  It was truly a jolly party that sat down to breakfast in the Hideout that morning. Dave had been dead. Now he was alive again. Who could help being happy? It seemed good to be together again, to laugh over recent adventures and to talk in serious tones of the future. “There really isn’t so much to tell,” Dave insisted, when they pressed him for his story. “I had luck, that was all.” He told of his landing, the sinking of his plane, his discovery of the Nazi’s float and his work at setting it adrift. “After that,” he added, “it was just a matter of time and a little more luck. I fell asleep. Of course, I woke up now and then. Who wouldn’t? All I heard was the whistle of the wind and the rush of waves so I dozed off again. “After midnight the sea settled down a bit. Just at dawn my crazy craft bumped on a sandy beach. Of course I was up and out in a hurry. “And there!” He laughed. “Leave it to the Home Guard! There on the beach, armed with heavy old-fashioned rifles all pointed straight at me, were three old men. And you could tell by the look on their faces that they’d just as soon shoot me as not.” “What did you do?” Cherry whispered. “Do? Why! I let them take me prisoner. What else could I do? There I was on a float marked with the Nazi cross and wearing a Nazi swastika on my shirt. “I threw them a line and, when a big wave broke on shore, they hauled me in. “Then I invited them to take breakfast with me. I had bacon in tins, biscuits in a box and a jar of marmalade, also coffee. It was a grand feed. And did those old men eat? They’d been on watch since sun-down.” “And after that?” Cherry whispered. “Then I showed them my water-soaked uniform, my American passport in a waterproof pocket and my identification tag.” “And then they wanted to shoot you more than ever.” Brand laughed. “No—no, they didn’t.” Dave leaned back in his chair. “They were regular old sports. Took it all as a huge joke. Had a good laugh over it. “Then,” he added, “I traded them my float for a ride home in a dilapidated old car. And here I am.” “That float will make them a nice outpost station all winter.” Alice sighed with content. She wanted everyone to be comfortable and happy. “I’m going to America,” Cherry said. “The doctor advised it for my voice. He says it’s nerves. “There’s a boatload of children going. I’m to take Peggy and Tillie.” “Oh—o,” Dave breathed softly. “That will be swell.” And so it would, he thought, for Cherry. “But you, Alice?” The young Lord turned to the older sister. “Shall you be going also?” “No—o.” Alice spoke slowly. “I’m staying right here. There’s the dairy, you know. Jock will care for the cattle and tend to the milking. I’ll make the butter. It all goes to your mess, I suppose you know? The butter, I mean. Or didn’t you know?” “I could have guessed,” said the young Lord. “Our butter’s been uncommonly good of late.” “Thanks a lot.” Alice made a neat bow. “Anyway we’ve all got to carry on. I shall be quite all right here with old Jock and Flash.” “And we’ll all welcome an opportunity to drop in for a chat now and then.” Dave added with a genuine sigh of satisfaction. “We’ll always be needing someone to listen to our tall tales or to offer us consolation when we’ve met with defeat.” “All quite true,” said the young Lord. And he did not laugh. Strange days followed. The R. A. F. in war time is no respecter of persons. Though the young Lord was of noble birth, he must suffer for his breach of discipline. He was grounded for five days. His battered Spitfire was taken down from the balloon cables and repaired. Armor plate was added to his seat and fitted about his motor, so the time out was not all loss. Every day the two “cubs”, Dave and Brand went up with the Lark as their leader. Their field of patrol was narrow. Since their last battle the Jerrys seemed to avoid that little patch of the sky over England. One day an enemy dive-bomber wandered into their “Sphere of Influence.” Seeing the direction the bomber was taking, the Lark let out a wild whoop, barked “Tallyho!” into his receiver and then they were away. Climbing into the sun they prepared to head the intruder off. This time neither was, in the matter of speed, a match for the Lark. There was a reason. The town for which the bomber was headed was Renton-by-the-Sea. In that small city the Lark had spent his happy boyhood days. Neither an industrial town nor a seaport, it was one of those charming little cities where tired business men and their families spend their week-ends at play. “My home town!” the Lark roared into the receiver. “He’ll send some of the very houses I’ve known and loved for years spouting into the sky! Only he won’t.” Dave could hear his teeth crack. And then the strange fellow’s voice boomed forth in song. “It’s a long way to Tipperary. It’s a long way to go.” The Lark was now flying straight away from the sun. The dive-bomber’s pilot had not seen him. He was circling like a gull preparing for a sudden dive when the Lark came straight at him. Not troubling to get on his tail, the brave young defender of his home town let out a burst of fire, then went swooping past him. An answering burst rattled against the Lark’s plane but did no harm. Banking sharply, the Lark came up beneath the bomber, stood his Spitfire on its tail, let out a second burst, then gripping his emergency lever he thundered out from under and away. He was not a second too soon. The bomber heeled over to rocket toward the earth. It burst into flames then blew up with such force that Dave, some distance away, was set into a spin and barely escaped a crash. Once more singing Tipperary, The Lark led the way home. After a time he broke off to shout: “The small boys of my home town will be hunting souvenirs from that bomber for weeks to come. Oh, boy! How I wish I was a child again, just for tonight.” When there was time off Dave enjoyed striding Brand’s bike and riding away to the Hideout. It was good to drop back into the old, quiet, nearly normal life. Alice and Cherry were there and sometimes the children. Cherry seemed to take her trip to America very quietly, as a matter of duty. She spent hours sitting by the fire asking Dave about his native land, but always in that quiet, matter-of-fact whisper of hers. The children were vastly excited about the trip and eager to be away. At times Dave thought of the days to come when Alice would be alone with the aged veteran and the dog, Flash. The thought troubled him a little. There were, he supposed, enemy spies about. He had come into contact with one of these. Ramsey Farm seemed to have been marked for destruction. He often asked himself why. A prisoner of war had once worked here. He had been treated with kindness and as an equal. Why should he have gone away embittered? “Twisted sort of mind, I suppose,” was his final conclusion. Had this spy, Nicholas Schlitz brought destruction upon himself that night by the castle, or was he still prowling about? This question needed answering. Late one afternoon he rode over to the castle. Coming upon a workman who cared for the castle grounds, he stated his problem. “Perhaps this will answer your question,” the man said simply. He held out a metal disc. There was a name and number on the disc. “Tom and I found it two days after the bombing,” the man said. “There was more to it than that, but I needn’t trouble you with the details. Tom and I, we figured it all out and reckoned the least said soonest mended. “We reported this ’ere business to the proper authorities, sir,” he went on. “It’s all in order, sir. We should have turned the tag in at headquarters. You’ll be doin’ us a service if you’ll attend to that for us, sir. “And,” he added after a moment, “you’ll put in a few words of explanation. Words come handier to you than they does to Tom and me. I’m a thinkin’ you know the details.” “I shouldn’t wonder.” Dave spoke slowly. “Thanks a lot. I’ll feel better about Alice being over at the Hideout with only old Jock and the dog to protect her.” “No doubt of that, sir,” the man agreed as they parted. War, Dave thought, was strange. |
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