Chapter VIII: The Air Raiders

Half an hour later they were tramping back again through the long English twilight, just able to make out the road ahead. They had sat despondently for a while on the stone steps of the deserted house and rested, a somewhat silent trio, while the daylight faded slowly and the coolness of evening settled over them. At last The Pickle had looked into a leather pocketbook and selected a small piece of cardboard bearing the inscription, “Mr. Robert Dunham Dill.” Borrowing a pencil from Dave, he had added the names of his companions to his and then, with a ceremonious bow, slipped the card beneath the front door. Pete had watched the proceeding ironically, and when The Pickle had remarked: “At least they’ll know we called,” he observed: “Huh! I know a better way to show ’em: Bust a window!”

Their plan was to find that farmhouse they had seen, or, failing that, some other house, and get something to eat. Their luncheon had been scanty and they were terrifically hungry. Whether the farmhouse was this side or beyond the bridge no one was certain. Dave said beyond, The Pickle said this side and Pete refused to commit himself. The darkness increased slowly, but by the time they had been walking a quarter of an hour night was fully on them. Dave said there ought to be a moon, but there wasn’t, and meanwhile the low-lying mist increased the blackness of a cloudy, starless night. They stumbled on, keeping to the road by instinct rather than sight. The bridge and the river that Peter had wanted to jump were a long time in coming, and they had begun to trouble about the fact when they heard the gurgle of water ahead. They crossed the bridge and had gone some distance beyond when The Pickle observed worriedly:

“Does this road seem right to you fellows?”

“Yeah, why not?” asked Pete.

“Well, somehow it doesn’t seem to be going in the right direction. And it seems rougher than when we came the other way.”

“Now that you mention it,” said Dave, “it does seem rougher. And narrower, too. I was almost in a ditch a minute ago.”

“There wasn’t but one road,” Pete reassured them, “so this must be it. It’s a punk old road, but I guess it’s the right one.”

“There were some lanes,” said The Pickle doubtfully. “We might have got shunted off into one of them. Wait a minute, fellows. Let’s see what it looks like.” The Pickle lighted a match and tried to view the surroundings by its weak radiance, but the result was disappointing, and Pete impatiently bade him come on.

“Let’s find that farmhouse an’ get some chow,” he said. “You chaps may look at scenery if you like, but I’m just about starved to death.”

“Folks in dear old rural England go to bed a bit early, I fancy,” said The Pickle presently, “and maybe the lights’ll be out and we won’t be able to see it.”

“Bet you I’ll be able to smell it!” answered Pete. “If there’s food within a mile I’ll know it.”

A minute or two later Dave said: “Hark, fellows! What’s that noise?” They stopped and listened. Then: “Sounds like waves!” exclaimed The Pickle. “Great Scott, we must be miles out of our way! We’re going toward the coast!”

Followed a dismal silence. Then Pete remarked with forced cheerfulness: “Fine! You can always find something to eat along the shore.”

“Pete,” said Dave earnestly, “if you spring that old one about the ‘sandwiches there’ I’ll kill you.”

“Wasn’t going to. I was thinking of clams.”

“What do you say?” asked The Pickle, dubiously. “Shall we go back or go ahead?”

“Ahead,” said Pete. “We’ll light a bonfire and maybe a boat’ll come and rescue us.”

“I think we might as well go on,” agreed Dave. “There’s likely to be a village along the shore, don’t you think?”

“I used to think that you found a village every half mile in England,” replied The Pickle sadly, “but we seem to have stumbled on the one part of the country where nobody lives.”

“Maybe it’s malarial,” suggested Pete. “I ain’t found any mosquitoes, though. Oh, come ahead, fellows. I’m getting used to it now. I’m beginning to enjoy it. I could walk forever.”

“You’re getting light-headed for want of food,” said Dave, as they went on. “And speaking of food, I’d give anything for a drink of water.”

“So would I,” said The Pickle. “If you hear anything like a brook sing out.”

But all they heard was the subdued sound of the waves. They were climbing a hill now and it lasted for a long time. They stopped to recover their breath and then went on again, and suddenly the beat and swish of the waves was louder and lights twinkled in the blackness and a rush of cooler air from the Channel smote them. They seemed to be on top of a hill, with the ocean a scant distance below. As they paused to peer into the darkness and speculate on the twinkling lights the moon peered for a moment from behind a cloud bank eastward and the scene was revealed.

