  Meantime the young Lord had gone streaking after the self-appointed ace of the Huns and his most trusted guard. The Lark and Brand had remained in formation behind their leader. A fast and furious race had followed. The Nazis had climbed to dizzy heights. Turning on the oxygen, the young Lord and the Lark followed on their tails, but always a little too far behind for attack. Unaccustomed to the climb, Brand was thinking of dropping out. Turning to look back, he caught his breath, stared again, then leveled off for greater speed. He had seen Fiddlin’ Johnny go into a spin and had read in this disaster for his good pal Dave. He went to the rescue but too late. By the time he reached the scene both Dave and pursuer had vanished into the clouds. Swinging about, he searched the sky for the young Lord and his fighting companion. “There! There they are!” he exclaimed excitedly. “They win!” He was just in time to see an enemy plane go streaking down all in flames. At the same instant, some distance away, he saw a second enemy craft vanish into 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, better luck next time. Where’s Dave and the Fiddler?” “Johnny’s gone for good.” Brand’s voice was low and solemn. “He seemed a real 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. The flight’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 a look. They fairly scoured the sea. All that met the eye was wide stretches of leaden, grey sea—that and a lone flock of wild ducks streaking away to the south. “Ducks. Little old wild things,” The Lark grumbled. “Got more sense than humans.” And so, with heavy hearts, they turned their planes landward. After that not a word was spoken until their Spitfires bump-bumped on the landing field. That same afternoon Cherry walked alone to the village. She wanted time to think. And, indeed there was need for thinking. That morning her mother had driven out and had taken her to the city. There they visited the office of a famous specialist. “This,” said Mrs. Ramsey, “is Cherry.” “Cherry, the Singing Angel!” exclaimed the doctor. “I am surely glad to meet 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 up right away.” After a long and painstaking examination the good doctor looked at her with 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 and forth. “It’s just one more case of war shock. “You see,” he began, after waving the ladies into chairs, “it’s like this. You, my child, are not afraid of bombs. That is, you are determined 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 body has other things to say. It is truly afraid, and you can do nothing about it. “In such a case your body breaks down at its weakest point. In your case it is your voice. I have a patient who buys old stamps. He’s forever peering through a glass, examining stamps, using his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of bombs. But his body was. He went totally blind. Since he was an 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 and take up your work once more. It’s your only chance. Is it worth the trouble?” “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 was discussing the sending of Peggy and Tillie this very morning. The welfare workers wish to send a grown person with each group of ten children to look after them, direct their play, keep them cheerful and happy. 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 must have time to think.” “Very well,” said her mother, dismissing the whole affair for a moment by a wave of her hand. “Think as much as you please until this time tomorrow.” And so now Cherry, as she walked slowly toward the village, was thinking hard. Could she do it? Leave Alice, Brand, and Dave, all her friends to embark on this strange adventure? She had a horror of the sea, yet, if she went she must be cheerful all the way. “It’s the war,” she was thinking. “When there is a war we have no choice. Duty calls. We must go.” Rounding a curve, a young cyclist came rushing toward her. He slowed up when he was near. It was Brand. There was a look on his face she had seldom 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 we do not ask questions of those we love. “I’m going to the village,” she said simply. “Perhaps I’ll meet you on the 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 the ground someone had hung a bit of black crepe. This was enough. Turning she walked straight toward home. Her courage was now at the sticking point. She would go on that ship with the children. It was the only thing 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, gleaming sands, waving palm trees, and the eternal breath of spring. When one is young it is not natural to be sad for long. She had not gone far on her homeward jaunt when a group of school children on their way home from school caught her eye. Their actions amazed her. One moment they were marching along engaged in merry chatter, the next, like a flock of birds escaping a hawk, they dashed from the road. At the side of the road was a deep, dry ditch. Into this the children tumbled pell-mell. When Cherry came opposite them they were staring open-mouthed toward the sky. This held for a full minute. Then one pair of eyes wandered. “Cherry!” a piping young voice cried. “It’s Cherry!” A small pair of legs disentangled themselves from the mass and a child came racing up to Cherry. It was Tillie. In the mass, Cherry had not recognized her. Peggy followed on her heels. Soon, one on each side of the older girl, they were 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 play there is a bombing plane right overhead. One of the boys can whistle just like the siren. You should hear him! He’s wonderful! After that we all tumble into the ditch and watch for the plane. “Of course,” the little girl added thoughtfully, “it never comes. But perhaps some day it really will come.” “Yes,” Cherry thought. There was a tightness in her throat. “Yes, some day perhaps it will. And then—” Yes, she would go with those children to America. She must. It was her duty. |
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