“But the farm, Alice?” The young Lord was weakening.
“Surely you can spare Jeff Weeks and his wife for a few days to look after this farm.”
“A few days? Yes. But suppose it is forever?” The young Lord’s voice was low. “Alice, more important than our search for Cherry, much as we all love her, is to be our hunt for the sea-raider. And if we find it there will be no quarter! It shall be that ship or our plane. Such is war.”
“If it is to be forever?” There was a smile on the girl’s lips. “We die but once. The farm will not matter. Let me go!”
The young Lord threw up his hands. “I surrender,” he whispered hoarsely.
And so it happened that, when the transfer had been granted and the young Lord had been put in command of a sea-scouting bomber, one of the fastest in the service, and when it sailed away into the blue, it carried not five but six men. One of these “men” had short, bobbed hair, and as he stood by the one-legged, gray-haired rear gunner, he looked remarkably like a girl.
At dawn, in a bomber that made their little Spitfires seem like gulls, the young warriors rose high in air, far above the clouds, to zoom away.
When land was lost from sight the young Lord studied his compass and his chart, set a course south by west to at last drop down close to the sea.
After that, hour after hour, with eyes that burned from watching and hearts that ached with longing, they studied the dark surface of the never-ending sea.
Twice they came upon British ship convoys and dipped low to greet them. Once they thought they saw a life-boat and hope ran high. But, as they dropped low, the supposed boat submerged.