THE CAST ASSEMBLES
As she left the cool shade of that porch, Mary was thinking of just two
things, her reunion with the men of the big bomber flight and their
plans for the immediate future.
One thing surprised her. When they had entered the school an hour
before, the sun had been shining brightly. Now it was raining hard.
“What a change!” she exclaimed as she and Judy raced for the car.
“It’s the start of the rainy season,” Judy explained, once they were
inside the car, gliding along. “When it starts it keeps right on. It’s
too bad you didn’t arrive a week sooner.”
“Why?”
“At this season of the year terrible storms sweep over the Himalaya
Mountains. You’ve got to cross them, you know.”
“Is it very dangerous?”
“They say it’s one of the most dangerous passes in the world. Once a
flight of five planes with Chinese pilots started over the pass. Not
one of them was ever heard of again.
“But then,” Judy hastened to add, “those were small planes. You’ve got
a real ship.”
“Yes,” Mary thought, “we’ve got a real ship.” For all that, she could
not help recalling the many times “real ships,” big passenger planes,
had crashed against the stone wall of the Rockies.
“The Himalayas are much higher than the Rockies,” she said.
“Oh, much higher! One peak has never been scaled. It’s been tried time
and again. Many a poor climber is buried beneath their snows.”
Mary scarcely heard this last remark for the airport loomed just ahead.
Having bidden Judy good-by with a promise to join her again in an hour,
she found herself in the midst of a veritable mob of U.S. airmen, who,
in their joy at seeing her, threatened to wreck her precious flying
hands, squeezed the life out of her and talked her deaf and dumb, all
in the same five minutes.
After that, order was restored and they led her to a back room. There
they set her on a stool to join her in a toast to the god of the
Himalayas and the future, drunk with honest-to-goodness American coffee.
By the time she managed to drag Sparky into a corner for a private
conference, she was quite out of breath.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: _She Cornered Sparky for a Private Conference_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Sparky,” she spoke in a low tone, “as the crooks would say, ‘what’s
the lay?’”
“We’ll be here for at least another day.” Sparky’s brow wrinkled. “I
don’t like it. The rainy season is here. Every day it will get worse.
We’ve made it this far alone and, considering the circumstances, got on
pretty swell.”
“Sure we have, Sparky—just wonderful.”
“But orders are orders,” Sparky sighed. “We’re to go over with the rest
of the flight.”
“That’s so they’ll pull us off a mountain peak in case we get stuck,”
Mary suggested.
“Something like that. That’s the toughest bit of flying in the whole
trip, so everything has to be a little more than all right. Our ship is
ready to go right now.”
“Thanks to Sparky’s endless hours of toil.”
Sparky grinned. “Have it any way you like. The other planes are not
ready, won’t be for a day, sooo—”
“What about the quinine?” Mary asked eagerly.
“I wanted to talk to you about that. There’s time to get over to the
Burma line and back before we start.”
“Oh! Sparky!” Her eyes shone.
“But not with our plane,” he went on. “It’s too risky. The balance of
our cargo is the most important part. Our ship must be in first class
shape for that last lap.”
“But can’t we borrow a smaller plane for the Burma trip?”
“Well, we might,” Sparky spoke slowly. “Thing is, I hate to leave our
ship and its cargo for a single hour. You know all the things that have
happened.”
“Yes, Sparky, I know.” Her voice was husky.
“We’ve had a lot of luck, Mary.” He hesitated. “Tell you what, you show
up here just before dawn tomorrow and we’ll see what can be cooked up.”
“I’ll be here, Sparky. And now look! There’s my car waiting for me.”
“You’ve made some swell friends.”
“I sure have. See you in the morning.” She went racing away.
“You look tired,” said Judy when they were once again headed for the
school. “How would you like to take a nap in my room for a couple of
hours?”
“That will be just swell,” said Mary.
“By that time it will be early twilight, just the right time to visit
the other side of the river.”
“Oh, yes, the other side of the river.”
“It’s quite different, I assure you. When I am in a strange little
world I’ve never seen before, I like to see it all, not just part of
it.”
“Oh, so do I.”
“Well, this time you’ll not see it all. No one has ever seen all of
India, but you can see the other side of the river.”
They arrived at the school and soon, with the shades drawn and door
locked, Mary was drifting off to the land of dreams.
When she was awakened, it seemed she had just fallen asleep, but a dash
of cold water on her face and a demitasse of very black coffee brought
her back to life.
“We’ll do the other side,” said Judy. “We’ll not take too long for it.
Then we’ll dine in one of those strange, little restaurants. You may
not like the food but you’ll like the setting. The fruit is always good
and the tea—um!—such tea as you have never before tasted.”
“Sounds all right.”
“And after that—”
“After that I’d like to run over to the airport for just a moment.
Won’t take long. Want to check on some things.” Down deep in her heart
Mary was hoping that Sparky would have things all fixed for her trip to
Burma with the quinine. She really had her heart set on that trip. To
visit a real battlefield, to see the men who for months had been
fighting in mud and blood for victory.
