  After they returned from the futile search the three of them, Dave, Brand and the Young Lord stood for a time beside the car. They had talked for a moment. Then Brand walked away to the barn for one more look about before he retired for the night. It had been a strange, exciting and momentous day. Nothing quite like it had ever happened at Ramsey Farm before. He felt restless and ill at ease. After he had gone the Young Lord asked Dave a strange question: “What are you doing in England?” “Why—I—nothing really,” Dave hesitated. “You see my uncle is in the news service here. He was coming over in the Clipper. He invited me to come along. So here I am. Perhaps it wasn’t quite as simple as all that, but he fixed it up.” “I see,” the Young Lord murmured. Did he? Dave doubted that. He made a second start. “You see I’ve had two years in college. Didn’t like it any too well, the class-room part. Oh, math was well enough. In fact I really liked it. But the rest,” he heaved a sigh. “Well, I majored mostly in football, basketball, tennis and golf. So—oo,” “So they didn’t care much whether you stayed on?” “I suppose not. Anyway, all the colleges in America have been crammed with fellows who haven’t anything else to do but go to college now,—” “All that will change fast,” said the Young Lord. “The way things are going over there now those boys are going to have things to do. Ever do any flying?” he asked abruptly. “Yes—a little—quite a bit in fact. Uncle was a flyer in the World War. Not an ace exactly, but he got to like flying. He’s always had a flying crate or two about, and naturally I had to have a turn at them.” The Young Lord guessed, and quite shrewdly too, that Dave was being too modest about his flying. “I’m trying out a new plane tomorrow,” he said slowly. “It’s a two-seater. Want to go up? Just a little sky patrol. Nothing’s likely to happen.” Dave seemed to see that Tomahawk of the afternoon plunging downward apparently headed for destruction. He wanted to say “no”. For some reason his tongue wouldn’t form the word. So he said: “Yes. Sure. I’d like to.” “Righto.” The Young Lord reached for the door of his big old English car. “I’ll be after you in this bus at 10:00 A. M.” His motor roared. He was away. “Now why did I say that?” Dave asked himself aloud. “Say what?” He started. Brand was at his side. “I promised to go up with Applegate tomorrow.” “Sayee! That’s corking! Just what I’d like to do! In fact,” Brand’s tone was sober, “I want to join up. Since this afternoon I want to more than ever. Mother objects. Says I’m needed to manage the farm. Says the army needs our butter and fat cattle. This farm! Of course, we love it. All of us do. But when all of England is threatened—when the others are doing their bit—to be tied to the sail! God!” Brand stamped his foot. “It’s all the way you think, I guess.” Dave laughed lightly. “Well, I’ll be up having a look at your native land from the clouds in the morning. So, goodnight.” Half an hour later, in his bed beneath the rafters of that ancient house, Dave was asking himself: “Why did I come to England?” The answer seemed simple enough. This war was too big to miss—that is—miss seeing. But why had he persuaded Cherry to go with him to London where bombs were falling? Why had he promised to go up with the Young Lord in the morning? He did not know the answers. All he knew was that he felt like a fly caught in a web. The web did not have a very strong hold on him yet. He could break away if he wished. But did he wish? Not knowing the answer, he fell asleep. In another corner of that broad upstairs, her door leading into the children’s room ajar, Alice was hearing a shrill childish voice cry: “You’re a spy, a little lady spy. I’m a frog, a great big black frog. I’m going to swallow you—swallow you right down. Here I come!” This was followed by a low, half-suppressed exclamation, a giggle, then a loud “Shish.” After that all was silent. Alice was nearly asleep when suddenly from far overhead there came the roar of powerful motors. London was in for one more beating. Would those terrible bombings never end? It was with a strange thrill tickling his spine that Dave climbed into the rear of the lord’s two-seater plane the next day. This, he knew, was a fighting plane, his very first. This plane carried a sting in its nose, eight guns capable of firing nearly ten thousand shots per minute. “Of course,” he thought, “this is broad daylight. Not much chance of picking up an enemy. And yet, there’s yesterday.” After fastening his safety belt with great care, he waited for the takeoff. It