  Next morning the squadron commander received a strange request. Young Lord Applegate walked into his quarters, saluted, then said: “Commander, I wish to ask for a transfer.” “A transfer?” The Commander sat forward in his chair. “Why? You are doing magnificently. Only yesterday—” “Begging your pardon, sir,” Applegate broke in, “that has no bearing on the case. I ask for a transfer to the bomber service that patrols the sea. I was trained for that work, had a full year’s training. That should be enough.” “But you are a born fighter.” “Perhaps,” the young Lord admitted. “And perhaps too one may fight with a twin-motored bomber.” “There’s seldom an opportunity on sea patrol.” “We will make an opportunity. My men, Ramsey, Barnes and The Lark, wish to go with me. Old Jock, from Ramsey Farm, a gunner, first-class, who lost a leg in Flanders, will join us.” “I still don’t see—” “Commander,” the young Lord’s face was tense with emotion, “with me this is a personal matter. You’ve heard of the sinking of the Queen Bess?” The Commander nodded. “Cherry Ramsey was on that ship. You know her, I’m sure.” “I have met her. A charming girl. She was doing a grand piece of work. Was she lost?” “Her name is not on the list of those rescued. But it is believed,” the young Lord’s voice rang with hope, “that one life-boat, not swamped by the storm, remains unreported. “If I am granted a transfer to the Sea Patrol I shall ask that we be allowed to patrol that portion of the air over the Atlantic beneath which the Queen Bess was fired upon and sunk.” “I see.” The commander’s face was thoughtful. “That is not all.” The lines on the young Lord’s brow deepened. “I shall ask that we be allowed to carry two five-hundred pound bombs and be commissioned to search for the merciless sea raider that sank that shipload of children. It is still at large.” The commander nodded. “She attacked a convoy last night. Gave no warning. Sank three ships, then was away.” For a moment the commander sat staring at the wall. “It’s very irregular,” he murmured. “This is an irregular war, not fought by rules. Fought by men. Thank God for that!” The young Lord’s chin was up. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.” The commander stood up. “Report to me here at noon.” The young Lord saluted, then marched away. An hour later he was engaged in a heated argument with his good friend, Alice. “But, Alice!” his voice rose. “It’s impossible! A woman on a sea-patrol bomber! Suppose we catch up with that ruthless pirate.” “All right.” Alice stood up sturdy and tall. “Suppose we do?” “It won’t be a one-sided fight. That raider carries anti-aircraft guns. Death may be waiting at those crossroads of the sea.” “Death.” Alice’s voice was low. “In this war not just young men are giving their lives for the land they love. Men and women and children are. It’s everybody’s war. “Harm!” (She seldom used that name of other days. In her soul was written traditional homage to nobility.) “It is Cherry who is out there on those black waters. Our Cherry! Peggy and Tillie are with her. A woman’s eyes are always sharper than a man’s. Always when we were children it was my eyes, not yours, that saw the lark soaring skyward or the finches hiding in the hedges. Harman, let me go!” “But the farm, Alice?” The young Lord was weakening. “Surely you can spare Jeff Weeks and his wife for a few days to look after this farm.” “A few days? Yes. But suppose it is forever?” The young Lord’s voice was low. “Alice, more important than our search for Cherry, much as we all love her, is to be our hunt for the sea-raider. And if we find it there will be no quarter! It shall be that ship or our plane. Such is war.” “If it is to be forever?” There was a smile on the girl’s lips. “We die but once. The farm will not matter. Let me go!” The young Lord threw up his hands. “I surrender,” he whispered hoarsely. And so it happened that, when the transfer had been granted and the young Lord had been put in command of a sea-scouting bomber, one of the fastest in the service, and when it sailed away into the blue, it carried not five but six men. One of these “men” had short, bobbed hair, and as he stood by the one-legged, gray-haired rear gunner, he looked remarkably like a girl. At dawn, in a bomber that made their little Spitfires seem like gulls, the young warriors rose high in air, far above the clouds, to zoom away. When land was lost from sight the young Lord studied his compass and his chart, set a course south by west to at last drop down close to the sea. After that, hour after hour, with eyes that burned from watching and hearts that ached with longing, they studied the dark surface of the never-ending sea. Twice they came upon British ship convoys and dipped low to greet them. Once they thought they saw a life-boat and hope ran high. But, as they dropped low, the supposed boat submerged. “Whale or a submarine?” the young Lord barked into his