Time of the Singing of Birds

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Dearest!” said Barney and stooped right on the public street and kissed her.

  “But, Barney dear, you mustn’t! Can’t you remember I’m the schoolmarm? They’ll perhaps have me expelled for carrying on in public this way with a soldier! And there might be some of my bad boys around watching. And old lady Cramer lives in that little house up the road. They say she can see a mile away and talk as if she had seven tongues.”

  And so they talked lightly, as if there were no anxieties and burdens in the world for them, and Barney went home almost cheered. What a wonderful girl she was! But he did not know that back in her little cloak room where she stored unused schoolbooks and boxes of chalk and piles of old examination papers, Sunny was down on her knees behind an old blackboard asking for keeping for Barney and strength for them both to go through this trial.

  Chapter 21

  Stormy, going down the dark river in a little open boat with a man who was supposedly fishing, lay under the big piece of sailcloth that was thrown carelessly over him, and now and again looked out furtively between the folds. He was trying to identify the places he was passing, cities he must have known well at one time. Yet some cities were so much alike at night it was hard to tell them apart. He feared even to think of names of places he knew, lest somehow the enemy might sense his thoughts. He knew nothing of the man in whose boat he traveled. He trusted nobody. He was only trying to follow orders. And lying still beneath that cover in the night he fell asleep.

  Sometimes he woke, but the cover was still upon him, and he lay as still as possible. He somehow felt he must not call the attention even of his fisherman.

  He had carefully memorized all the papers he carried. If any enemies appeared he could destroy them and be little worse off than he was before when he had been in the underground.

  He began to wonder about the radio and if it would be some new type that would make them suspect him. He tried to remember all he knew of such instruments that might be used on planes. He whiled away the long journey in that little boat by repeating over in his mind the names and numbers of the papers he carried. He must have these all at his tongue’s end. There must be no hesitation in his answers if any questions were asked.

  In the dimness of the dawning they reached the airport, a bleak place with no lights, and hazy planes like giant shadowy insects hovered about in most unexpected places.

  The oarsman who had been strangely silent all the way drew up to land, pointed to a distant building dimly outlined against the dawn, and uttered one single word: hangar. Then he took away the covering cloth and helped his passenger to get out, which was not an easy job after such a long time of lying in one cramped position. His feet on solid ground again, he watched his conductor turn his boat and sweep away into the dimness from which they had come. Just like that, without a word! Twelve hours at least he must have been in the company of that man, and they had not spoken to each other, save that one word. Stormy would not know him if he were to see him in the daylight. Would he ever see him again? Was he a saved man or an enemy perhaps? That might, of course, be possible. For it would not have been easy to get a native to bring him here.

  But now he had no time to think. His orders were to go at once to the office and report. He took out his identification papers and walked with as firm a step as he could muster with the stiffness in his legs. It was good that it was still dark or his gait might be noticeable.

  The man in the office was asleep, his head down on his folded arms upon the desk, and Stormy had to pound on the door to wake him and gain admittance and attention.

  He stood waiting while the official read his papers with sleepy eyes and then looked him over, saying a few words in French, to the effect that he was the new radio operator to take the place of the man who had been taken sick. It was good for Stormy that he had been well taught in languages and could converse easily in several, so he had no trouble in answering the few questions.

  The official showed him where to go and what would be required of him, told him it was uncertain when the plane would leave, assigned him temporary quarters where he could rest until the day officer would arrive who would give him further orders. Then he departed, and Stormy lay down on the hard cot in the bare little room and shivered. The broken rest, the bleakness of the airport, the dismal outlook into a day in which a fine drizzle of rain was obscuring the surroundings, combined to make him feel half sick. But he was a soldier and not expecting luxury. And he was on his way. A few mouthfuls of the dry bread he had brought with him, a swallow or two of water from a pitcher on the shelf, a bit of a prayer, and he felt better and went off into a refreshing sleep.

  The day officer seemed more indifferent than the night officer had been, and it struck Stormy that all the people he saw coming and going around that airport looked unhappy and suspicious, as if they trusted nobody. But he did not venture to talk with any except when he had to ask a question about his duties. He judged that as this was enemy-occupied territory none dared to trust any, and so he did not do so himself. He was glad that nobody asked him questions. They did not seem to care where he came from, or where he was going. Each went his way with sodden indifference.

  He was clothed as inconspicuously as possible, having got rid of the ragged enemy uniform he had worn when he escaped from the camp. The little room where they had put him when he came contained a coat and cap evidently worn by the former radio operator, now sick. Stormy approached them. They were a bit too small, but what did that matter? They seemed clean and gave him a more self-respecting look.

  The three days of waiting went hard with Stormy, and as he began to experiment with the radio he wished he dared send some message to his outfit, but the friend who had helped him at the underground had warned him not to try anything like that. He must remember that he was still in enemy-occupied territory.

