Wings Over Warsaw can be found in






Wings Above Warsaw

By David Wright O'Brien

* * * From The London Times, September 1, "Germany has opened attack on Poland. Warsaw and all Polish cities await tonight's inevitable Air Raids. . . . Among prominent Londoners stranded in Warsaw is Dennis Carradine, noted sportsman aviator and son of Sir Francis Carradine, well known Parliamentary leader."

A RAMSHACKLE taxicab jounced along the road leading to the Warsaw Airport.

A blond, solid young man, the lone occupant of the cab, leaned forward in his seat, placing his mouth close to the ear Of the driver.

"I say," said the passenger, "how far is it to the Warsaw airport now?"

The cabby, an old fellow with a walrus moustache, spoke without turning his head. "Not far. We are almost there. A few minutes, perhaps."

Dennis Carradine didn't bother to answer. He leaned back against his seat, glancing swiftly at the luminous dials of his watch. It was almost midnight. The expected air raid was less than an hour off. Impatiently, he ?shed into the side pocket of his tweeds and drew out a cigarette case. He extracted a gold tipped cigarette and lighted it. As the flame glowed momentarily in the darkness, the cabby turned swiftly to issue a Warning glance at his passenger.

Dennis Carradine smiled reassuringly and the cabby once more turned his concentration back to the road. "Nerves," thought Dennis, "I've never seen a city so on edge before."

Dennis felt for the black leather portfolio at his side. It was still there, reminding him of his father, of the mission he was to perform for him. Dennis remembered the anxious white face of the consulate orderly when he had picked up the portfolio at the British Legation. Every one seemed worried over this new bluff. It was amusing. He smiled again, this time to himself, as he remembered his father's cable. The old boy had been quite insistent that he return immediately to London —by train and ship—and with the portfolio.

The taxicab lurched sharply to the right, traveled a few more yards, and came to an abrupt stop. The cabby turned halfway around in his seat, looking silently at Dennis.

"We're at the airport?" Dennis inquired.

The cabby nodded. Dennis sensed that the old fellow was more than anxious to be off. He picked up the leather portfolio from the seat and climbed out of the taxi. He pressed several banknotes into the driver's hand. Before he had time to turn, the car whipped off into the night. Dennis grinned, juggling the portfolio lightly in his huge right hand. He wondered, with merely a vague curiosity, what it contained.

Dennis stood there in the darkness, feeling...

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