When Mr. Crabtree walked over, Charlie and Robert were both quietly enjoying their own pursuits and sipping their tea.
“You two kids have worked hard this week; a real credit to the uniform. I have no complaints about either one. This has been an unusual week and, I must admit, I was very glad to have the both of you here.”
In all the frantic hustle of the last few days, Robert had completely forgotten that today was when Mr. Crabtree would judge their performance and decide who stayed and who hit the road.
The portly telegrapher rolled the ever-present cigar back and forth and Robert tried to hide his smile. He’d figured out the secret of the unlit stogie when Mr. Crabtree had left the door to his office open one day and Robert happened to pass by at exactly the right moment. His boss didn’t smoke: not cigars, not cigarettes, not a pipe. He did, however, keep a bottle of twelve-year-old Scotch in his desk drawer and would dip the end of the cigar in the bottle. Then he’d keep the booze-soaked Cuban special tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Robert couldn’t help admiring the man’s method. One, there was no foul odour of cigar smoke; two, there was no evidence of alcohol lying around, and three, Mr. Crabtree saved money on both cigars and Scotch, a detail sweet old Mrs. Crabtree was surely grateful for.
“I was worried I wouldn’t have enough work for two messengers and neither of you would make a decent wage. After this week, I’ve changed my mind. I think everything evens out – it’s either chicken or feathers in this business. When it’s chicken, we all eat; if it’s feathers, well now, you be glad your folks can step in to feed you.” Mr. Crabtree chuckled, and this time he made a gurgling sound like muddy water going down a drain. “And if you two can be civil to one another while on the job,” here he raised his unkempt brows at them, “I’m prepared to leave things as they are. You can both stay if you choose.”
The comment about Charlie and him getting along surprised Robert. He didn’t think the old guy had picked up on the hostility they felt for each other. Even though things had eased to a halfway truce, he’d have to be more careful in the future. If things did get too slow to support two couriers, then he didn’t want to stick out as the one who couldn’t get along with the rest of the team.
Robert took his pay envelope and hefted it. Hard work and the war were paying off. He’d have no problem buying all three of his heroes when they came in next week, and his mother would be thrilled as there would be enough to buy more saving stamps to add to his book.
“So, are we sticking together as a merry little band?” Mr. Crabtree asked.
Robert and Charlie fidgeted like kids at a prayer meeting.
“Rob’s not so bad, once you get over his ugly mug smiling like a jack-in-the-box puppet all day,” Charlie offered in way of agreement.
Robert added his two cents. “And Charlie’s pile of rusty bolts keeps me entertained all shift. Her bike’s pretty funny, too!” He added as a parting shot.
Mr. Crabtree made another of his gurgling sounds. “Then it’s settled. Be here after school Monday. Now go, the pair of you.” He turned and went back to the telegrapher’s room.
Robert could have sworn he heard the sound of a cork being pulled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
UNKNOWN WORLDS
On the way home, Robert felt his pendant humming – something big was about to happen. He knew better than to disregard the signal and decided to ride to his favourite drugstore to see if any of his top three buddies had arrived early. He’d barely walked into the shop, when Mr. Kreller called him over.
“Darndest thing, Robert, all three of your favourite comics came in today. They’re a few days ahead of schedule, which is strange. If you want only one in particular, say The Maple Leaf Kid,” he paused to let Robert think about his offer, “you can get it today.”
Robert felt his pulse speed up. “I’ll take...” He patted his trouser pocket, feeling the pay-packet money. “All three of them.”
The pharmacist froze, obviously surprised at this grand order; then he pulled a paper bag from beneath the counter and loaded it up. “That’ll be thirty cents, cash.”
Robert extracted the money and took the bag. He could hardly contain his excitement. He had all three of his superheroes’ new releases at once! He couldn’t remember that ever happening before.
What would the covers be like? What adventures awaited? What danger would Ice get into, and out of, this month? And Sedna, what watery mission would she and her fishy friends go on?
