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Page 46 text:
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44 ISAAC NEWTON HIGH SCHOOL s4 0 7 vc t ' pate FIRST PRIZE Oberleutnant Karl Heidelburg had been in Squadron 36 for three months now, posing as Pilot Officer James Cart¬ wright. He had become a part of the squadron, had even blasted three of his own countrymen to a flaming death to play his role the more effectively. Squadron 36 was in a vital area and his job was to report its movements to the German High Command. In this way the Nazis could forestall any Allied attempt to gain information regarding the desperately guarded secrets of this vital area. A drone of returning aircraft inter¬ rupted Cartwright’s train of thought. He looked out through the small win¬ dow of his cubicle at the wind-swept barren desert aerodrome to see four battle-scarred Spitfires sweep in, drop their wheels and roll up to the line. Six had left and now four were return¬ ing, two of them nothing but battered wrecks, still flying only because of the grace of God and a little luck. Yes, Karl Heidelburg had been suc¬ cessful but as time wore on, innumerable doubts began to raise their ugly heads in the eternally suspicious mind of one Flight-Lieutenant Allan Eardheart. Why he wondered, was Cartwright always knocking around with the radio-man? Why should his plane be damaged only once, and then only slightly in all the three months he had been ther e. Of course Cartwright had an inkling of the Lieutenant’s suspicions, but as far as he knew, they had not been shared with anyone else. Cartwright knew his luck would not hold out very long with a questioning character such as Eard¬ heart around, so, he concluded, he must put that gentleman out of the way. Cartwright stepped from his hut and walked over to the operations shack. His sharp hello, addressed to Eardheart, snapped the lieutenant’s head around. Casually, Eardheart replied, “Hello, Cartwright. Still got the original paint on your bus, I see.” “Yes,” replied Cartwright, his eyes probing the Lieutenant’s, trying to search him out, “but I suppose I’ll get it scratched one of these days.” Eardheart was about to reply when the loud bellow of the O.C. boomed out over the tarmac. The men made their various ways over the burning sand to the mess hall where the old man gave them the low-down on the situation on the other side of the fence. Squadron Leader Holmes did not be¬ lieve in mincing words. “Men,” he said, “we’re taking a beating. German H.Q. has something on the ball and we have to find out what it is. Too many of our kites have been written off the books trying to get shots of the enemy linoleum. So I’m going to send a cap¬ tured German job over and see if our luck takes a turn. I would like our most experienced man, Lieut. Eard¬ heart, to take the job, but if you fellows want a chance at it, we’ll draw lots.” Not an objection was raised. The men admired and respected Holmes’ opinion and if he said it was best, it was as far as they were concerned. “Very well, Eardheart,” said the O.C., “see me in my office in an hour and we’ll go over the plans.” The men dispersed, all except Cart¬ wright. His cunning Nazi mind was already humming. Here was his chance to destroy the one man who suspected him and to get a Nazi aeroplane out of Allied hands. He must work fast. The lieutenant took off at dawn tomorrow. Tonight he must get to the radio shack. Then, a short, cryptic message to his superiors. A description of the aircraft and a special warning to get rid of its pilot. Came the night and with it silence. There were no night patrols from this station and consequently there was only a negligible amount of activity. Cart¬ wright hurried through the black desert night to the radio shack. In a few minutes his message was hurtling through the ether. Eager German ears
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Page 47 text:
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NEWTONIAN 45 were listening. They would be ready. Good. And now Cartwright slipped back to his bunk, highly satisfied with his night ' s work. Another day was born. Cartwright quite nonchalantly strolled out to the tarmac. He wanted to see Eardheart heading for his fate. There was the plane, its motor quietly ticking in the cold morning air. But where was Eard¬ heart? He should be about ready to leave. Cartwright looked around. Out of the operations shack came the O.C.’s adjutant. He greeted Cartwright with a cheery good-morning. “O.C.’s compliments sir. He wishes to see you immediately.” A faint twinge of misgiving plucked the spy’s mind. Something was wrong. With casual steps, he entered the O.C.’s office. “Good-morning, sir. Pilot Officer Cartwright reporting.” Then his eyes took in something that made his heart falter. In a corner of the office sat Eard¬ heart, his foot in a bandage. “Cartwright,” broke in the old man, “I’d like you to take over Eardheart’s assignment. His foot was crushed in an accident last night and he suggested you take his place.” Cartwright sweated. So, Eardheart had shared his suspicions with the O.C. What could he do? If he accepted, their suspicions would be groundless, but he would be blasted by his own country¬ men in a marked German aircraft. If he refused, their suspicions were con¬ firmed. An official investigation would follow and he would go down under wrathful British guns. He ran his tongue over dry lips. His finger nails bit into the palms of his hands. His face paled slightly. “Well,” said the O.C. Cartwright looked up, saluted stiffly and said in a strained voice, “Yes, sir. I’m agreeable,” and turned on his heel and walked out into the growing day to meet his doom. His own diabolical plans had back-fired. Back-fired to finish him by a strange twist of fate! —BOB MacKAY ‘iR.et ' it cittoa SECOND PRIZE The Times Building was shrouded in darkness save for a solitary light visi¬ ble from the fifteenth storey. Its ori¬ gin was one of the many offices of the great publishing company. On the door was printed in gilt the name, John Davis. In the swivel chair behind the office desk sat a man, meditatively smoking a cigarette, pondering the headlines of last evening’s edition. Be¬ low, from the brightly-lighted streets of New York could be heard the sound of honking horns and shouting news¬ boys. However his mind was oblivious to this clamor. Then slowly turning in his chair, he faced the open window, a strange, far-away look in his eye . . . On that day five years ago, John Davis had turned the knob of the door marked “Managing Editor” with a feel- of apprehension. Since the moment he had been told the “Chief” wanted to see him, his mind had been filled with the terrible premonition of being fired. Now, as he stood in front of the mas¬ sive mahogany desk, the editor looked up from a manuscript he had been reading. “Oh, its you Davis,” he said, “I have an assignment for you. Our Paris cor¬ respondent has just tendered his resign¬ ation and I want you to fill the vacancy. How about it?” To Davis, ' this meant the culmination of his dreams—at long last he was as¬ signed to the much coveted post of foreign correspondent. His reply came without hesitation. “Be glad to, sir.” The editor was conscious of the tone of elation in his voice. “Here are the tickets. You leave for Paris at once.”
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