent there. These had taken up their quarters in a small
summer hotel that had been closed for the winter. Betty, Millie, and
Mary were given rooms at the Norton cabin, but took their meals at the
hotel which was presided over by Mrs. Pearl Tratt, a busy, friendly
fisherman’s wife.
In no time at all, Betty had won her way into the hearts of Patsy and
her grandfather.
On this particular night. Betty was sharing the first spotter watch
with Grandfather Norton and Patsy, who had not yet retired for the
night.
Since the moon was not up, it was quite dark on the spotter stand.
Grandfather Norton, who had already begun teaching Betty the deaf and
dumb alphabet so she could talk to Norma “by hand,” was now introducing
her to a device which he had been working on for a long time.
“It’s not yet perfect,” he explained, “but I think it has great
possibilities. With the unaided ear, one seldom spots a plane, by
sound, more than six miles away. Even with my imperfect hearing, aided
by my listening device, I have been able, more than once, to spot a
plane coming from the sea ... American planes, of course ... at a
distance of ten miles. Want to try it?” he asked.
“Of course,” was Betty’s instant reply. “Anything that helps us do our
job well is just swell!”
“Well, now,” said Grandfather Norton, “this listening device of mine
appears to work best on sounds rather close at hand, so we’ll just try
it out on Joe Tratt. Just you put on these earphones, then I’ll turn on
the electricity. Got a small electric plant in the furnace room, you
know.”
“Joe Tratt—” Betty repeated. “What’s he going to do, stand off
somewhere and shout?”
“No—No!” The old inventor’s voice cracked. “Joe always comes in from
setting his nets out on the reef about this time. He’s coming in now,
probably, only his boat’s motor doesn’t make a great deal of noise, so
you don’t hear him with the unaided ear.
“Now—you ready?”
“Ready.”
He touched a button. A faint light appeared. He put his hand on a large
metal horn and began turning it slowly.
“When you pick up the sound of a motor say, ‘Now’,” he shouted.
For ten seconds she listened intently. Then suddenly she said:
“Now!”
“I’ll test it.” He swung it back and forth. As the sound of the boat’s
motor rose and fell with the turning, Betty told him, by lifting and
lowering a hand, how the sound rose and fell. When at last the spot was
found where the sound was strongest, she held both hands straight out.
“It’s like tuning in on a radio program,” she laughed as she continued
to listen. “This should be great. I only wish there were an airplane
coming in.”
“Oh! They’ll come!” the old man crackled. “Perhaps sooner than you want
them.”
As she listened the sound of the motor grew steadily louder. “Coming
in,” she thought. Then she wondered what it would be like, setting nets
off the shores of the British Isles where many subs lurked and planes,
like birds of prey, haunted the skies, ready to pounce down upon you.
“Brave people,” she thought. “They deserve all that we can do for them.”
Tiring of the constant pounding on her eardrums, she nodded to Patsy,
at the same time executing a circle with her hand.
Understanding instantly, Patsy began turning the big horn slowly.
Gradually the sound of the motor faded into nothing. For a time, Betty
caught only the slow wash, wash of waves on the shore. Then, little by
little, she began to make out a different sound.
At first only a low snap-snap, like clothes cracking on a distant
clothesline, the sound at last became a steady flap-flap that increased
in volume with each second.
“I hear wings.” She made a motion to Patsy, and the girl stopped
turning.
“It’s a bad flying Gremlin.” Patsy danced up and down in her excitement.
“A seagull,” said the more practical grandfather.
The speaker picked up their voices. Betty heard them.
“It’s not like a gull’s flight,” she said. “I’ve heard them too often.
This is something else.”
“See!” Patsy danced again. “I told you. It’s a Gremlin! A bad, bad
Gremlin.” Then, “Oh!” She covered her eyes. “I don’t want to see him.
He may come real close.”
“We’ll put the spotlight on him,” said Grandfather, taking up a
portable spotlight and adjusting a switch.
“He’s coming right this way,” said Betty. “He should pass over us.”
“I’ll be ready with the light,” said Grandfather. “You tell me when.”
In the dim light Patsy’s face was a strange study, alternating
curiosity and fear. Curiosity at last won the day. When at last the
searchlight cut across the sky, she was watching, big-eyed and eager.
For ten seconds the light played across an empty sky and then:
“It is a Gremlin!” Patsy cried. “A big, black Gremlin!”
“No!” said Betty. “I’m sorry. It’s a black pigeon. I didn’t know you
kept pigeons.”
“We don’t,” said Grandfather. “What’s more, he doesn’t belong on this
island. He’s going straight on. Turn the horn about, Patsy—”
Patsy obeyed and once again Betty heard that steady flap flap of wings.
When the horn had been properly adjusted, she listened until the sound
of the pigeon’s flight faded into nothing.
For a moment Grandfather Norton studied the pointing horn, then he said:
“That’s a homing carrier pigeon. The rookery he is seeking is somewhere
near Granite Head. You may have made a very important discovery.”
“I—I don’t understand,” said Betty.
“That pigeon never came all this way from shore by himself. That’s not
the way of pigeons.”
“Then you think he came from a boat?” Betty was beginning to understand.
“Yes, or from an airplane.”
“Or a sub.” Patsy put in.
“Any of these or even an airplane carrier. Which means,” Grandfather
went on, “that somewhere on the mainland we have a nest of spies.”
“Spies-spies! Oh, yes, spies,” Betty murmured. She was thinking of her
talks with Norma about many strange doings. There might be something to
it after all, she concluded.
“They’re up to something,” said Grandfather. “Sending messages back and
forth like that. Perhaps it’s something really big. Just now they’re
just feeling us out, trying to see how well prepared we are.”
“They got a sample the other night,” said Betty.
“A very fine sample,” the aged inventor agreed. “A very fine sample,
indeed. What I fear most is that they may make this island a stepping
stone.”
“We have some soldiers now,” Betty suggested.
“Yes, a few men. We’ll have more men later.”
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