That would be like visiting another world, something she’d never
forget. And to be able to tell some of them that she had done a little,
just a very little, to bring them new health and happiness. Ah! That
surely would bring a thrill.
She and Judy were crossing the bridge as she thought all this. Arriving
on the other side, she was surprised and shocked. Here, it is true,
were the same grand, old palms, the sweeping drive and all that. But
the people and their homes! Here were dirt, squalor, ragged children,
slinking dogs, and shaggy monkeys staring down at her from the trees.
“Why don’t they kill the monkeys?” she asked. “Then there would be more
for the people to eat.”
“Oh! You can’t do that! If you killed just one monkey you’d be mobbed.”
Judy was shocked.
“In goodness name! Why?”
“The monkeys are sacred. Religion is a potent force to these people.
But don’t let’s get started on that. Come on. Let’s go.” Judy hurried
on.
Each filled with her own, long thoughts they wandered on and on. As the
shadows darkened, the streets narrowed. At last they were in the very
heart of the city.
“Look!” Mary whispered, suddenly gripping Judy’s arm. “See that tall
woman in the black dress?”
“Yes, a Moslem.”
The woman was moving across an open space where the afterglow of the
sun brought her out in bold relief.
“Does she—would you say there was anything unusual about her?” These
words were said by Mary in so tense a whisper that Judy turned to look
at her.
“Why, yes,” she replied slowly, “she is strange. I should say that she
doesn’t belong here at all.”
“How could you know that?” Mary asked in a startled voice.
“I teach art and I paint quite a bit. You know an artist, a really good
one, makes you conscious of a beautiful figure, even though it is
loaded down with robes. It’s the way you sit and stand and move. That
woman does not belong here. I’ve never seen anyone like her. There is a
spring in her step. Her body is like a tight wire. I’d hate to meet her
in the dark. I—”
Just then, as if conscious of the fact that she was being talked about,
the woman turned and looked back.
As if startled, she quickened her pace.
To say that Mary was startled and alarmed would be to put it very
mildly. She was not dreaming that, here in India, she had come across
the Woman in Black, and yet this woman did seem to have something in
common with her. It was strange.
“Come on!” she whispered. “I want to see—” She did not finish. What
did she want to see? Perhaps she did not know.
She saw sooner than she wished. The woman had turned a corner. As they
appeared, rounding that same corner, she made a sudden movement.
Something bright gleamed in her hand. In the nick of time Mary dropped
flat. There was a flash, and a report, then a scream.
Neither Mary nor Judy had screamed, though Judy would have done so had
she not lost her voice. It was that woman who had screamed. Little
wonder, for a white man darting from a corner had knocked the gun from
her hand, then had made a grab for her.
Quicker than any cat, she bent low to escape his grasp, then vanished
into a dark and narrow street.
After bending over to pick up the woman’s pistol, the man walked toward
the girls in long strides.
“She almost got you that time, miss,” he spoke gruffly. “Now, what
would nice girls like you be doing in such a place as this? And one of
you in uniform!”
“Say!” His tone changed. “You don’t happen to be the young lady who
helped bring that quinine from America?”
“That’s who I am,” Mary admitted.
“Say! You’re a real hero! Shake!” He gripped her hand until it hurt.
“Here,” he said, “take this gun. You may need it.” He held out the
pistol.
Mary dropped it into her pocket.
“What’d she shoot at you for?” he demanded.
“It’s a long story.” Mary hesitated. “At least I think it is.”
“Oh! It is? Then let’s get out of here. She might come back.”
With long, swinging strides he led the way out of the narrow labyrinth
of streets.
“What were YOU doing back there?” Mary asked, as they neared the river.
“Me?” He laughed hoarsely. “That’s a good one. Me, I’m a Flying Tiger.
Nobody ever touches a Flying Tiger. They don’t dare!”
“A Flying Tiger!” Mary was thrilled. Judy nodded her confirmation. Then
she whispered: “That’s what he is and one of the best!”
“You’d be honorin’ me if you’d have a bite to eat with me,” said Mary’s
new-found friend. “Both of you. I’m Scottie Burns and I’m with an
American squadron now.”
“It will be a pleasure,” Mary said. “And I’m sure—”
“Yes, yes,” Judy hastened to add. “It will be a real joy.”
“And will you name the place?” Scottie begged. “I’m not so well
acquainted here.”
Judy led them to a quiet place run by a native Indian chef, who had
spent several years in America and who knew how to prepare Indian food
as Americans liked it.
It was a jolly and delightful occasion. After some urging Scottie told
with laughter and tears of his experiences with the Flying Tigers.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: _“Nobody Dares Touch a Flying Tiger!”_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“That’s one spell in my life I’ll never forget,” he concluded. “Never!
Never! It was tough, but it was glorious. When the last battle is won
and the last man of that brave band is laid away like a tattered flag
for keeps, we’ll be a-flyin’ and a-yarnin’ in that place where all good
Indians go.