The best of the best would be discovering how the Kid, his special pal, had devised some ingenious plan to outsmart Hitler. What peril lurked for his buddy, and how would he thwart the evil mastermind?
It was all waiting for him.
Robert had the urge to drop everything and snoop in the bag. He couldn’t, though. He knew if he saw so much as the corner of a cover, he would have to read the entire story then and there. After all, it was like having a window into what was happening to his brothers. He knew when their letters arrived the comic book world would already have shown him what had been happening to them.
Careering into the alley behind his house, he threw a fast wave to Mr. G, then stashed his bike in the garage, raced into the house and straight upstairs to his room. A quick salute to his brothers, then Robert leapt onto the bed and, taking his pendant out from under his shirt, held it as he reached into the brown bag and withdrew the prize.
“Who’s the lucky winner in this month’s comic book lottery? It’s our old friend, Captain Ice. Congratulations...” Robert trailed off as he stared down at the cover. The image made his breath stop in his chest and he blinked. This couldn’t be right. It was some kind of cosmic prank.
The cover showed George’s guardian with blood trickling down the side of his battered face as he dangled from a parachute and watched his smoking plane spiral to the ground in flames. All around were fiery explosions from German anti-aircraft guns. Other planes were tied up in dogfights, the allies obviously losing the battle, as gleeful Nazi pilots sped by, wing-mounted machine guns blazing.
In the far distance, across the English Channel, were the white cliffs of Dover. Ice was coming down in France – behind enemy lines.
Stunned, Robert couldn’t think straight. This had to be wrong; some mistake drawn by the artist. He checked the date. It was the latest edition alright. Panic swallowed him whole.
Shaking, he took the next comic book out of the bag. It was Sedna of the Sea. A pod of orcas surrounded James’ guardian as she piloted a torpedoed supply ship safely into harbour. The sailors on the ship cheered, their lives saved by this daring aqua-heroine.
Next, Robert pulled The Maple Leaf Kid from the bag. Relief flooded through him as he took in the scene pictured. The Kid held plans for a portable bridge being assembled to help troops cross a wide river. Canadian tanks were lined up, ready to blast the retreating Nazis. There would be no rest for the enemy, thanks to the Maple Leaf Kid.
Captain Ice was the only comic showing a story with grim news. Maybe Robert was wrong and the comics didn’t foretell what was coming. Maybe it was all a mistake...
He’d been holding his meteorite so tightly, his fingers ached. Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his brothers’ pictures lined up precisely on his dresser, the spotlight shining on their smiling faces.
“Don’t get worried if I tell you I haven’t a clue what’s going on. I’m sure there’s an explanation and everything will work out.” Something occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of before. “Hey, maybe the cover is picturing some nightmare Ice had, and it’s not real. Of course! It must be the classic dream sequence.”
Slipping his lucky charm over his head, Robert picked up the comic and, sitting on the edge of his bed, quickly read the entire story. He waited for everything to be explained, for Ice to wake up safely in his own bed at the aerodrome after a particularly gruelling, yet totally successful, mission over enemy territory.
As Robert read, the perilous fate of
his hero Captain Ice was drawn plainly in black and white. Every detail was clear, from the cannon round slamming into Invincible over the English Channel, to the tracer bullets from the Nazi gunner who was trying to shoot Ice’s parachute lines as he drifted toward the French coast, sending him plummeting to his death far below.
The scene was so real, Robert felt like he could reach into the page and touch the ace as he hung suspended in that deadly sky, waiting for fate to deal the cards. Robert said a silent prayer as he turned the page for the final scene.
The image took his breath away! It was wonderful, it was spectacular, it was salvation! Quickly, he took in the storyline. Ice had landed in a forest, and was met by a French Resistance squad, part of the Maquis. Under cover of darkness, they got him through enemy lines to the coast. From there he was smuggled aboard a ship bound for England. The last panel showed Ice on the deck, smiling back as a beautiful and voluptuous French freedom fighter in a beret waved goodbye, a shiny tear glistening on her cheek. Ice had done it again!
