Wings over England

  _Chapter_ IX The Hideout

  That night members of that motley subway throng shared their beds withtheir new-found friends. Dave found a place with a young disabledveteran of the battle of Flanders. They slept on a thin pad and werecovered by blankets none too thick. The subway was cold and drafty. Fortwo hours Dave lay there thinking. Those were long, long thoughts. Backto the pictured walls of his mind came the peaceful pastures of RamseyFarm, the racing planes overhead, the falling bombs, and the driftingparachutes. He rode once more with young Lord Applegate in thattwo-seater. His blood raced again as they played hide-and-seek with anenemy plane in the clouds. Again he heard the thundering crash of a bombthat had exploded, not, he supposed, more than two blocks from where heand Cherry had stood. What if it had been only one block, or no block atall? He tried to think this last question through, and could not quitemake it. Nor could he answer to his complete satisfaction, his secondand third questions,—why had he come to England? And why did he not gohome? There would be a plane for Lisbon the day after tomorrow. Would hetake it? He doubted it. And yet it seemed to him a voice whispered, “Itis to this or no other. Think it over.” He did not think. Instead, hefell asleep.

  Cherry had been given a welcome by a bright young lady who sold shoes ina great store. This young lady was wondering whether a bomb hadscattered her shoes over a city block, and her job with them. In themidst of her chatter Cherry fell sound asleep.

  Before they could leave the subway next morning two people were afterthem.

  The manager of the radio station, who the night before had given Cherrysuch a lukewarm reception, came bustling down the stairs. She, he said,had been “Splendid! Splendid! Quite remarkable indeed! How the peoplehad taken to her! There had been wires, phone calls,—everything. Wouldshe come back at nine that night and sing at the studio? She should havea competent accompanist and every courtesy. Would she come?”

  “No.” Cherry favored him with her brightest smile. “I won’t sing in yourstudio. I can’t sing in a stuffy little box with no one about except aman in a glass case who waves his arms, pretends to cut his own throatwith his fingers, points to the tip of his nose, and goes through allmanner of other contortions just to tell me what to do.”

  All this left the man staring at her, speechless.

  “But if,”—Cherry burst into a merry laugh—“if you’ll let me sing on mybox with my glorious red-headed Irish girl to tickle the ivories, I’llcome back, not tonight, but very soon, and often.”

  “Oh! My dear child!” the manager exploded. “You are generosity itself.But the subway is cold and drafty.”

  “No place,” said Cherry, and she did not smile, “can be cold where somany warm hearts are beating as one.”

  The man stared at her in speechless silence for a moment. Then hemurmured, “May God forgive me if this child is not a genius.”

  But here was her mother. She too had heard the broadcast and thought itmarvelous. This was her day off. Her small car was just around thecorner. She would take them back to Ramsey Farm in time for scrambledeggs, coffee and scones. And she did.

  Mrs. Ramsey, David realized at once, was a strong, efficient person,with a will of her own. She directed the affairs of her household as theO. C. directs his squadron. Breakfast over, she called in the entiregroup to discuss farm affairs. She commended Jock for his fine job ofplowing, and the boys for their work in the turnips and Brussels sproutpatches.

  “England is going to need food,” she declared. “We must all do our best.The nights are growing cold. We may get a freeze at any time, so—oo—”

  “So it’s the potatoes next.” Brand gave vent to a good-natured groan. Hehated picking up potatoes. Stooping over made his back ache. But theirswas a fine crop, and it must be gathered in.

  Jock got out the potato plow. Soon they were all hard at work. Davidjoined in. So too did Alice. Even the “enfants terrible”, Tillie andPeggy, helped a little. They were, however, at their best throwingclods, so in the end they were banished.

  The place where the potatoes were stored held for Dave a realfascination.

  “We call it the Hideout,” Alice explained, dropping down on a sack ofpotatoes for a short rest. “It’s as old as the hills. Did you note themoss on the roof?”

  “Six inches thick,” Dave agreed. “And look at the walls! Solid masonry!”

  “We believe it goes back to Feudal days.” Alice’s eyes took in the onelarge room, its broad stone fireplace, two narrow windows, and massivebeams. “In those days it was a real hideout, I shouldn’t wonder,” shemurmured.

  “And might be again,” Dave suggested.

  “Yes, if the Huns really come,” she agreed. “But they’ll never get thisfar—England will beat them back even if they swarm in on the shore likethe waves of the sea.”

