Across a War-Tossed Sea Read Free

salvage collectors for the war effort. Bobby pushed his coppery hair out of his eyes so he could look at the tire carefully. “Men,” he said. “Oh, and lady.” He bowed to his older sister. “This is a treasure trove! Y’all know why?”
    â€œWhy?” chirped the twins, clapping their hands.
    â€œWell, I’ll tell you. How many old razor blades does it take to make the tail of an air force bomb?”
    â€œA whole twelve thousand,” the twins shouted together.
    â€œRight! How many pairs of nylon stockings can make a parachute?”
    â€œI know that one, Mr. General,” Patsy said, playing along. “Thirty-six pairs. We collected that many at Girl Scouts.”
    Bobby nodded. “And it takes five thousand tin cans for a tank shell casing. That’s a lot of soup and dog food! But this single, old, beat-up tire, all by its little lonesome, can be recycled into twelve—that’s right, folks—twelve gas masks.”
    â€œTwelve pilots,” breathed Patsy.
    â€œTwelve of our mates back home,” Charles said to Wesley.
    â€œJeepers!” cried the twins.
    â€œHey! We’ll be the first to bring in salvage this year!” crowed Ron. “We’ll be heroes!”
    Suddenly, school starting the next day was exciting rather than awful.
    The Ratcliffs and Bishops trooped home, carrying the tire like a big-animal trophy from a safari hunt. Bobby and Charles led. As they emerged from the woods, they sang a song from a popular Donald Duck cartoon playing in the movie houses. It was full of red-white-and-blue sass and spite, making fun of German oompah-pah bands to ridicule those who’d blindly followed Hitler and his racist beliefs to become Nazis.
    â€œDon’t forget to add the raspberry after Heil !” called out Bobby.
    The boys put their hands under their sweaty armpits and pumped their arms up and down in popping slaps, or stuck their tongues out and blew to make loud farting sounds to replace the Nazi Seig Heil salute.
“When der fuehrer says we is de master race
    We heil (BLAT) , heil (BLAT) right in der fuehrer’s face.”
    They nearly split their sides with laughing after each fake fart—even Wesley.
    12 September 1943
    Dear Dad,
    I have started ‘high school,’ as the Yanks call it, and I am back on a team! I jolly well miss cricket but I shall make do with ‘football.’ By the way, the name itself is daft. Over here they call the real football ‘soccer,’ and the closest they come is kick-the-can. No, their football is more like rugby, although Americans wear helmets and shoulder pads to play it, Dad! For all their guff about how strong they are, they would never survive our rugger scrums.
    Still, I keep that opinion to myself because Bobby is the quarterback, the player who pretty much commands the team. So many seniors left school early to join the service, he recruited me to play tight end. I run wide for passes. Blokes on the other team try to knock me to the ground and hold me there. (Mum would not like it.) But if I catch Bobby’s pass and cross the goal line, I am a hero!
    Speaking of heroes
…
May I come home now? The
Richmond Times-Dispatch
writes that the Blitz has finally quieted a bit and the Yanks have better control over the Atlantic. Cargo ships leave Hampton Roads and Newport News for England almost every day. Fewer are being torpedoed. I wager a captain would take me as a junior crew member. I am ever so much taller since last you saw me
—
five whole inches. Do not forget, I turn fifteen this spring. I could fight incendiaries with London’s fire brigade like you do, Dad. I hate having nipped out when my chums are toughing the war at home.
    I do not mean to complain. Mr and Mrs Ratcliff are very kind, and we do have a good laugh with the brothers. This weekend, we raced wheelbarrows down the farm’s lane. I put Wes in mine and Bobby put the twins in