Cherry Ames Boxed Set 5-8

by Helen Wells

  Wade shouted from the cockpit, “There’s been a bombing! I’m going to taxi the ship over to the hangar. You and Bunce take cover.”

  Two ground crewmen came running to see if the arriving C-47 was all right. They told Cherry something further.

  “Robot bombs. Not aiming for this base—just aiming to destroy anything, kill anybody. One of the villages was hit.”

  Cherry gasped. “Any civilian wounded in the hospital?”

  “Yes—coming in right now—a lot of them.”

  Cherry and Bunce sprinted across the airfield for the hospital. They saw Army ambulances coming up along the country roads. Redoubling their speed, they burst through the front door, and Cherry started for the second floor where she was assigned.

  Captain Betty Ryan caught her on the stairs. “Oh, thank heavens! You got in all right! I’ve been worrying about you!”

  “Yes, ma’am! I’m going to pitch right in!” and Cherry raced on up the stairs. In the corridor she saw dazed-looking English people, women and children and a few old men, some of them badly hurt. She noticed particularly one indignant white-haired lady, a piece of quilt tied over one eye, but her head held high.

  The Chief Nurse in charge of the second floor was trying to bring some order into the confusion. Army doctors already were taking care of the severely wounded. Army nurses were trying to classify the walking wounded, according to their injuries, and send them to the right facilities. Cherry was assigned to a cubicle of a room, given supplies, and told to cleanse, medicate, and dress the surface cuts of the people who would be sent in to her. She hastily put on an apron over her flying slacks, and washed, her hands in strong antiseptic. A thirteen-year-old girl Cadet brought a list of names to her, and lined up the patients outside Cherry’s door.

  “Mr. Thomas Trethaway!” Cherry called.

  Into her cubicle came an elderly man. He wore a rusty suit and a blue muffler. His right hand was wrapped in a bloody handkerchief.

  “Good day, mum.”

  “Hello, sir!” Cherry eased off the sticky handkerchief and examined the gaping cut for glass or other particles. “What’s happened to that hand?”

  “I was just setting meself down to a nice dish o’ tea and kippers when—blimey! Jerry drops his calling card. Bits o’ the window glass come whirling all over my tea. Kippers aren’t easy come by, I can tell you. It was a fair disappointment to me, it was!”

  Cherry deftly cleansed and dressed the deep cut. “Well, it may have cost you the kippers, but you’re lucky you weren’t hurt worse than this.”

  “I been through worse bombings, far worse indeed! But that’s nothing. We don’t take no notice of that sort of thing.”

  Mr. Thomas Trethaway calmly took his departure. Cherry called the next name on her list. “Mrs. Ivy Drew!”

  In came a frightened young mother with a very young, crying baby. The baby showed no outward signs of injury. Youthful Mrs. Drew said in a trembling voice:

  “I found him thrown on the floor. He won’t leave off crying, Sister. This time, I thought, ‘the Jerries will have had enough of bombing the Drews.’ But it seems I was wrong. Can you make him stop crying? Please?”

  Cherry took one careful look and saw that the baby had suffered a concussion. She summoned the young Cadet and sent her speeding for a doctor.

  “Let’s go across the hall, Mrs. Drew,” she said gently and led the young mother, with her baby, into a doctor’s examining room. Cherry laid the baby down on the table and gave the woman a sedative, to calm her. “Don’t you worry. The doctor will take good care of your baby.” Talking soothingly, she laid out supplies and instruments which the doctor might need.

  The doctor arrived, a little out of breath. “All right, Nurse, thank you.”

  Cherry returned to her cubicle and treated several more people. Gradually she worked her way down the list. There were only two or three names left. She consulted the list and automatically called out the next name—

  “Mrs. Hugh Eldredge!”

  —then suddenly recognizing the name, Cherry tensely waited.

  The white-haired lady entered. She was quite tall—spare, straight, almost stately, dressed very quietly in black. The taut delicacy of her features and fine faded skin was apparent, despite a large makeshift bandage which completely covered one eye and the side of her face.

  “This annoying eye,” she murmured. “I daresay it’s nothing.”

