Wings over England Read online

  Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Al Haines, Dave Morgan andthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team athttps://www.pgdp.net

  _WINGS OVER ENGLAND_

  BY ROY J. SNELL

  _Eight Full Page Illustrations By GLEN SHEFFER_

  THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING CO. CHICAGO NEW YORK

  _Copyright 1941, by M. A. Donohue & Company_ _Printed in the United States of America_

  Contents

  I. Cherry 1 II. Catbirds and Hawk 11 III. Dolls and Nazis 17 IV. Hans Schlitz 25 V. The young Lord 34 VI. Lady Spies 44 VII. Enemy Sighted 57 VIII. Roll Out the Barrel 67 IX. The Hideout 80 X. First Blood 91 XI. Cobbler or Spy? 105 XII. “The House Is Gone” 113 XIII. Lull Before the Storm 123 XIV. A Dungeon Night 131 XV. Until the Very End 144 XVI. Fiddlin’ Johnny 152 XVII. Playing War 166 XVIII. Dave’s Strange Craft 175 XIX. Thrilling Sky Drama 182 XX. Dave Comes Marching Home 188 XXI. The Lark Defends His Home Town 194 XXII. Roll Out the Barrel 203 XXIII. Victory 213 XXIV. Searchers of the Sea 218 XXV. The Rescue 229

  Illustrations

  That Was a Capital Stroke, Dave _Frontispiece_ We Do Have a Spy 49 Everybody Sing 77 Tat-tat-tat—Down Goes Hun 99 Only Three Walls Remained 117 The Dog Had Found the Fugitive 135 Shots Tore Into His Right Wing 161 Alice—Alice—I Know Your Voice 233

  _Chapter_ I Cherry

  It was one of those rare autumn days in England. The sky was blue asblue. The trees cast dark shadows across the hillside. The sheepwandered contentedly along the slope. To Cherry Ramsey, for one fullmoment it seemed that nothing could possibly be wrong with the world.

  Then with a sudden light spring she shot from her sunny corner to scanthe sky and to exclaim softly to the collie at her feet:

  “Flash old boy, it’s an airplane. Perhaps it’s a bomb-bomber.” That lastword always choked her. How she hated those Nazi marauders! No, all wasnot right with the world! Perhaps it never would be again for a long,long time!

  “But Flash old boy,” there was hot fire in her voice, “we must all doour best and trust God. That’s what mother always says, and she’s nearlyalways right.”

  Flash, the splendid golden collie, stood up, appeared to listen, thenwhined as if he had truly understood. And who will say he did not?

  For one more full moment the scene remained just as it had been. In theforeground were low hills and sheep feeding. Beyond that lay a levelfield where two grown youths in their late teens bent over their task ofharvesting Brussels sprouts. Beyond all this were trees and barns—a farmhome,—Cherry’s own home.

  As she stood there, lips parted, ears straining in their attempt tobuild up a mental picture of the rapidly approaching airplane, she sawthe two boys straighten up, then gaze skyward.

  “Ah! They hear it!” she whispered. Then she tried with a sudden flash ofthe imagination to picture the thoughts running through the minds atthat moment of those strangely different boys. The plane proved to be aGerman bomber.

  Then suddenly her heart stood still. The plane had come zooming out frombehind the nearby hills, and in a flash she had caught sight of thehated cross on the right of the plane, the swastika on its tail.

  At that same instant the taller of the two boys turned to his companionto say:

  “I suppose that’s what you call a bomber?” His was the sharp, briskaccent of a Midwest American.

  “Not precisely that,” was the slow drawling reply of his typicallyEnglish companion. “It’s a Messerschmitt 110, I’d say. They do use themfor daylight bombing. But that plane is really a fighter. The best theJerries have. If our boys go after one of them when it flies over to doa little bombing, it lays eggs and puts off at a fearful rate, or turnsin for a scrap.

  “And I say!” his voice rose, “There’ll be a scrap! There’s a Spitfireafter her. Good old Spitfire! Go after ’em, old boy! Here we are, with aringside seat!” He dropped back to take his place on a bag of Brusselssprouts. The tall, dark, curly-haired American youth stood where he was,watching the two planes. His eyes were wide with excitement and wonder.This was but his third day in England. Until this moment he had seennothing of the war. Even now, with the peace of open country all abouthim, it did not seem possible that those two silver ships up there inthe sky would really fight an air duel, that men might come hurtlingdown from out the sky to a terrible crushing death.

  An exclamation from his companion brought him back to reality.

  “Oh! I say!” came in sharp, rising tones. “There’s another of ourfighters! Now there’ll surely be a scrap! That Messerschmitt can’tescape both of them! That,” he said with a sudden intake of breath, “isone of your American fighters. It’s called a Tomahawk.”

  “Are they good?” Dave asked, his eyes still on the sky.

  “Good!” Brand exploded, “Of course they’re good! Air cooled engine. Do350 per hour. And can they climb! Practically straight up! It’s going tobe grand!” he exclaimed, his eyes glued upon the spot where the threeplanes were circling. “They’ll do that old Messerschmitt in before youcan say Jack Robinson.”