  At last the time of waiting was over and the plane appeared. Then there was work to do, messages to be sent, and by this time he was fairly well acquainted with his instrument. He was filled with excitement to think that in a little while now he would be out of enemy-occupied land and free to go on where he would. But he had been trained in a hard school and well knew that he must not count on anything ahead. Almost anything might happen yet to hold him up. And he prayed that it might not be too long for the information he possessed to be of value.

  That last night before the plane came he slept fitfully, and often in his dreams he saw that vision again that had been with him during his fever. That angel with the face of a girl, that girl he had seen at camp back in his homeland. The girl whose tiny snapshot collected from among her brother’s pictures the last time he was back with the outfit had gone with him everywhere so far, hidden inside the pocket of his shirt, where happily no sneering guard had yet discovered it. It was only a tiny one, and now soiled and crumpled in spite of his care, but somehow that face had cheered him when he felt utterly without human friends. Could it be that he would see that girl herself someday? That there was hope he might yet go home and see her? Her brother Jim had been his friend. There might be an opportunity. It was a pleasant hope to ponder on as he watched the great plane come sailing into the airport. Only a figment of his imagination, perhaps, but it helped to pass the time away.

  Then things began to happen. He was given many messages to send, some that contained facts that he knew his officers back at the outfit would be glad to get. Some that he would like to withhold from sending to the enemy. Dared he do a bit of editing? He wished he could, but he must run no risks for the sake not only of himself but for those good people who had taken their lives in their hands to help to set him free. He had been warned.

  As he set sail at last out into the gloomy world a great exultation filled him. He was going.

  How he wished he were free to replace that pilot up there and fly that plane where he would. For he was a pilot himself, of course, and felt at home in the air. If only there had been nobody but himself and the pilot on board, he could easily h
ave overpowered the pilot and taken over. But there were a lot of people on board, soldiers and sturdy men. And anyway, he should not think such crazy thoughts. For while under certain circumstances he might have gotten away with it, it would certainly have reacted on those blessed people of the underground who had helped him get away and were living to help others who might escape, and he could think of nothing more despicable than to be disloyal to them.

  Still there was exhilaration in being among the clouds again and daring to hope that in the not far distance he might be seeing his buddies of the outfit, and be perhaps hearing from home. Again he wondered about Barney Vance. Where was he? Was he living still, and did he get well and go home, or was he still in a hospital bed, as he had left him?

  And that was the morning that Barney received that first telegram from the admiral.

  The first airport was passed at last. The next one was still many miles ahead. Stormy’s heart was pounding in his chest as they went on. Soon, soon though they would pass out of enemy jurisdiction. The second airport! There the new radioman was to take over and he would be free to edge along into unoccupied territory.

  It was only a little while after that that he noticed something strange about the way they were flying, something quite out of the ordinary. He wished he dared go over to that pilot and suggest something. He wished he dared take over to run them into safety. He felt fairly certain he knew what was the matter with that plane, but that wasn’t his business and might, of course, lay him open to suspicion. He must not do that. If he should be taken prisoner, here, now, before they had crossed the border into free land, what would become of all the valuable information he carried in his mind? It would be lost to his side; he would probably be taken prisoner again, too. No, he must be quiet and calm.

  Oh, God, take over, please! he prayed.

  And now the plane was definitely out of hand and going down swiftly; a forced landing was inevitable. Stormy looked down. Was that water beneath those clouds, or mountains, or what? He couldn’t see for the rain and mist that surrounded the swiftly falling plane. The passengers were in a panic. He could easily have been in one himself, to have to come down among the enemy when he had been almost out into freedom. Was God going to let this happen to him again? Was this what He had planned? But if it was going to happen, of course it was in the eternal plan, and Stormy must yield in contentment.

  Oh, God, take over for me. I can do nothing myself, he prayed.

  And then the crash came!

  Chapter 22

  Barney had waited five days for another message from the admiral before it came. A letter sent that morning making an appointment in Washington.

  Barney was all ready to go, although he had about lost hope that he would hear anything more of his request. He took only time for a brief telephone conversation with Margaret and hurried on his way to Washington, leaving a deeply disappointed Roxy, weeping salt tears into her dishpan, and a bright-haired girl who had already shed her tears and had prayed her way through to peace, trying to smile through her day of hard work in school.

  Meanwhile Barney was on the train, trying to forget the sad little lilt of his dear girl’s voice as she bade him Godspeed and told him how she would be praying all the time for him.

  They hadn’t had much time to talk, for he knew he should catch the first train possible, and he knew also that she had duties, which he must not interrupt. Besides, they had said good-bye last night, with always the thought every night that perhaps he might have to go before she saw him again.

  But presently he was able to turn his attention to what might be just before him.

  He got out his telegram and read it over carefully. Oh, it was all uncertain business. He wished he could have gone straight from his hospital before he came home. That would have been the way to find Stormy. All this endless delay! And now, he would scarcely know which direction to take, unless the outfit had since received more definite knowledge of where Stormy had been taken prisoner.