  Despite the restrained voice, the elderly woman was quivering. Cherry got her into a chair. Mrs. Eldredge sat defiantly erect. Cherry was bursting with curiosity, but her duty as a nurse came before her personal concerns.

  “Now just let me look,” Cherry said reassuringly.

  The eye was badly bruised, the whole cheek was beginning to discolor, but it was only a surface injury.

  “What happened, Mrs. Eldredge?”

  “We didn’t hear the buzz bomb coming, though the warning had sounded. I went to fetch my little granddaughter from school. On the way—this one was quite near, you see—” Mrs. Eldredge put her hand to her head and sighed.

  Cherry gave her a glass of water with a little aromatic spirits of ammonia. When her patient had revived a bit, Cherry asked:

  “Is Muriel all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. Fortunately Muriel— Why— How did you know my granddaughter’s name? She is not here with me!”

  “Let me treat that eye first—” Cherry tried to cover her own confusion “—just a moment—”

  “How extremely odd! My dear young woman, how did you know that?”

  The woman’s voice was imperious, and her drawn face was full of distress. Cherry closed the door into the hall. They were quite alone. Cherry said in a low voice:

  “I am a friend of your friend in America, Dr. Joseph Fortune.”

  Mrs. Eldredge gave Cherry such a look of distrust that she was confounded. Mrs. Eldredge made no sign that she had ever heard of Dr. Fortune. “Be discreet,” Dr. Joe had warned. Perhaps the woman was waiting for some further token of recognition.

  Cherry continued softly, as she bathed the eye, “Dr. Fortune wants me to aid you in your difficulty, in any way you wish me to.”

  Mrs. Eldredge tossed back her head. “And what would that difficulty be?” she demanded sharply.

  “About your son-in-law, Mark Grainger.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Yes. Yes. You know, then.”

  “No, I know none of the details.”

  “Tell me your name, my dear.”

  “Cherry Ames.”

  “Yes, so Dr. Fortune wrote me. Miss Ames, I—I hope—”

  “Yes?”

  “Forgive me for being so upset. I have to be so very cautious. Besides, I had hardly expected to meet you under such—rather public circumstances. I do hope you’ve not spoken of my—trouble—to anyone?”

  “To no one.”

  “When can you come to see me—privately?”

  “I can’t say exactly. I want to come, Mrs. Eldredge, but we’re terribly busy here.”

  Mrs. Eldredge looked up unhappily at Cherry. All the lines in her face had deepened. “I had better tell you now, then. I promise to keep you but a few moments.”

  Cherry’s dark eyes were wide. Mrs. Eldredge’s veined hands plucked nervously at her worn, black silk dress.

  “My son-in-law, Mark Grainger,” she started, speaking low and rapidly, “is no longer in the Army. He was, and he left.” Mrs. Eldredge shook her white head. “I don’t understand why he is not fighting for England. But that is not all, Miss Ames. He is always coming and going, without explanation. He will be gone for days, weeks, then return unexpectedly, to leave just as suddenly. I ask him why, where? He will tell me nothing.”

  “Perhaps he is doing some confidential work,” Cherry suggested, chiefly to soothe the elderly woman.

  Mrs. Eldredge said with difficulty, “No. That is not so. You see, Miss Ames—one day I was straightening my son-in-law’s room and hanging away his clothing,
when a bit of paper fell from one of his pockets. It was— this is very hard to say—it was a note in German, on paper of a sort one never sees in England! The handwriting was that stiff German script, you know, not an English person’s writing. I was trying to figure out what it said when Mark came in. He snatched the paper away—he is never rude—and he was exceedingly angry!”

  Cherry did not know exactly what to say to this. “But your son-in-law is—is loyal to his own country, surely?”

  The woman bent her head. “I don’t know. That is just the question. I used to think Mark was loyal. It is hard to believe the husband of one’s own daughter—Lucia was killed by the enemy—could—Oh, no! It’s unthinkable!”

  Cherry sat down beside the elderly lady and took her hand. “Perhaps it’s only a mistake—a coincidence—or you’re imagining something.”

