Wings over England, Page 3

  _Chapter_ III Dolls and Nazis

  In the meantime, quite ignoring the battle in the sky, two streaks ofred and gold—Cherry the girl, and Flash the dog—had gone racing down theslope. In her golden sweater and red plaid skirt the girl seemed littlemore than a sprite. The collie might well have been her golden shadow.That she was quite a real person she herself knew full well. Herpainfully beating heart told her that.

  Even as she raced on, her eyes were searching the ruins that had oncebeen the playhouse of her childhood. They were looking for some trace ofred or blue calico,—shocking proof that her fears had been well foundedand that two small girls had been in the playhouse at the time the bombfell.

  It was only after she had reached the top of the stile leading from thefield to the house that she caught a loud: “Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo, Cherry!”

  One look, and she crumpled down on the stile steps to burst into a floodof tears, tears of pure joy.

  All gay in red and blue calico Tillie and Peggy stood in the farmhousedoorway. A moment more and they had left the house to come racing towardCherry.

  In the meantime the fighting planes had gone beyond the hill, quite outof her sight. Soon she was hugging two tumble-haired young sprites toher bosom, and exclaiming: “Tillie! Peggy! You are safe! I was, Oh! Soafraid!”

  “But the playhouse is all blowed up.” Tillie dabbed at her eyes.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Peggy, dancing a jig. “But were we bombed! And was itexciting! Just like fireworks! Only bigger! Much louder! There wassmoke, and then Oops! Up went everything!”

  In vast astonishment Cherry stared at this small bit of humanity fromthe slums of London. Her eyes were on the child for a full minute. Then,mustering up her courage she managed a low chuckle. Then, springing toher feet, she cried: “Come on! Let’s go see! We’ll make it a race!” Andso the four of them, three girls and a dog, went racing away.

  When at last they stood by the ruins of what had once been a grandplayhouse, almost a living thing to her, Cherry was ready to weep.

  How very much that playhouse had meant to her! It was only an abandonedsmoke-house, with the pleasant odor of burning wood and smoking meatstill clinging to it, but she had made of it a sort of second home. Whatgrand times she and Alice had known there! And of late, how Tillie andPeggy had gloried in it! They had called it “Home of our Dolls.”

  “The dolls!” Cherry exclaimed as she recalled it all. “Where are they?”

  As if in answer to her appeal, the dog, Flash, went racing about toreturn almost at once with the remains of a doll held lightly betweenhis teeth.

  “Oh! Poor Wilhelmina!” Peggy cried. “She has lost her head!”

  “Yes,” said a sober voice behind her. “And if those terrible Nazis hadsucceeded as they hoped to, in dropping a bomb on our house you and Iwould have been minus our heads too.” It was a tall, strongly built girlin her late teens who spoke. She wore a blue calico apron. Her handswere white with flour.

  “Alice!” Cherry demanded, as a look of terror came into her eyes. “Doyou really think they meant to bomb the house?”

  “Of course they did!”

  “Why? What have we done?”

  “They did it because we belong to England. They hate all of England.They will destroy every bit of England if they can!” The girl’s voicerose. “But they can’t! They shall not. There will always be an England!”

  At that moment the plain, strongly built girl with flour on her handsappeared transformed. No Joan of Arc could have looked stronger, moredaring, than she.

  Cherry looked at the headless doll and was silent.

  In the meantime, racing breathlessly, the two boys watched the driftingof the white enemy parachutes across the sky. It had seemed at firstthat they would land not so far from the spot where they had stood. Buta brisk wind carried them farther and farther away.

  “It’s going to be a race,” Brand panted, “but we’ve just got to make it.They may—may be spies. They—they must not escape!”

  After climbing the sloping pasture they came to a place of scatteredshrubs and trees. At last the parachute nearest them vanished behind abroad beech-tree.

  “Come on!” Dave spurted ahead. “It’s now or never!”

  At last, bursting out from behind a clump of trees they came upon asilken bag lying on the ground. At the same time a dark shadow vanishedinto a clump of low shrubs. Without a word the boys separated, one goingright, the other left. The clump was small. One or the other would comeupon the man. And then—

  It was Brand’s luck to meet the man face to face. He was young,—not morethan two years Brand’s senior. There was a savage, haunted look on hisface.

  “All right!” he growled, showing his teeth like an angry dog, “You askedfor it. You get it!” All this in guttural English. An automatic gleamedin his hand. The English boy did not move.

  The automatic rose, jerkily but steadily. Now it was aimed at the boy’sfeet,—now at his thigh—his belt—and now—

  At that instant something with the force of an avalanche struck the Naziflier across the knees. As he went crashing to earth the automaticexploded harmlessly, then fell into the tall grass. Ten seconds laterboth Brand and Dave were holding the man down, as Brand panted:

  “Tha—that was a capital stroke, Dave! I sup—suppose you’d call that atackle!”

  “Right,” Dave agreed. “It’s really quite old stuff. They do it in themovies. I guess you’d call it a part of our American way of living.” Helaughed softly.

  Brand went over the Nazi flier for weapons. Finding none, he searched inthe grass, found the automatic, then turning about, said:

  “You may get up.”

  The reply was an ugly snarl. But the man, who wore a pilot’s insignia,stood up.

  “Mind leading the way?” Brand said to Dave.

  “Certainly not.” Turning his back on the prisoner Dave started towardthe farmhouse.

  “All right, you. March!” Brand snapped. The prisoner followed Dave.

  With Brand bringing up the rear, they had not gone a dozen paces whenfrom somewhere, not far distant, there came a most astounding roar.

  Starting in sudden shock, Brand all but dropped his weapon.

  “Wha—what’s that?” Dave’s voice trembled as he came to a dead stop.

  “That’s old Jock! Something terrible is happening. Here!” Brand thrustthe automatic into Dave’s hand. “You know how to use it. Press thehandle, that’s all. March him down into the pasture. Don’t hesitate toshoot. This is war—our war!” He was gone. As he dashed through thebrush, Brand felt his blood fairly boiling in his veins. “If anythingserious has happened to good old Jock,” he thought savagely, “if one ofthose devils harms the old man I’ll tear him to pieces with my barehands!”

  Since no further sound reached him, guided only by that one agonizingroar, he made his way as best he could along the slope. Then breakingthrough a cluster of young beech-trees, he stopped short to stare. Thelittle tableau before him seemed unreal. It might have been taken fromsome picture.

  A young man dressed in civilian clothes, minus a coat, lay flat upon theground. His eyes gleaming, white teeth showing in a snarl, a goldencollie lay with his fore-paws on the prostrate man’s chest. Over them,leaning on his crutch, towered a great gray-haired one-legged Scot. Hewas saying: “Keep ’im Flash! Don’t ye let ’im stir an inch!”

  At the same moment, from the pasture below came the confused murmur ofmany voices. This was followed by a shout: “Come on, men. They’re ’idingup ’ere somewheres!”