  He put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes, trying to pray. He was in God’s hands, why should he be so upset by a simple change of plans? God was in Washington. He was across the seas. He knew whether it was in the plan for Barney to go after Stormy or not. Why should he fret? And so, laying down his burden, peace came to his heart and he slept.

  One of the hardest things in life for Barney to do was to wait patiently for something he wasn’t in the least sure of, and he found that there was a good deal of that in store for him for the next two days. Then suddenly things began to happen.

  The admiral’s secretary came to him in the office where she had parked him the day before and sent him off to the doctor to have a thorough physical examination.

  Barney saw in that only another way to hinder him, for he knew he was not up to his normal strength yet, and he did not want that held up against him. He knew that he could go out and fight again if he were back with his companions and that was his duty. He knew that he had strength enough to do what he had set out to do under ordinary circumstances, or even under extraordinary ones. And even if it was not the way to recover normal strength now, yet we were at war, weren’t we? And soldiers were not expected to consider themselves. Still he felt he was fit enough and would be all right, and if the Lord wanted him to go, he was going. That is, if the army would let him. And, of course, if he was allowed to go that would be a sign that it was the Lord’s will. But he went to the doctor as he was ordered, waited an unconscionable time for his turn, answered innumerable questions, and got very little personal satisfaction out of the interview, save that he was advised that he still needed to take as much rest as possible. Then he went back to the admiral’s secretary and was told that the admiral would see him the next morning and hoped to have definite information for him.

  Meanwhile Barney had taken all this waiting time to write a letter to Margaret, a real love letter, the first he had ever written, pouring out all the precious thoughts of his heart for her, trying to make up for the brief time they had had together since they had found out their love.

  Dear Sunny:

  You will not mind if I use the dear name I knew first, will you, my darling, in this my first love letter to you? It somehow seems right that I should bridge the years in this way.

  My precious love, you cannot know how hard it has been to leave you this way, when we have only just found each other. And yet I think you understood that it meant an obligation that could not be ignored. I think, too, that you agreed with me that it was right for me to go. But that is something we have talked over, something that we have left in the Lord’s hands, and both of us are trusting that He will bring it out in His own way.

  But now I want to go back to the first morning when I returned from overseas and saw you standing down among the apple blossoms, your sweet face looking up to the bird singing by my window.

  I am astonished at myself that I haven’t told you this before, but we had so little time alone, you know, and there were so many important things to say. I wanted this to be a very special time, this telling you the lovely picture you made there among the apple blossoms, when you didn’t even know I was there watching you. So I’m going to take this first minute by myself, when I’ve nothing to do but think about you, and this seems the best way to feel near to you, by bringing out that dear picture I have in my very recent memory. When I woke this morning I took a look at it as I always do every morning since I first saw you, and I feel guilty that I have not told you about it before.

  But now, I am wondering if I can find words to paint the picture of you as I saw you that morning when the birds were singing and I was at home again after war and horror, and pain and desolation.

  It was the time of the singing of the birds, you know, and they were fairly whooping it up out there in the apple tree, that was all pink-and-white blossoms, with sunshine glinting through the perfumed air.

  And then I heard the soft crunch of wheels on the gravel of the drive, blending into my dr
eams, but scarcely noticed it as anything out of harmony with the waking world, till suddenly I heard a silver-sweet whistle, high and clear, a whistle that I had thought for years was practically my personal property. Astonished, I listened, and there it came again. This I have told you before, briefly, of course, and have since heard you give a demonstration of what you can do in that line. But that night was so suddenly interrupted that I did not tell you what was in my heart, and somehow there has never been a time since when I could return to it, because there were so many other important things to say.

  Barney took time and much comfort in describing the thrill that came to him with the silver sound of Sunny’s whistle, and he smiled as he set down the lovely words of description, almost as if he were writing notes in a musical score.

  And then he came to the picture as he went to the window and saw her.

  He was like an artist taking out his tubes of paint and arranging them on his palette, mixing and blending them to express just the right shade of meaning as he gathered out the words and set them in order in his mind, until it resolved itself into a delight to put them into the picture.

  So the letter grew and went on to almost a volume.

  Oh, it wasn’t all a love letter! There were bits of incidents he had met by the way as he walked around the streets of Washington. There were notable people to mention and describe, some he had even met, and there were items of war news that perhaps hadn’t yet got on the radio. He described some of the great buildings he had visited to pass the time away, told of the lovely flowers in the parks. And then he went back to his love for Margaret and began to tell her all over again how happy it made him that she loved him, so happy that he couldn’t rightly think about the serious mission he was expecting presently to go out on. A mission that would probably be filled with peril and danger and toil and weariness before he could even hope to come back to her, if he ever came. But he did not want to make her suffer as he was suffering every time he thought of that possibility.