  “No! I have gone to the telephone and had strange voices address me in German. When I reply, they immediately hang up. I have heard Mark admitting people into my house in the dead of night. No, Miss Ames, I am not imagining these things.” Suddenly she cried out in a subdued but sharp voice, “How could he? How could he? I’m so confused. I want to trust Lucia’s husband—if only for Muriel’s sake—but how can I be loyal to my son-in-law and disloyal to my country?”

  Cherry thought a moment. “Does Muriel suspect?”

  “The poor child is very much troubled. You see, the neighbors are wondering. They ask her cruel questions. She adores her father. I often ask myself how to protect her from such—such a—”

  Cherry cut in quickly. “Surely he would not betray his own little girl? But your son-in-law gives no explanations at all?” she asked.

  “None. He simply turns a deaf ear to all questions. Oh, Miss Ames, I’ve not told a soul but you! I—I am heartsick!”

  Cherry’s lips silently formed the word that Mrs. Eldredge could not bring herself to say:

  “Spy!”

  She took a deep breath. “Mrs. Eldredge, you must go home now and rest. The ambulance will drive you back. I will come to see you on my very first free moment. For the little girl’s sake,” she added, “perhaps we will find some way out of this.”

  The white-haired lady rose wearily. “You have been very kind, my dear. I shall be waiting for you.” She walked out, head high.

  Spy . . . The word echoed in Cherry’s mind. What sort of man was this Mark Grainger? Yet the little girl adored him, the grandmother had claimed, and children were extremely sensitive to grownup’s wrongdoings. She could not reconcile these two facts. But Cherry did not doubt the truth of Mrs. Eldredge’s reports, either. One did not breathe such accusations against a member of one’s own family unless they were inescapably true. Certainly there was not much to be said in defense of such a man. And yet if the child still loved him—

  “Somehow I’m not convinced that he is a spy,” Cherry thought. “Until I can find out more, I’ll take my stand with little Muriel!”

  In the meantime, she had her work, with Wade and Bunce and Flight Three, to do.

  CHAPTER IV

  “Aunt” Cherry

  THREE TIMES IT HAPPENED. CHERRY WENT DOWN TO THE line, all packed to take off, keyed up, all ready—and then they could not go out because of bad weather. All flight orders were canceled—three times in succession.

  It was exasperating. Cherry worried over the patients who had to wait. As for herself, she felt at loose ends and restless. So did everyone else. But there was plenty to take up the nurses’ time. There was hospital duty, washing of clothes and catching up on rest—blessed, needed rest—for the next flight. It was the first time that all of Flight Three was at home at the same time. The six girls had a chance to visit, and it looked as if Lieutenant Agnes Gray was finally going to achieve a foursome for a bridge game.

  “I don’t care how badly you play,” Aggie pleaded. The Flight Three nurses were sitting and lying around their barracks room, this rainy fall morning, weathered-in. Even drill had been canceled. Everyone was waiting around to see if the skies would clear. “I would give my eyeteeth for a rubber of bridge. Cherry, what about you?”

  Cherry was prone on her bed. She reluctantly opened her black eyes, and rubbed one stockinged foot against the other. “If I can play lying down, okay. Seems to me I never get rested.”

  “Me too,” said big Elsie Wiegand from her bed.

  Gwen, her red head buried in the depths of her pillow, mumbled agreement.

  “Ann? Maggie?” Agnes pleaded. “We could leave out these frail flowers and play three-handed.”

  “Not frail flowers,” Cherry yawned. “Just had heavier schedules than you.”

  Little Maggie turned around innocently from the washbasin. “If you’ll wait till I finish my washing, I’ll play—if you’ll teach me.”

  Ann emerged from the depths of her foot locker. “I’ll play but it has to be for safety pins. I am absolutely desperate for safety pins.”

  Agnes Gray flung out her arms. “All right, no bridge! But I have to do something!” Her reddish brown eyes snapped. She reminded Cherry of a fox terrier, bursting with energy. “What’ll I do with myself?”

  “Find me some safety pins,” Ann replied promptly.

  “That’s no fun!”

  Cherry propped herself up on one elbow, wound and rewound one jet black curl around her finger. “I—think—I—have an idea.”

  “Watch out, kids,” Gwen said. “Ames is having an idea. Stand back to avoid the explosion.”

