Heartwarming and emotional story of one girl's courage in WW2 by Fenella Miller (best ereader for students .TXT) 📕

having had too much to drink to go back to London. He arrived home at midday to be informed there’d been a message from Wattisham telling him not to report for duty for another week.

He rather thought he would drift back to Glebe Farm and spend time with Ellie. That Reynolds chap, even though he’d denied it, was taking too much interest in her and he didn’t want to be cut out before he’d really got to know her. He was caught up in family business until late afternoon but decided he would stick to his original plan.

Stupidly he ran out of petrol on the way there and had to walk five miles with his can to the nearest garage. He cadged a lift back to his MG and when it was mobile again returned to the same place to fill the tank. He didn’t want to be caught out a second time.

It was now too late to turn up unannounced and he couldn’t locate another B&B. He would kip down at the airfield and then arrive at breakfast time. He missed the turning and had to reverse into a field. He was about to pull away when he realised he could see the hangar from here. There was another vehicle driving down the track.

The aero club was in darkness – so who the hell was going there now? He turned the headlights and engine off and rummaged around in the glove compartment until he found his trusty torch. If he went across the field, he could reconnoitre and see exactly what was going on.

His night vision was excellent and his eyes adjusted to the darkness within a few minutes. He had the torch in his hand and thought it might be more useful as a weapon than for illumination.

The intruders had already broken into the office and were searching for something. They didn’t seem bothered if anyone heard them. The amount of racket they were making meant he could creep up to the building and sidle along so he could peer through the window.

There were two men, both dressed in dark clothing with balaclavas over their faces. He couldn’t tackle both of them. They were working in silence, tossing things from shelves to the floor.

‘It’s not here. They must’ve found it. Obviously, you didn’t kill that man last night. We can’t go back without it this time,’ said one of the men in a surprisingly cultured voice. He’d expected them to be rough – not speak like him.

The other one replied, – also with an upper-class accent. ‘We must go to this farm that’s mentioned here a couple of times in their account book. If it is there, and I can’t think where else it can be, we’ll scare the information out of the girl. What was it called again?’

‘Glebe Farm. We can hardly ask for directions so it might take time to find the bloody place.’ The man pointed his torch at his wrist. ‘Ten o’clock now – that means we’ve got a few hours before dawn. I don’t want to be anywhere near when it gets light.’

Greg backed away from the window and then vaulted over the fence that surrounded the airfield and ran flat out to his car. He didn’t know how long he had before those bastards turned up at Ellie’s house. He had to be there before them. They had a telephone so he could ring the police as soon as he arrived. With luck they could barricade themselves in and remain safe until the local constabulary turned up.

It must have been Jack Reynolds who’d been shot – but if so why hadn’t the police been called? Something so exciting would have been the talk of the village and he’d heard nothing this morning. Presumably Jack was in hospital somewhere; Ellie and her parents would be sitting ducks.

He found the turning to Glebe Farm easily. He switched off his headlamps and drove the remainder of the way in darkness. He was pretty sure he was there first, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He thought the field where he’d parked last time would be an ideal place to leave the car. The gate was open, thank God. He switched off the engine and sat for a moment listening. Nothing untoward – just the sound of owls and other night creatures.

He swung his legs over the closed door of his car, slipped the heavy torch into his jacket pocket, and made his way stealthily to the house. He paused and scanned the yard. His breath hissed through his teeth. The house was dark, no sign of the would-be burglars.

It wouldn’t be a good idea to hammer on the door – this would mean lights would come on and these would be seen by the men who couldn’t be far behind him. He needed to get in silently and then find Mr Simpson and let him know what was going on.

The yard encircled the back door; no point in trying here, this would be locked. Maybe there was a window left open somewhere. He did a circuit of the building trying every window with no success.

Eleven

Jack found the gun and collected a handful of cartridges. He would sit on the stairs and wait. As he reached the door the latch lifted. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Someone was outside and trying to get in.

His heart pumped heavily and his fingers tightened around the stock of the gun. He moved slowly to the back door and pushed the bolts. They moved without a sound. He stepped out and quietly closed the door behind him.

He didn’t want to kill the bastard – merely disable him – and do this with as little noise as possible. He reversed the weapon so he was holding the barrel. His pulse steadied. He was calm. He owed this bugger a good thumping but would have to settle for knocking him out. Pressed up against the