receiver. “Whale,” was old Jock’s instant response. So they soared on. It was only after their gasoline supply began running low that they at last rose into the blue to go zooming to a landing field in the north of Scotland. There, after darkness had fallen, Alice slipped away to a little hotel where no questions were asked. When, however, she told what she dared of their mission, she was accorded the hospitality due a queen and in the morning not a cent would her hostess accept. “It’s our own war,” said the good lady, “and may the good Lord bless you.” The second day was more than half gone. The girl’s eyes were red with watching when she called in her phone, “I—I hear the sound of firing.” Every headset was removed. “Not a sound but the motors. Not a sound,” was the report. “Climb. Then shut off your motors,” Alice insisted. It was done, and from the west to their listening ears came the roar of heavy guns. “Prepare for action,” the young Lord barked. “See that the bombs are in their place. Make all fast. “And,” he added softly, “say a prayer.” Their ship was fast. Smoke loomed on the horizon. Ships, a large convoy, took form. A minor sea-battle was in progress. Doughty captains of freighters were pitting their small guns against the heavy ones of a raider. They were rapidly approaching the scene when with a joyous battle cry the Lark sang out, “Man! Oh, man! They’ve spotted us. Look! There they go! Running at full speed.” “We’re after them.” The young Lord’s lips were drawn into a straight line. Old Jock was at the bomb controls, Dave and Brand at the one-pound cannons, the Lark at the radio. They climbed a thousand feet, three, five, then twenty thousand feet. They were all but above the fleeing raider now. Dave tried to imagine the wild commotion and the frenzied preparation on board that raider at that moment. Just what the young Lord meant to do, he knew. Life and death hung in the balance. As for the young Lord, his brow suddenly wrinkled. He had caught a glimpse of two specks against the sky. “Here,” he called to Alice. “Have a look through the glass. Off to the right! Enemy or friend? Tell me—Quick!” One look and she told him. “Enemy! Twin motor interceptors. Two of them.” “Good! We’ll show them how it’s done.” Ten seconds later he barked, “All set for a power dive!” The big ship’s nose pointed toward the sea. Far below the raider seemed a speck. As it grew in size it could be seen to zig-zag this way, then that. “All or nothing,” had been the young Lord’s order. “When I give the signal release both bombs.” As Dave watched it seemed they could not win. Yet the young Lord had a keen mind. He had been well trained. To the roar of the motor and the screaming of the plunging plane was added the burst of anti-aircraft fire. Death rode the air. And then Dave realized that the instant had come. Fascinated, he watched a bomb glide from its place, then another. A second later there was a lurch as the plane began coming out of its dive. To Dave, the time of waiting, only a few seconds, seemed endless. Then came a boom, followed almost at once by a second. And then a roar far greater than the others. There was a push that lifted them high, then all but dropped them into the sea. “Right on the nose!” The Lark roared from his tail gunner’s position. “Blew up their magazine. Raider, whose captain has a heart of stone, has met its end.” “We’ll let those Nazi planes get what satisfaction they can out of that,” said the young Lord in a surprisingly quiet tone of voice. “We’ll just hop over and do what we can for that convoy. “But stay in your places. Man your guns,” he warned. “Those planes may attack. If they do, give ’em all you’ve got!” The enemy planes did not attack. Perhaps they had seen quite enough. Thankful to be alive, the young Lord and his men flew to the rescue of those British seamen whose ships of the convoy had been sunk. Never before had Alice been so close to war as now. Helping these cold seamen, some of them frightfully wounded, from the water into the wings and into the cabin of their plane, then to the ships that had escaped the raider, she realized for the first time what it was costing these men to keep her native land fed, defended and free. When their two hours of rescue work were over and they were prepared to take to the air once again, she was shocked to find that in her work for others she had quite forgotten her bright-eyed sister who must at this moment be drifting on this very sea or sleeping far beneath its waves. It all came back to her like a sudden shock of pain as they rose above the sea. Another hour of futile search, then the big ship pointed her nose toward the home base. “Orders,” the little Lord explained, “just came in on the radio. The news of our good stroke has reached London. We are to come in for reassignment.” “Reassignment!” Alice stared but said never a word. |
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