  “Maybe we could—how’s this sound? Maybe we could set up a barter system,” Cherry thought out loud. “Have to get poor little Annie her safety pins. Yes, a barter system. In this whole barracks. Let’s see, two squadrons—fifty girls—safety pins—that’s it, that’s it!” She sat up excitedly. “Don’t you see?”

  “No!” they chorused. “See what?”

  “Look, I’ll show you!” Cherry forgot her fatigue, and bounced off her bed. “Aggie and Ann, we’ll start with you. Who’ll come with me to knock on doors?”

  Two hours later, the system was organized and in full swing. Instead of money, candy and bobby pins were the medium of exchange and estimating price. One girl in Flight Two, with a sweet tooth, offered a finger wave in return for chocolate bars—“with almonds,” she stipulated. Ann wangled safety pins in exchange for a piece of clothesline and a bar of soap. Gwen, who could fix almost anything mechanical with pliers and her tweezers, agreed to repair watches, loosen balky luggage locks, and untie knots—if the other girl would do Gwen’s ironing, a chore Gwen detested. Another nurse agreed to mend hose in exchange for two shoeshines. Elsie Wiegand rented her typewriter for writing V-mails at a charge of starch for her shirt collars. Cherry needed face powder—she had spilled most of hers. But Cherry was too busy getting all this organized to do any bartering herself at the moment. Every nurse in the barracks had fun and everyone benefited. Aggie Gray, the last Cherry saw of her, was beaming at three unknown nurses across a bridge game. The only things the nurses did not swap were their pilots, although they discussed even that possibility.

  The weather continued stormy. During a lull, flight orders were issued, then had to be canceled again. Planes were grounded. Cherry wished she could have some time off, to visit Mrs. Eldredge and Muriel, instead of just waiting around. But Captain Betty Ryan, though willing personally, was under orders not to give time off to any nurse.

  Finally Cherry wrote: “Dear Mrs. Eldredge, It is impossible for me to leave the base. However, I have free time just now. Would it be asking too much for you to come here, any day, for lunch or dinner in Officers’ Mess? I’d be so glad to see you. Please tell Muriel she is very particularly invited. Sincerely, Cherry Ames, Nurses’ Barracks C.”

  But there was no answer next day, nor the following day. Cherry grew even more restive, wondering if something had happened to Mrs. Eldredge and Muriel. At least the weather was clearing now. A few combat planes went out.

  “I’ve received a flight order,” Ann told Cherry breathlessl
y in their quarters. “Thank goodness! I’m going out in an hour.”

  Elsie Wiegand burst in. “Praise be, some action, at last! I’m going out at twelve midnight. Any orders for you, Cherry?”

  Cherry shook her head. “Nothing yet.”

  She helped the two girls pack. She helped out on wards at the hospital. She listened to the bombers and fighters going out, haunted by their fading roar, not quite easy until, hours later, they roared home again. She and Wade knew the boys flying those planes—Bob and Ducky, Shep and Al and Tiny. Toward evening, she would stand out on the field with Wade, anxiously counting the bombers and fighters that flew in singly, some limping like wounded birds, some triumphantly roaring down from the skies. Too often, Cherry’s count was short—one, two, three planes and their crews had not returned. Sometimes until midnight Cherry and Wade would wait on the cold blacked-out field with the anxious ground crewmen, scanning the skies, their ears alert for any distant sound of familiar engines. More often than she dared hope, a belated crew would come pounding in, sometimes radioing for an ambulance, sometimes kidding and hungry. Or, after she was in bed, she would hear a plane’s roar in the night, and Wade would tell her at breakfast, “Shep and his boys made it! Boy, what I’d have given to have been along!”

  “Quite some lads,” Cherry would reply. “I’m glad I’m here.”

  This was her way of saying that the fliers’ courage renewed her own idealism. She was proud to be helping such men as these.

  One doubt invariably filtered into her deeply felt bond with these men. Of what avail was these mens’ courage, their hard fighting, the deaths of some of them—if there were a spy in their midst? Suppose some spy—Cherry did not want to name him as Mark Grainger—suppose some spy were reporting to the Germans all the flights and plans of this bomber base? The enemy, forewarned, could bring their plans to nothing.