  “They should. Two to one,” Dave Barnes, the other boy spoke slowly, nosarcasm in his voice, only cool appraisal. He was an American. This wasnot his war. For him this was but a ringside seat to something ratherbig.

  The lips of the English boy, Brandon Ramsey, drew into a tense whiteline. This _was_ his war. Perhaps he knew the men in those one-seatedfighters. He could not be sure of that, but there was an airbase forfighters not three miles from his home. He knew nearly all the fliers.As for the enemy plane, why was it here? To drop bombs on defenselessvillagers, or to spy out targets for some other plane that carried tonsof explosives. Who could say?

  “Two to one.” His was not a happy laugh. “There are three men in thatMesserschmitt. They’re in an armored cabin. Our boys are right out therein the open.” There was a touch of anger in his voice.

  “I—I’m sorry,” Dave murmured, brushing a hand before his eyes. “I’vebeen in England for so short a time. Guess I don’t see things your wayjust yet.”

  “That�
��s all right,” was the prompt and generous response. Brand gaveDave’s knee a slap. “You’ll pick it up fast. That is,” he added, “ifthat Messerschmitt isn’t still carrying its bombs and if he doesn’t landone of them right on us.”

  “Why would he do that?” The American boy’s eyes opened wide.

  “Lighten his load. Besides, a bullet might strike a bomb. Then whew!He’d fly into a thousand pieces. He—”

  The English boy stopped suddenly, for at that instant there came asput—sput—sput from the sky.

  “They’re at it!” Dave’s voice was low and tense.

  The burst of fire which was short and sharp had come from the Spitfire.

  “Short, broadside,” Brand explained. “You can’t do much with abroadside. Other plane’s going too fast. They’re out of range, just likethat. They—

  “Look!” he exclaimed in a voice tense with emotion. “The Tomahawk isgoing after that plane from behind! He—

  “Nope.” He let loose a low hiss of disgust.

  “He’s gone into a power dive.”

  It was true. All the planes had been high, perhaps up 15,000 feet. Nowthe Messerschmitt slipped into a dive that took it half the distance toearth. The American boy was ready to dodge and run for it when just assuddenly as it had gone into the dive the Nazi plane came out of it tolevel off just above the farm home.

  “Look!” Brand gripped his companion’s arm hard. “He’s dropped a bomb!”

  Terror stricken, fascinated, white-hot with anger, the English boywatched a silver spot against the dark blue sky go down—down—down.

  And on the hillside, far above her home, tall, slender, beautifultwenty-year old Cherry Ramsey, with the color gone from her cheeks, alsowatched the terrifying missile speed from the sky.

  “Where will it strike?” Her alert mind registered the question her lipsdid not speak, while her eyes took in the house, the barn, theout-buildings, the orchard—every spot dear to her childhood.

  And then the silence of the countryside was torn by a sudden burst ofsound that made the very hills tremble.

  For one full moment while the trio on the hillside kept their places,breathless, expectant, a cloud of dust and smoke obscured the view.

  During this moment Cherry became conscious of the dog that lay whiningat her feet. Bending low, she patted his sleek head. “Yes, I know it’sterrible,” she soothed. “You don’t like it. We don’t either. But we allmust endure it for England’s sake.”

  As if he understood, the dog nestled silently at her feet.

  The smoke cleared. The girl sighed with relief. The bomb had fallen inthe orchard. A single apple tree, one of the early pippins, had beenuprooted. A slight loss. The tree was quite old.

  And then with a shock it came to her that everything—the house, thebarn, the dovecotes,—all about the place was old, old and very dear.

  Then again her lips parted in sudden fright, for a second silver spot,larger than the first, had appeared against the sky. Watching its swiftdescent, she grabbed at her painfully beating heart. At first it seemedthat it must fall upon the house. “Alice is there,” her reeling brainregistered the thought. Then came a sense of relief. The house would bespared. Then it was to be the barn where two fine colts were housed thatwould receive the full force of the blow.

  “No,” she sighed. “Farther up the hill.”

  The bomb fell not ten feet from a small square building. Like a tree,uprooted by the blast, this tiny house leapt high in air, thencollapsing, crashed to earth. At the same instant dust and smokeconcealed all.

  As if struck a blow from behind, the girl leapt forward, stood theretense, motionless for a period of seconds, then disregarding the loyalcollie whining at her heels, went dashing down the hill.

  The apparently insignificant building had once been a smoke-house.Perhaps that had been fifty years before. When Cherry was a child it hadbeen converted into a playhouse. There, hours on end, she and her sisterAlice had played with their dolls and at keeping house. They, to be surehad abandoned both dolls and playhouse long ago. But from time to timeother children had come to live on the Ramsey Farm. Both playhouse anddolls had been theirs. At this moment two cute children, Tillie andPeggy, from the London slums, were staying at the Ramsey Farm. This oldsmoke-house was their favorite haunt. As Cherry sped down the hillallowing herself not one glance at the brightening sky, she dared notask the question that haunted her terror-stricken mind. “Oh, God!” shewhispered, “It can’t be true!”