Robert had to read the other comics to see what was happening with their heroes. He’d need a block of undisturbed time, which meant going to his mother and giving her his wages. When she was all happy, he’d beg off supper. He could eat later and escaping the family meal would give him the much-needed time to concentrate on his friends’ stories.
He hurried downstairs and then stopped at the murmur of voices coming from the living room. His parents must be there and not in the kitchen. Robert swerved toward the sound.
“Mum, I know you’ll be thrilled when you see this week’s pay packet –” He stopped when he saw the man in uniform sitting with his parents.
His mother, on the couch with his father, wrung the hanky she was holding. When she spoke, there was a quaver in her voice. “Robert, this is Squadron Leader Aberdeen. He’s married to Susan, from my Knit for Victory Club. There’s news about George and the squadron leader offered to come and personally tell us. So kind, when he’s such a busy man.”
Robert thought of all those telegrams he’d delivered this week, then addressed the squadron leader. “Is George back in England? Have you heard from the Maquis?”
His parents were startled at his questions. “What are you talking about, Robert?” his father asked.
Robert looked from one confused face to the next. “George...his plane was shot down over the English Channel, right?”
“Not quite; it was on the French coast. But how did you know?” The air officer stood, using a cane to steady himself.
“He must have overheard us talking.” His mother turned to her friend’s husband. “Who are these Maquis? If you know something Harold, you have to tell us.”
Squadron Leader Aberdeen paused, thinking something over. “This is most unusual, highly irregular, but it seems the cat is already out of the bag. What I am about to tell you must remain in this room. Do you understand?”
They all nodded mutely.
“There is a chance George has been picked up by the Maquis, part of the French Resistance. Keep in mind; we don’t know this for sure. Robert, I think you’re guessing, or perhaps, hoping, this is what has happened to your brother. I must stress again, we have no confirmation. If I hear anything, I will contact you immediately.”
“When,” Robert corrected automatically. “When you hear, sir.”
The squadron leader laid a gentle hand on Robert’s shoulder. “I hope you’re hunch is right, son.”
After he left, Robert’s mother sat silently, still clasping her hanky tightly in her lap. His father restlessly paced up and down the worn carpet.
“Don’t worry. George is going to be okay. I know it.” Robert tried to reassure his parents as best he could.
“How can you know, Robert, when even the military has no idea where he is or even if he’s alive?”
“Oh, William, what if our boy is...” His mother’s whispered sentence was never finished.
Robert again thought of the telegrams he’d delivered and the grief etched on the faces of the people receiving those messages of doom. He hated to see that same grief on his mother’s face when it wasn’t necessary. “Mum, he’s fine...”
“Robert, I understand that you want your brother to be safe,” his father said sympathetically. “We all want that. The truth is, you can’t know anything more than we do.”
Robert’s frustration flared like a freshly lit match. “I do know, Dad. It’s hard to explain. You have to trust me.” He was putting a lot of faith in his comic book connection, but he knew he was right.
“How can you be so sure?”
“It’s a long story, Dad. I think it all started the night I found my meteorite. Wait a minute.” Hurriedly, Robert went upstairs to get the comic books and his brothers’ letters, and then he explained in as much detail as possible how he knew what was happening. “So, you see, the comic books and my letters are saying the same thing about what’s going on over there. It’s like reading the news before it’s happened,” he finished.
“I read those letters and there was nothing about mines and planes.” His mother sounded confused.
Robert had the decency to look chagrined. “It’s because we write in code, Mum. It’s so no one can understand us and we can say things that would otherwise be cut out by the censors.”
“And since I’ve not been told any of this, I guess I’m on your list of those who don’t need to know what’s in those letters?” In his mother’s tone, Robert heard the sound of enemy engines revving up.
“No, mum, we did it so I could hear the boy stuff, stuff ladies would be bored hearing. You know how they are, always bragging.”
