  The news of their success had gone on before them by radio. At the airdrome they were given a royal welcome. Congratulations were the order of the day. The entire crew was invited to the Squadron Commander’s home in a near-by village for dinner. Somehow the word that Alice had been on the bomber at the moment of its triumph had got about. Ignoring every precedent, the commander’s wife invited her to the dinner and fitted her out with a dress suited to the occasion. She was quite the queen of the occasion. For all her gayety, deep down in her soul the girl was broken-hearted. A half hour before they went in for dinner the young Lord had told her in steady, even tones that only served to reveal his hidden emotion that the invasion of their land seemed near at hand, that the R. A. F. was sadly in need of heavy bombers for breaking up troop-concentrations on the other shore. “Five powerful bombers are waiting, all equipped, on American shores,” the young Lord had said. “My orders are to pick up crews for these bombers—they are waiting for me at a Scottish airdrome—and to fly these crews across the Atlantic.” “No—no more search?” Alice’s tongue had gone dry. “Perhaps a little coming and going,” he replied, striving to ease her pain. “We shall sail over those same waters.” “Then I shall go with you,” she flashed. “That is as the Commander may decide.” Once before the young Lord had tried refusing her. Never again. “He can’t deny me that much.” Alice’s words were steady and sure. Nor was she wrong. As the plane took off next day for its long hop across the Atlantic, it carried twenty-six men and Alice. Perhaps she had been commissioned to prepare and serve hot drinks for the long journey. No one knew or seemed to care. She was there. That was all that mattered. Every man of the company knew her story. When the time came to sail over the waters close to the spot where the Queen Bess went down for a full hour every eye was on the sea. Nothing showed, so at long last they settled back for the hours that were yet to come. One hour out of every three Alice busied herself serving refreshments. She slept a little and thought a great deal. Long, long thoughts those were. Then they were at their secret destination, a cold, bleak shore somewhere in North America. A few hours of sleep, then again they were away. This time six powerful ships zooming away toward the distant skies that are England’s own. After weary hours of waiting they found themselves once more above the waters from whence had come the last S. O. S. of the good ship, Queen Bess. There were five of them now, Alice, Dave, Brand, the Lark and the young Lord. As Alice studied first the compass, then the chart, she looked at the young Lord who was at the controls and he understood. He wanted to say, “Alice your hopes last too long. Forget the boat. It can’t be there.” But “forget” he knew full well was one word not to be found in the girl’s vocabulary. So, pointing the ship’s nose toward the sea, then stepping down its speed, he sailed close to sparkling waters. It was midday. The sun was bright. They could see for miles. A half hour passed. Hope seemed all but gone when, of a sudden, Alice gripped the young Lord’s arm. “Harm!” she screamed in his ear. “Off to the right! See! There’s something white!” The young Lord saw nothing. He did bank away to the right. Then they all saw it, a white spot. It seemed to move backward and forward. Every muscle tense, they waited. The spot loomed larger. Beneath it appeared a dark form. “Alice—Alice—I know your voice” “Alice—Alice—I know your voice” “A boat!” Alice cried. “It is a boat! There are people, living people! They are waving something white!” “Steady, girl.” The young Lord framed the words with his lips. Yes, she knew. Other ships had been lost, other life-boats had wandered away. And yet. It just must be true. It must be the boat from the Queen Bess. As they dropped to the surface of the sea, she found herself holding her breath. On the prow of the life-boat was a name. Two words. It must be ‘Queen Bess.’ The first letter of each word was large. “Yes!” she cried at last. “Q. B.