  That night watchers on the rooftops of London, those hardy men who all night long, with bags of sand at their side, scan the skies for bombing planes, witnessed a moving picture against the sky that they would not soon forget. A few minutes after the alarm had sounded, just as Big Ben rang out the hour of nine, the thunder of powerful motors was heard. At this instant, far above them in the sky, there appeared a light that was like the bursting of the sun. A flare beyond a doubt, but such a flare as had never before been seen. Every housetop, turret and tower stood out in bold relief. Beneath the flare, but far up in that sky, like a gigantic silver bird, a four-motored Nazi bomber appeared to hang motionless. As the watchers stared speechless something very like a silver bat appeared to drop straight down from the sky. “It’s a Spitfire,” muttered one hardy watcher. “An’ it’s suicide,” exclaimed his mate. As the silver bat curved down toward the bomber it let out a sound as of the ripping up of every sidewalk in London. At this every watcher threw himself flat on his face, for from above came such a roar as had never been heard before, no, not even in London. A moment more and fragments of metal came showering down far and wide. The flare above was still burning. One watcher, braver than the rest, scanned the sky. What he saw was a pair of balloons belonging to a balloon barrage, a trap set for enemy planes. Between the balloons ran cables that in this strange light shone like threads of silver. The thing that caught and held the watcher’s eye was a silver spot clinging to those cables. “That will be the Spitfire,” he said to his mate who now was sitting up. “The blast from that exploded bomber blew him there. I told you it was suicide. I said— “And now may the Saints be praised!” His voice rose as he turned his eyes. Some distance below that silver spot a ghost-like circle had appeared. “A parachute!” the watcher exclaimed. “And may the Nazis be confounded! That pilot of the Spitfire is still alive.” “You’re quite right, Tim, me boy,” the other agreed. “What’s more, if I judge the movement of air rightly, he’ll be landin’ just about here.” The roof on which the men stood was broad and flat. As the two men watched, the parachute and the dark spot hanging beneath it, which appeared to be the pilot, grew in size. Carried first to the right, then to the left, as if directed by the very breath of the Gods, it came ever closer to that broad rooftop on which the watchers stood. “Sure he’s alive,” Tim murmured. “I saw his arm move.” “He—he’s almost down now,” muttered his companion. “There now, he—” Breaking short off the speaker dashed for the far side of the roof. Just as the daring aviator’s feet touched the roof a sudden, violent gust of wind caught his parachute and sent it skyward. Lifting him off his feet, it carried him forward at a rapid rate. Then, as if to complete its work of destruction, over empty space the parachute collapsed. The parachutist found himself balanced on the parapet, leaning back with all his might, but apparently doomed to crash to the earth a hundred feet below. Then, of a sudden, a voice said: “Here, young man, where y’ think y’re goin’?” A pair of husky arms were wrapped about him and he was dragged to safety. His savior was Tim’s powerful companion. “Why, you’re little more than a boy!” The big man exclaimed after peering into the rescued one’s face. “I’m more than that,” the youth replied huskily. “If I were to tell you who I really am you might be a little surprised. But I’m not telling.” “Whoever you are,” said Tim with a wave of his strong arms, “you’re a darling of the gods. What you done tonight no other man could do an’ live.” “What’s more,” Tim’s partner added, “you’ve saved the life of many a woman an’ child. There was two tons of bombs in that big ship an’ she was ’angin’ over blocks an’ blocks of tenements. It was early. The first alarm had ’ardly sounded. They don’t get to the subway that quick, the women an’ the children, they don’t.” The young flyer was pulling at his chute. It caught and tore. “Here,” he exclaimed impatiently, handing the strings to the big guard, “take this home to your Missus. There’s some fine silk in it. And now how do you get down from this place?” “It’s right over ’ere,” said the astonished Tim as he led the way to a trap door. “You just go down that stairway. There’s a door at the bottom. You’ll find stairways leadin’ to the ground floor an’ the back outside door’s got a spring lock. Spring it an’ you’re outside. “An’ ’ere’s wishin’ ye luck,” the big man added. “’Ow about shakin’ your hand?” Two hands met in a hearty grip. “’Ere’s ’opin’ we meets again,” said the watcher. Five minutes later the mysterious flyer reached the good earth once again to lose himself at once in the avenues of darkness that are London in the blackout. |
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