His father interrupted him, “So you are telling us you think George is safe based on the strength of a ten-cent comic book?”
“I showed you how the stories and the guys’ experiences were the same...”
“I think that’s enough, Robert!” his father cut him off. “This has no basis in fact and it’s upsetting your mother. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.”
Nonsense? Robert was the one confused now. He’d shown his parents how it worked.
“You don’t understand...” Robert started to explain again.
“No more talk like this.” His father was as close to shouting as Robert had ever heard.
“Fine!” Robert felt his pendant beat against his chest like a drum. He was so angry; he had to get out of there before he said something he could never take back. “I’m going out. I’ll be back later.”
He picked up his comics and coat, then went for his bike. He was sure his brother was all right. In the same way Ice had found his way home, so would George. It was there, drawn for all to see.
He needed to go someplace where he could calm down, where he could think. He made his way to the old wooden water tower by the train station. Parking his bike, he stuffed his comics into the sleeves of his coat, tied it around his waist and climbed the rope ladder to the top.
Struggling, he heaved himself onto the platform that ran around the outside of the water cistern, then stood at the metal guardrail. The view was spectacular. The lights were dazzling and Robert marvelled at how big the city was. Although the weather had been unseasonably warm, the night air was cooling down rapidly. He took the comics out of his coat and put it on.
Sitting with his back against the wall of the cistern, he settled in to read, then realized it was too dark and he should have brought a flashlight. “What an idiot!”
“I’m not arguing with that, Wonder Weed.”
Robert jumped, his heart in his throat. “Holy Hannah! Charlie, you scared me half to death!” He hastily stood up.
“Who else, besides me, would be wacky enough to be up here freezing their hiney off at nine o’clock on an October night?” She walked into the wan light of the rising moon. “Oh wait, I guess your hiney ain’t exactly warm either.”
“What are you doing up here?” Robert asked as his pulse slowed to normal.
“Bringin
g you a reading lamp for your dopey pulp fiction.” She reached into her backpack and pulled out a flashlight, then switched it on. “Why aren’t you snuggled in your jammies in your nice warm house reading those for a bedtime story?” She shined the beam on his comics.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He slumped against the wood.
She came to sit beside him. “Good thing it’s still so nice out. We could be squatting waist deep in snow. So, why are you up here?”
“My brother’s plane was shot down over France and we found out tonight. A friend of my mum’s who is with the RCAF came to tell us.”
“Oh, Rob, I’m so, so sorry.”
She sounded sincere, and when Robert saw her face, he knew she was genuinely upset. “Honestly, he’s okay, Charlie. I know it. The problem is no one will believe me.”
“You know it or you hope it? After all those terrible telegrams we’ve been delivering, I wouldn’t blame you for pushing away from the truth.”
“I know he’s fine.” He absently rubbed his amulet, feeling it warm against his skin.
“How?” She waited for an answer.
“If I told you, you’d think I was nuts.”
“That ship has sailed, buddy boy. Try me anyway.” She moved closer to him and pointed the flashlight at their feet.
Robert felt her body next to his. Maybe it was just the shared warmth, but surprisingly, he found he liked her being so close. “You sure?”
“Remember who you’re talking to, Wonder Weed. This is Crazy Charlie Donnelly. I wrote the book on nuts. Ask any of your pals at school.”
“Those idiots are not my friends, and definitely not what I call good judges of the real deal.”
“I guess that makes me your best audience. So tell me how you know your brother is not dead.”
Robert’s head jerked up sharply at her bluntness. “Who said anything about dead?”
“The military doesn’t make house calls unless it’s something terminal.”
“They don’t know what’s happened to him. Only I do.” He took a deep breath. “You see, I have this connection, with the universe, and I get information through...” He hesitated, then plunged on, “Through my comic books. They tell me what’s happening with my brothers, or they have since I found my meteorite.”
The Comic Book War: The Comic Book War Page 11
