“Must we fight?”
“It’s all there is left to do. We can’t climb on one motor. All we can do is to stay up a mile and go straight on.”
“Oh! Perhaps a fight,” Mary thought as he went back in the cabin.
The gray sands were turning white before the rising sun. She saw a speck in the distance. Could it be an enemy plane? She wished Sparky would come back.
Supposing the fire broke out of the motor enclosure and the ship burned. She shuddered at the thought. “Of course,” she reassured herself, “we’d take to our parachutes and escape.”
“But escape to what?” a voice seemed to whisper.
To sifting sands. That was the answer. And then there was their precious cargo.
Here was Sparky again. “All set.” His voice was almost cheerful.
“Spoiling for a fight?” Mary teased.
“I wouldn’t mind knocking down one or two of Hitler’s desert rats,” was the quick reply. “There’s fighting blood in my family. Grandfather in the Civil war and Dad all the way with the Canadians in the other World War. And here I am just flying, flying, flying, flying. Gets a bit dull at times.