Free The Crowstarver by Dick King-Smith Page B

barley to the other men, who set them up in stooks. The binder on its journey round the field would throw out the tied sheaves, which must then be collected and arranged in stooks of six or eight, each sheaf leaning against one opposite, butts to ground, heads upwards, forming a kind of tent or tunnel, for maximum drying on the one hand, and, should the weather break, for maximum protection.
    For Spider, a stook was another kind of house, and he liked to creep into one to eat his lunch. Until of course he knocked one down andwas sworn at. But mostly the men treated him kindly. He was useful too for running errands (though running was a misnomer), and one day, a beautiful September day, Percy sent him back down to the farm to fetch something.
    They were harvesting barley at the furthermost southern end of the farm, where Mister had had a piece of virgin downland ploughed up, and all the men were at work pitching the now dry sheaves up on to the wagons. The biggest of all was drawn by Flower, with Jack in the traces in front of her. Two other wagons were drawn by two of the hairy-heels, and Em’ly pulled the Scotch cart.
    Deftly, the pitchers speared each sheaf on their two-grain prongs and then threw them up on to the wagons, and deftly the loaders on top built their loads, butts facing outwards, building quickly, carefully, skilfully, so that the whole would be secure on its bumpy journey to the stack.
    It was a traditional English country scene, as peaceful as could be. But suddenly the War intruded.
    The first the men heard was a distant roar of engines, and then as they leaned upon their pitchforks and looked about, they saw, approachingat speed, two fighter aircraft. The sun was in the men’s eyes, and they could not see that the leading plane had black crosses on its wings, but then suddenly they heard the rattle of machinegun fire from the chasing aircraft. Then the two planes were directly above them, and they could see the RAF roundels on the curved wings of the pursuing Spitfire. The German plane – a Messerschmitt – rocked in the hail of fire pouring into it and its engine began to stutter. It dropped lower and lower, over Tom’s sheep a quarter of a mile away, which ran in a panic-stricken white blanket, over a bunch of the Irish heifers half a mile away, which galloped and buckjumped wildly in all directions, and then at last, losing height all the while, disappeared from sight over the shoulder of the downs. The watching men, all but one of whom had never in their lives heard a shot fired in anger, were cheering wildly at the outcome of this single combat. But Percy Pound, whose knee the Germans had smashed and whose son the Germans had killed, stood silent. He tried to make himself hope that the pilot would survive, but failed.
    Meanwhile Spider, marching down the drove on his errand, suddenly heard the noise of the aircraft and then the rattle of the firing, andhe stopped and stood in a gateway, staring back up. He saw one aeroplane high above, twisting itself in what, though he did not know it, was a victory roll, and then he saw, coming over the shoulder of the hill, another. It was quite silent, this second plane, for its engine was dead, and as the Luftwaffe pilot looked desperately for somewhere safe to land, it dropped lower and lower, the wind whistling past its rocking wings. Spider stood rooted to the ground as the Messerschmitt swept directly towards him.

C HAPTER T HIRTEEN
    T he enormous wind of the fighter passing only a few yards above his head knocked Spider flat, and when he picked himself up, it was to see the plane, its landing gear damaged and useless, sliding fast on its belly across the grass of the field that led towards Slimer’s.
    At the end of the field it ran into a four-strand barbed-wire fence, which burst like string but nevertheless acted as a brake on its further progress, and it slewed round and came to a shuddering halt.
    Spider, watching, saw a figure