Before them the road went winding abruptly down to a curving beach, two or three hundred yards distant. On either side stretched rolling moorland. The lights were from beacons or ships, all very far away across the water. To the right a lighthouse shot intermittent white beams athwart the sea. Then the moon slipped behind a cloud and they were again plunged in darkness.

“Well, I don’t know where we are,” said Pete, philosophically, “but I’m glad we’re here. See that reddish light over there? Well, that’s an all-night lunch, fellows, an’ I’m goin’ over to it.”

The Pickle seated himself on the ground and stretched tired limbs. The others followed the example and for a minute they were silent. The waves boomed up from the beach and the fresh wind from the Channel blew in their faces. Finally Dave said: “Now what? We don’t want to stay here all night, I suppose.”

“I’m going down to dig me some clams,” said Pete. But he didn’t move. The Pickle sighed and laid himself flat on the turf beside the road. “Good night,” he murmured. Dave sat and watched the twinkling lights. Silence fell again. Presently he peered at the dial of his wrist watch. The hour was well after nine. Something suspiciously like a snore came from the darkness where The Pickle reposed. Dave’s head nodded....

Perhaps he slept for a moment, perhaps for many minutes. He didn’t know. He awoke with the sound of a gun in his ears and felt the earth tremble slightly beneath him. Eastward a long shaft of intensely white light bored into the heavens from some distant headland. Again the gun boomed. That, too, was to the east, perhaps three miles away. Perplexedly Dave’s gaze followed the broadening shaft of light, and the next instant the searchlight focused itself on the dim shape of an airplane high up in the heavens. Then a second shadowy shape passed into its field of radiance, and a third. The shaft of light moved jerkily, back and forth across the night sky, at every jump revealing a tiny winged form against the clouds. The gun was firing hysterically now at intervals of a few seconds, or possibly a second gun had joined in. From the blackness behind Dave came The Pickle’s voice:

“An air raid,” it said. “And coming this way, fellows. They’re not more than a couple of miles off, I guess.”

“Any one seen a cellar around here?” asked Pete. “Say, those aren’t Zeppelins, are they?”

“No, bombing planes, I’d say,” replied The Pickle. “Look at the searchlights behind us, fellows.”

Toward the interior shafts of light were springing up from the earth, sweeping inquiringly hither and thither, waving, crossing in a wonderful display. The radiance shed a pale glow over the world, a glow that pulsed, waxing and waning as the light beams swung questioningly about. The raiders were almost overhead now, or so it seemed, and the watchers could see the shells from the anti-aircraft guns bursting below them. The humming of the motors became faintly audible. The first searchlight had settled fairly on one plane and clung to it inexorably as it passed above the shore line. Under the white glare the plane looked like a yellow-gray dragon-fly in the far heights. That the shells were reaching the enemy seemed doubtful, for the latter flew straight on Londonward, perhaps nine in all. Inland, other guns joined the stabbing chorus and soon the firing from the coast toward the east ended. The humming whirr of the engines died away and the nearest searchlight swung slowly across the heavens, swept back and forth watchfully toward the south for a minute and went out. Northward the distant guns drummed incessantly, but gradually silence returned to the hill where the boys stood. They could no longer make out the faint specks speeding toward the great city, and the distant searchlights, following the foe, withdrew their radiance from the coast. Pete drew a long breath.

“Gee, I wouldn’t have missed that for anything!” he murmured. “It was wonderful!”

“Do you think they’ll get as far as London?” asked Dave.

“I wouldn’t think so, judging from the reception they’re getting,” answered The Pickle dryly. “More than likely they’ll be coming back pretty soon, but I guess they’ll choose another course. How many――”

He ceased abruptly and wheeled in the darkness. Then, simultaneously with his companions, he threw himself to the ground as, out of the gloom of the night, something vast shot close overhead. They felt the silent rush of it, the wind of its flight on their faces. It was like some huge bird skimming close to earth. They saw it, but only as one sees uncertainly a darker object in the dark, and then it was gone. But from some distance away came a crackling of bushes where the moorland rolled westward from the road and with it a sharp snap as of breaking wood.

Dave found his fingers clutching The Pickle’s arm. Close beside him Pete was breathing hard. They stood there for a long moment with straining eyes and ears intent. Then, faint but unmistakably, came the sound of a human voice. It spoke cautiously and the words didn’t reach them, but it told them one thing beyond the shadow of a doubt, and Dave’s fingers tightened on The Pickle’s arm.

“Germans!” he whispered.