Wings over England

by Roy J. Snell

  _Chapter_ XVII Playing War

  Meantime the young Lord had gone streaking after the self-appointed aceof the Huns and his most trusted guard. The Lark and Brand had remainedin formation behind their leader. A fast and furious race had followed.The Nazis had climbed to dizzy heights. Turning on the oxygen, the youngLord and the Lark followed on their tails, but always a little too farbehind for attack.

  Unaccustomed to the climb, Brand was thinking of dropping out. Turningto look back, he caught his breath, stared again, then leveled off forgreater speed. He had seen Fiddlin’ Johnny go into a spin and had readin this disaster for his good pal Dave. He went to the rescue but toolate. By the time he reached the scene both Dave and pursuer hadvanished into the clouds.

  Swinging about, he searched the sky for the young Lord and his fightingcompanion.

  “There! There they are!” he exclaimed excitedly. “They win!” He was justin time to see an enemy plane go streaking down all in flames. At thesame instant, some distance away, he saw a second enemy craft vanishinto a cloud.

  “Tough luck,” the young Lord grumbled into his speaker as Brand came up.“We got Wick’s favorite guard but the big boaster got away. Well, betterluck next time. Where’s Dave and the Fiddler?”

  “Johnny’s gone for good.” Brand’s voice was low and solemn. “He seemed areal fellow. I—I’m sorry. He went down in a spin, quite out of control.He can’t have come out of it. It’s taps for him.”

  “Taps for poor old Johnny.” No more shouting today for The Lark. Theflight’s scant triumph had cost them too dearly.

  “I lost Dave in a cloud,” Brand went on. “I—I don’t know about him.”

  “We’ll drop down and have a look,” said the young Lord. They did have alook. They fairly scoured the sea. All that met the eye was widestretches of leaden, grey sea—that and a lone flock of wild ducksstreaking away to the south.

  “Ducks. Little old wild things,” The Lark grumbled. “Got more sense thanhumans.”

  And so, with heavy hearts, they turned their planes landward. After thatnot a word was spoken until their Spitfires bump-bumped on the landingfield.

  That same afternoon Cherry walked alone to the village. She wanted timeto think. And, indeed there was need for thinking. That morning hermother had driven out and had taken her to the city. There they visitedthe office of a famous specialist.

  “This,” said Mrs. Ramsey, “is Cherry.”

  “Cherry, the Singing Angel!” exclaimed the doctor. “I am surely glad tomeet you. It’s a wonderful work you are doing.”

  “That I _was_ doing,” Cherry whispered hoarsely.

  “Why! What’s up? Voice troubling you? Let’s have a look! We’ll fix it upright away.”

  After a long and painstaking examination the good doctor looked at herwith trouble in his eyes. “Nothing the matter with your throat,absolutely nothing,” he said solemnly.

  “But I can’t talk. I—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m not doubting you.” The doctor walked slowly back andforth. “It’s just one more case of war shock.

  “You see,” he began, after waving the ladies into chairs, “it’s likethis. You, my child, are not afraid of bombs. That is, you aredetermined not to be. So are we all. We won’t let the enemy get us down.That’s grand! Magnificent! The true British spirit.

  “But, my dear,” his voice dropped, “that is all in your mind. Your bodyhas other things to say. It is truly afraid, and you can do nothingabout it.

  “In such a case your body breaks down at its weakest point. In your caseit is your voice. I have a patient who buys old stamps. He’s foreverpeering through a glass, examining stamps, using his eyes. He wasn’tafraid of bombs. But his body was. He went totally blind. Since he wasan American, I packed him into the Clipper and sent him home. And now,”the doctor spread his arms wide, “he’s quite all right again.”

  “But doctor, what am I to do?” There was agony in Cherry’s whisper.

  “Go to America. Two weeks there and you will be well. Then come back andtake up your work once more. It’s your only chance. Is it worth thetrouble?”

  “But I can’t. I—”

  “Yes, you can.” Mrs. Ramsey was on her feet. “I have it. The very thing!The boat sails next Monday.”

  “The boat? What boat, mother?” Cherry stared.

  “They have chartered a boat to carry refugee children to America. I wasdiscussing the sending of Peggy and Tillie this very morning. Thewelfare workers wish to send a grown person with each group of tenchildren to look after them, direct their play, keep them cheerful andhappy. Cherry, you shall be one of these. I shall see to it at once.”

  “But mother!” Cherry’s whisper was pathetic. “It’s so sudden. I musthave time to think.”

  “Very well,” said her mother, dismissing the whole affair for a momentby a wave of her hand. “Think as much as you please until this timetomorrow.”

  And so now Cherry, as she walked slowly toward the village, was thinkinghard. Could she do it? Leave Alice, Brand, and Dave, all her friends toembark on this strange adventure? She had a horror of the sea, yet, ifshe went she must be cheerful all the way. “It’s the war,” she wasthinking. “When there is a war we have no choice. Duty calls. We mustgo.”

  Rounding a curve, a young cyclist came rushing toward her. He slowed upwhen he was near. It was Brand. There was a look on his face she hadseldom seen there before.

  “Going home?” she asked simply.

  “No. Just for a ride.”

  A question was on her lips. She did not ask it. There are times when wedo not ask questions of those we love.

  “I’m going to the village,” she said simply. “Perhaps I’ll meet you onthe way back.”

  “Perhaps.” Again he was on his wheel and away.

  “Riding something down,” she told herself. “Something rather terrible.”Then, as if a chill blast had swept in from the hills, she shuddered.

  At the village she came upon more tragedy. Where the shop of Old John,the shoemaker, had stood was a pit of darkness. On a stake stuck in theground someone had hung a bit of black crepe. This was enough. Turningshe walked straight toward home. Her courage was now at the stickingpoint. She would go on that ship with the children. It was the onlything she could do to help. And everyone must do something.

  “Perhaps,” she thought, “I shall go to visit Dave’s mother in Florida.”

  Florida. At once she was dreaming of soft, lapping waters, gleamingsands, waving palm trees, and the eternal breath of spring. When one isyoung it is not natural to be sad for long.

  She had not gone far on her homeward jaunt when a group of schoolchildren on their way home from school caught her eye. Their actionsamazed her. One moment they were marching along engaged in merrychatter, the next, like a flock of birds escaping a hawk, they dashedfrom the road.

  At the side of the road was a deep, dry ditch. Into this the childrentumbled pell-mell. When Cherry came opposite them they were staringopen-mouthed toward the sky.

  This held for a full minute. Then one pair of eyes wandered. “Cherry!” apiping young voice cried. “It’s Cherry!” A small pair of legsdisentangled themselves from the mass and a child came racing up toCherry. It was Tillie. In the mass, Cherry had not recognized her. Peggyfollowed on her heels. Soon, one on each side of the older girl, theywere marching toward home.

  “What were you doing in that ditch,” Cherry asked.

  “Playing war,” was Peggy’s quick response. “It’s loads of fun. We playthere is a bombing plane right overhead. One of the boys can whistlejust like the siren. You should hear him! He’s wonderful! After that weall tumble into the ditch and watch for the plane.

  “Of course,” the little girl added thoughtfully, “it never comes. Butperhaps some day it really will come.”

  “Yes,” Cherry thought. There was a tightness in her throat. “Yes, someday perhaps it will. And then—”

  Yes
, she would go with those children to America. She must. It was herduty.