—Queen Bess!” Above the sound of the taxiing motor someone heard her cry. That someone stood up in the life-boat and screamed, “Alice! Alice! I know your voice! Oh, thank God we are saved!” Three minutes more and the girls were in one-another’s arms. “See what a haul we made,” the young Lord exclaimed sometime later. “Seven children, one young lady and fifteen able-bodied seamen.” “And all because one little lady named Alice would not give up,” Dave replied huskily. Having watched them as they made their search and noted their landing, the pilot of a huge four-motored bomber came circling back. By code messages they made contact with their headquarters. Plans were made and orders given. The big bomber that had turned back was to supply the young Lord with extra gasoline, then was to pick up the seamen and bring them to England. The young Lord and his crew were to carry Cherry and the seven children to America. “And after that,” the Squadron Commander’s voice boomed over the air, “the young Lord Applegate and his crew are to have a two-weeks’ leave in America. Good-luck and fine flying!” “Cherry,” Alice teased, when their supreme moment was at an end, “you have your voice now. You should go straight back to England.” “Oh, no!” Cherry threw up her hands. “I—I started to America. I’m still on my way. Beside,” she added soberly. “There are the children.” Ah, yes, there were the children, Tillie, Peggy and five others. How brave they had been through all the long hours, only Cherry could tell. As they climbed aboard the plane, all undaunted, Peggy, the little alley rat from the London slums, struck up, “Roll out the Barrel.” And they all joined in. “But, Cherry,” Dave asked when once again they were headed for America, “how did your voice come back?” “Oh!” Cherry laughed. “It was the night our ship was attacked. We had been fired upon, the ship was sinking. Boats were being swamped by the waves. But through it all we must keep the children calm and in line. There’s nothing like singing in a time like that. I thought of a song, a silly, terrible, glorious song. Its words were on my lips. I opened my mouth. The words came out, “Roll out the Barrel.” ‘And we’ll all have fun. When we roll out the barrel.’ “The children sang. We all sang. We all remained calm. And we got away. “Some of us got away,” she added soberly. “But my voice, that was a miracle, I guess. God knew I needed it so very, very badly for that trying hour.” A week later Cherry sat in a great easy chair before a broad window. She was looking out upon a scene of matchless beauty, the broad lawn to Dave’s big old-fashioned, New England home in winter. The first snow. They had decided upon this spot because there, of all places, they could really find rest and peace. As if dressed for a party, the hedge and great evergreen trees were decked with white. “It is beautiful! Glorious!” She murmured. “And yet—” Beside her on a small table lay a letter just finished. She had written to her mother. Among other things she had said, “Mother, don’t be troubled. We are going to win the war. We are not alone. More and more, everywhere I go in America I am told that people are coming to feel stronger about this war. They will send us guns, ships and planes. We shall win. We are not alone.” For some time she sat there quite alone looking away at the winter landscape. Their journey to America had been a glorious adventure. They were being royally entertained. Just now Alice was in the kitchen with the children popping corn. Brand, the young Lord and the Lark had gone hunting. Yes, they were having a grand time. But her thoughts were far away. Only that morning she had received a letter from her mother. It was full of news. A flying repair squad had put their house back, good as new. “We now have a home again,” was the word. “How good that seems! They are asking for you at the subway. All England calls for their Singing Angel.” “All England,” she whispered softly. Slipping in from another room, Dave took a seat beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” He spread his arms to include all out-of-doors. “Yes,” she agreed. “So beautiful it makes your heart ache. But, Dave, I’m eager to be back in England. I—I just can’t stand the silence. There’s no excitement, no great cause. It—it’s strange. War is terrible! But when you belong in it you want to be there. You just ache to be there. It—it is very strange.” “You’ll be on your way in a week. Your subway crowd will be waiting for you. But a week, that’s soon enough,” he insisted. “And you?” Her voice was low. “I?” He looked into her eyes. “What do you think?” “I have no way to know.” “There are many people here in America,” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully, “who say this is not our war. Perhaps it is not. Who knows? That question must be decided by older, wiser heads than mine. But as for me,” his shoulders straightened, “this is my war. And I’m going back.” “I’m glad,” she whispered. “You’ll come to America again sometime,” he whispered after a while. “Yes, I hope so.” “Perhaps for good and all?” His voice was low. “Who knows?” She was staring dreamily at the lovely landscape. Perhaps she was seeing into the future. If so, what did she see? Dave dared not ask. Had he but known it, at that moment words from a very old book were running through Cherry’s mind, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.” And so that bright day grew dim with the shades of night. |
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