came with a roar. They were in the air. Some ship! He studied it with great care. It had a dual control. If something happened, just happened to go wrong with the Young Lord, he could bring the ship to earth. He might, in a pinch, do a great deal more. The firing of those guns seemed simple. He had had a great deal more flying experience than he was willing to admit,—at least 200 hours. Seeming to read his thoughts, Applegate gave a slight squeeze at his firing button. In no uncertain tones the guns spoke. Dave was thrilled to his fingertips. He began studying the electric switches, the emergency boost, the petrol switch, the air-speed indicator, the directional gyro, the climb indicator, and all the other instruments. A born mechanic, he could study these out one by one, eliminate the ones least needed, then picture himself guiding the ship. Watching a mirror, studying his face, Applegate nodded in approval to the sky. As they climbed to 10,000 feet Dave saw London in the distance. Smoke hung over it. There had been a bombing, fires started. Homes of simple, honest, hard-working people who had not asked for this war had been destroyed. He hated all that. White clouds, like distant snowbanks, were drifting through the blue as blue sky. “Take her for a minute, will you?” The Young Lord spoke in a matter-of-fact voice. Dave’s hands trembled as he gripped the controls. He kept the ship going on an even keel while his companion, after unstrapping heavy binoculars, studied the sky. Suddenly Applegate threw out a hand. Swinging it to the right, he directed Dave into a fluffy white cloud. “That’s it,” he approved. “Now just lurk around in here for a bit.” With a tickling sensation at the back of his neck Dave “loitered round”. At the same time he was asking himself, “Why did I let myself in for this?” Twice they came out of the cloud, but on the wrong side. At last, after one more wave of the lord’s hand, Dave headed straight out, on the side from which they had entered. He caught his breath sharply as, on breaking out into blue sky, he sighted an airplane beneath and beyond them. He trembled as he saw the hated swastika on its tail. “Will there be a scrap?” he asked himself. Strangely enough he felt quite cool about it. The Young Lord took the controls. The motors roared. This gave Dave time to study land and sky. As near as he could tell the other plane which was slowly circling, was just about over Ramsey Farm. “That’s why Applegate is putting on such speed,” he thought. Just then, like a squirrel darting for shelter, the enemy plane leapt upward and into a cloud. “You better!” Applegate growled, at the disappearing enemy. Only when they were near the cloud did he slacken his speed. Then, like a dog waiting for a squirrel, he loitered about in the sky. “If the enemy really wished to get away,” Dave thought, “every advantage is with him.” A whole string of clouds was drifting in from the distant sea. Was he glad or sorry? At that moment he could not have told. After a time, like a dog watching clumps of bushes where a rabbit is hiding, the Young Lord began skirting that long procession of clouds. They had followed almost to landsend and the shore when suddenly the Young Lord pointed to a black speck against the distant sky. Dave heaved a sigh of relief. Turning about, they headed for the airdrome. “He was bashful, that Hun,” Applegate laughed into his mouthpiece. “Perhaps he came over to find his pals who paid us a visit yesterday. Sorry to disappoint him. Even the wreck has been carted away.” “One of his friends is still at large,” Dave suggested. “Might have set up a signal. Black cross cut from the sod would do the trick.” “That’s right,” Applegate agreed. “Anyway,” he laughed as they began circling for a landing, “we’re back just in time for lunch. It’s cold beef and plum pudding. You’ll stay, I hope.” “Oh! Sure!” Dave agreed. His visit to the flying corps’ mess was one not soon to be forgotten. He had read magazine stories of these fighters. Loud, boisterous, wild and a bit coarse, that was how they had been pictured. To his surprise he found them a simple, kindly lot, with manners that would have put many a college group to shame. “You’ve really got to be up to things to be a-flying in this squadron,” the Young Lord explained. “And in any other, for that matter. Drinking, loud laughs, roughness—well, it doesn’t seem to go with life-and-death flying, that’s all. “You have to be a man,” he added after a pause. “And a man’s nearly always a gentleman as well.” |
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