“And now,” he turned to Mary, “how about this black-robed lady who
wishes you were dead?”
“Oh! It’s nothing at all, after what you’ve been telling, but I’ll tell
you all the same—”
Mary told the story of her journey while Scottie listened with rapt
attention.
“Young lady!” he exclaimed when she had finished, “you’ve got what it
takes!”
“I’m only one of the thousands of American women who have joined up to
help win the war,” said Mary. “And they’ve all got what it takes.”
“Glory be for that!” Scottie exclaimed. “Now I know the fight will soon
be over. When the ladies get into Hitler’s hair there’s nothing left
but the shouting.
“And here’s a secret.” He leaned forward and his eyes shone. “There is
talk of sending me to Burma with that quinine early to-morrow morning.”
“Oh!” Judy exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be fair. Mary and Sparky should do
it. They’ve earned the right.”
“Exactly what I said,” Scottie agreed. “But Sparky won’t risk his ship
and he won’t leave the rest of his cargo alone for an hour and as for
this young lady—” He hesitated, embarrassed.
“Of course it wouldn’t be safe,” Mary stepped in. “I don’t know the
route. The quinine is too precious. I wouldn’t think of risking it.”
“Of course not,” Judy smiled. “But if Scottie were sent with it and if
he were to ask that you be sent along as his co-pilot?”
“Oh! I’d accept!”
“You would?” Scottie exclaimed. “Then what’s keeping us?”
“Only Sparky’s okay!”
“And orders from headquarters. I’ll get it all fixed within the hour.
Where’s my hat? Oh—oh, yes, waiter! Waiter! Bring the checks!” With
the least possible ceremony and no apology, Scottie paid the charge and
bounded from the room.
“A Flying Tiger!” Judy exclaimed. “He flies even when he’s on the
ground.”
“All the same, I like him a lot.” Mary’s eyes shone.
“Who wouldn’t? I envy you. That will be something to remember—the
trip.”
“Everything we do is something to remember,” said Mary. “That’s why I
like flying.”
“If I had the flying hours I’d resign tomorrow and join the WAFS.”
“You can get the necessary training at the Woman’s Flying Training
Detachment,” said Mary. “Jacqueline Cochrane is the director.”
“I’ll think about it,” Judy replied soberly.
They left the place to wander slowly back toward the school. As they
crossed the long bridge, the dark waters of the river sweeping beneath
them seemed to whisper of the thousands who had swarmed its banks since
time began.
“Do you know,” said Mary, “I am obsessed with a strange notion that
this black-robed woman who shot at me tonight is a French woman I saw
at the port we reached after we had flown the Atlantic.”
“In North Africa!” Judy exclaimed. “That’s impossible.”
“Yes, I suppose so but I seem to have been haunted by women in black
all the way.”
“That’s possible and it is also possible that they were all spies.”
“But they were all so very much alike,” Mary insisted.
“That,” said Judy, “is even probable. I have a friend, here in India,
who is a counter-spy. He told me once that women spies were all very
much alike, that is, the successful ones were. They are smart, he says,
keen in their own way, usually well educated and all that. Their
smartness is like the smartness of a dagger, if you can say a dagger is
smart.” Judy paused to reflect.
“Smart as a dagger,” Mary murmured. “That does sound a little strange.”
“Smart and beautiful,” said Judy. “I have a friend who has a collection
of what he calls ‘beautiful daggers.’ They _are_ beautiful too, hilts
of gold, some with pearls set in silver, mother-of-pearl handles and a
lot more. But they all have one thing in common, an ugly, dangerous
blade. Women spies are alike, I suppose, in very much the same way.
That’s why this one seems like the others.”
“Probably so,” Mary agreed. “But say! I’d like to go over and see
Sparky before we go to bed. He might have something more to tell me.”
“I’ll drive you over,” Judy volunteered.
“It’s all fixed, Mary,” were Sparky’s first words to her when she
reached the airport. “That Flying Tiger, Scottie, will fly with you to
Burma first thing in the morning.”
“Scottie’s a fast worker.” Mary was pleased.
“He sure is, and a good one. They say he’s downed more Japs than anyone
in China, and he’s barely twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two years old!” She stared.
“That’s right. They grow old fast over here. But he’ll turn young again
when this is over.”
“Sparky,” her voice dropped, “if I shouldn’t come back, you can get a
good co-pilot to go with you on that last lap to our journey’s end.”
“Oh, sure! But you’ll come back, Mary. If I wasn’t dead certain of that
I’d never let you go.”
“Oh! So that’s the way it is,” Mary laughed.
“You bet your life, it is. We’re going to finish this thing, you and I.
“But I want you to go with Scottie,” he added. “You’ve had a lot of
grief on this trip. I want you to see just how worthwhile it is.”
“Thanks, Sparky.” Her voice went husky. Their hands met in a good stout
grip.
A half hour later Mary crept between cool, white sheets in the
teachers’ home at the school, prepared for a good sleep before the dawn
of one more big day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------