Somehow the word that Alice had been on the bomber at the moment of its triumph had got about. Ignoring every precedent, the commander’s wife invited her to the dinner and fitted her out with a dress suited to the occasion. She was quite the queen of the occasion.
For all her gayety, deep down in her soul the girl was broken-hearted. A half hour before they went in for dinner the young Lord had told her in steady, even tones that only served to reveal his hidden emotion that the invasion of their land seemed near at hand, that the R. A. F. was sadly in need of heavy bombers for breaking up troop-concentrations on the other shore. “Five powerful bombers are waiting, all equipped, on American shores,” the young Lord had said. “My orders are to pick up crews for these bombers—they are waiting for me at a Scottish airdrome—and to fly these crews across the Atlantic.”
“No—no more search?” Alice’s tongue had gone dry.
“Perhaps a little coming and going,” he replied, striving to ease her pain. “We shall sail over those same waters.”
“Then I shall go with you,” she flashed.
“That is as the Commander may decide.” Once before the young Lord had tried refusing her. Never again.
“He can’t deny me that much.” Alice’s words were steady and sure. Nor was she wrong.
As the plane took off next day for its long hop across the Atlantic, it carried twenty-six men and Alice. Perhaps she had been commissioned to prepare and serve hot drinks for the long journey. No one knew or seemed to care. She was there. That was all that mattered.
Every man of the company knew her story. When the time came to sail over the waters close to the spot where the Queen Bess went down for a full hour every eye was on the sea. Nothing showed, so at long last they settled back for the hours that were yet to come.
One hour out of every three Alice busied herself serving refreshments. She slept a little and thought a great deal. Long, long thoughts those were. Then they were at their secret destination, a cold, bleak shore somewhere in North America.