by Roy J. Snell
_Chapter_ II Catbirds and Hawk
From the spot where Dave and Brand stood the ancient playhouse could notbe seen. That tragedy might have befallen some member of their householdthey did not so much as dream. Enough that by some miracle the house andbarns had been spared and that the hated enemy plane, having deliveredits load, was now speeding away.
But not so fast. The speedy British Spitfire had made a broad circle andwas prepared to meet the enemy head on.
As Brand Ramsey stood stiffly at attention, watching every move of thosefighting planes, his fingers clenched and unclenched nervously. Not sohis American companion. Standing at ease, smiling a little, his lipsparted, he might have been at a tennis match.
How often, during his early days on an American farm this boy, DaveBarnes, had watched a fight between two catbirds and a hawk. Howinsignificant the catbirds had appeared, how terrifying, with curvedbeak and needle-like claws, the hawk. And yet how often, quitedisheartened, the gray intruder had soared away. In the fight beingfought above them now he saw the battle of catbirds and hawk. Whichwould win? His sympathies had ever been with the catbirds. It was sonow. And yet he whispered to himself, “It’s not my war.”
His war or no, he followed every move of those birdlike things thatwhirling, zooming, dipping, soaring, appeared at any moment ready tocrash head on and burst into flames.
Now the Spitfire was beneath the enemy, coming up. Now! Oh! Now! The boydrew a deep breath. Now the Spitfire was on the Messerschmitt’s tail.“Now!” he breathed.
Once more a sharp exclamation escaped his lips, for banking sharply, theenemy slid out of the trap. At that instant, with tail to the enemy, theTomahawk was doing a broad circle to re-enter the scrap.
“Oh! Oh! Watch out!” Brand, the English boy shouted, as if he could calla warning to the pilot in the American plane. The Messerschmitt hadturned the tables and was at the Tomahawk’s back. Brand wanted to stophis ears from the rat—tat—tat that he knew must come. Instead, he stoodthere mute, staring with all his might.
And then it came, a ripping, tearing burst of sound, as if the very skywas being torn to shreds.
“He—he got him!” Brand’s lips went white as the Tomahawk, after bankingso sharply it seemed to stand on its right wing, went into a spin.
Only then did the American boy realize to the full that this was abattle, not a show affair that these were men and planes, not birds, andthat the brave fellow in that spinning airplane was apparently about tobe beaten to a pulp on the cruel earth of the hillside. Instinctively heclosed his eyes and began to count,—“One—two—three.” Thirty seconds, hethought, then all will be over.
He had counted only to fifteen when a sharp cry—“Hooray!” sent his eyeswide open again.
“He—he came out of it!” Brand exulted with a wild wave of his arms.
It was true. The apparently doomed pilot had somehow pulled his planeout of that fateful spin. What was more, he was not leaving the field.Instead, he was once again climbing rapidly.
“Look!” Brand exclaimed. “That Messerschmitt has had enough! She’sclimbing! She’s afraid of that Tomahawk. Thinks she can outclimb him.The Tomahawk’s motor is not so good at dizzy heights. But, boy! How theycan climb! Half a mile a minute!”
They were climbing now, all three planes. The enemy plane had the leadby many hundreds of feet. First after her came the Spitfire. Then theTomahawk.
It was an all but perpendicular race, a glorious thing to see. Slowly,surely, the game little Spitfire, seeming only a nighthawk at thatdistance, closed in upon the enemy. Behind her, closing in faster,faster, ever faster, was the Tomahawk.
“See! What did I tell you!” Brand’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “ThatTomahawk is a climber! You Americans should be proud of that ship!”
“I suppose we are.” Dave scarcely heard. A born mathematician, he wastrying by some occult system to determine the outcome of this strangerace.
“In twenty seconds,” he pulled out a thin gold watch, “the Tomahawk willpass the Spitfire. Forty seconds more and—well—you’ll see.” His lipstrembled as his words trailed off.
Hardly had he finished speaking when the small planes were abreast.Brand even imagined he saw the Tomahawk’s pilot wave to the other as hepassed.
Forty tense seconds and then there came a ripping of the sky, longer,more terrifying than any they had yet heard. Half below, and half on theMesserschmitt’s tail, the Tomahawk was finding sweet revenge.
“That’s enough. No ship can take that and keep on flying!” the Englishboy breathed. At the same instant the attacking Tomahawk slipped away ina graceful spiral glide.
“What a ship!” the American boy breathed. “It can take it, and dish itout!”
The Messerschmitt had had more than enough. Black bits of wreckage begandropping from the mortally wounded plane. Among these were three largerspots, darker than the rest. Presently above these three white mushroomsblossomed against the sky. “Parachutes!” Brand exclaimed. “They’recoming down! Land somewhere up the slope. Come on! We’ve got to getthem!”
Gone from Dave’s mind was the thought that this was not his war, as hesped after his companion. Two facts were registered on his mind as heraced ahead—a one-legged man using a crutch had stopped his plow-team inthe field and was racing toward the slope—a large collie dog wasscooting across a low meadow. The dog appeared intent upon joining theone-legged man.