  All that day Cherry sat curled up in a great chair before the fire inthe farmhouse kitchen. She sometimes slept, sometimes thought soberly,and sometimes dreamed. To this her wise mother offered no objections.Cherry, she realized for the first time, had a great gift. She might, itseemed, be of extraordinary service to all England. She could bring themthe spirit of youth, buoy them up, give them courage for the greatordeal that lay ahead.

  The potatoes were stored in a narrow, dark underground tunnel that oneentered through a door at the back of the Hideout.

  “A grand air raid shelter,” suggested Dave.

  “Hope we never need it,” Alice replied soberly, “but you never cantell.” Her brow wrinkled. She was thinking of the hole in the groundwhere an ancient playhouse had once stood. “How about a tramp to thevillage?” she suggested.

  “O. K. by me,” said Dave. “I’ll see if my boots are finished.”

  The boots were not finished. But then, boots at the cobbler’s neverare—at least, not the first time you call.

  “You’ll have to pardon the delay,” the old man apologized. “So many boysfrom the airdrome have brought in their boots.

  “But things will go faster now.” His face brightened. “You see I have ahelper.”

  For the first time Dave noticed a short, sturdy young man sitting in thecorner. He was sewing on a sole and never once looked up.

  Dave thought with a start, “He has a vaguely familiar look. But I’venever seen him before, that’s certain.”

  “He does very fine work.” The old man rubbed his hands together. “Veryfine indeed.”

  Appearing a little disturbed by Dave’s lingering look at the stranger,old John followed him out of the shop to close the door behind him.“He’s quite proper,” he said, jerking a thumb backward toward the shop.“He looks like a German, but he’s a refugee, a Hollander. Youunderstand?”

  “Yes,—I”

  “His papers are in perfect order. I saw to that you may well believe.”The old man laughed a trifle uncertainly. “Our local magistrate lookedover those papers for me,” he went on. “We can’t take chances. But this,you see, is a rare opportunity. I’ve never made any real money, not inall my long life. And now, with all these fliers coming in—”

  “Gives you a break,” said Dave. “I wish you lots of luck.” As it turnedout, the old man was to need it,—lots and lots of luck.

  When the cobbler opened the door to retrace his steps, Flash, thecollie, who had come up as a sort of vanguard to Alice, put his nose inat the cobbler’s door, gave a long sniff, then uttered a low growl.

  “Well now, I wonder what he means by that?” Dave thought as he hurriedaway to join Alice.

  That night, after the others had retired, Mrs. Ramsey, Dave and Brandsat for a long time silently watching the fading glow of the wood fire.

  “Mother,” Brand said suddenly, “I’d like to join the Royal Air Force.”

  “Oh! No!” The mother’s words came short and quick. “You are needed here.Besides, there’s little enough for our aviators to do now. After thebeating up we gave them, the Jerries, as you call them, are only comingover at night. You can?
??t find them at night. That’s work for theanti-aircraft batteries.”

  “I’m not so sure of that,” Brand murmured beneath his breath. “Butmother,” his voice rose, “the Huns may come over, a million of them, byair and sea, perhaps tomorrow. We must be prepared!”

  “And we must be fed,” his mother replied quietly. “Perhaps later—” Shedid not finish. She knew a great deal about war, did the brave-heartedEnglish mother.

  “Wars,” said David, speaking before he thought, “are wrong. There shouldbe no wars.”

  Instantly the woman’s slow, steady gaze was upon him. “She’s angry withme,” he thought. His lips were parted for the words, “I’m sorry.”

  But she spoke first. “You are exactly right, David. Wars are terrible. Ishould know. Wars have cost me those I loved far more than life. Nowanother war may cost me my son, and perhaps my daughters.

  “Some of us,” she went on, “did what we could to prevent this war. Wefailed. Why? Perhaps none of us will ever know for sure.

  “However,” her voice was steady and sure, “we have a war. We have nochoice but to fight it. We must fight or be enslaved. Our enemy has leftno room for doubt there. England has always been free.”

  After that for some time, save for the slow, steady tick—tock—tick—tockof the dependable old English clock in the corner, there was silence inthe great room.

  Later, as they stood outside beneath the stars, Brand told Dave that formore than a year the Young Lord had been training him, teaching him howto become a fighter. “And he’s a real fighter himself, you may be sureof that.” His voice was low and strong. “He’s no braggart like some ofthose flying Huns. He has a real record all the same. He flew in Franceduring the Blitzkrieg. Sometimes it was ten Messerschmitts to his oneHurricane. He got two of them. That was just one time. There were manyothers. You just wait!” His voice rose sharply. “I’ll be right up therebeside him in a Tomahawk one of these days!”

  Would he? Dave wondered.