"R. Garcia y Robertson - Wendy Darling, RFC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

A week later, a full quarter of the infant’s class was lowered into a common
grave at East End Cemetery, with the Bishop of London doing the services.
Condolences came from King and Queen. Black floral wreaths read —”To our
children murdered by German airmen.” Only two of the dead were more than five
years old. Feeling ran so high the King swiftly changed the royal family’s name —
Windsor sounded more British than Saxe-Coberg-Gotha.

Wendy never went back to North End Schools. She never wanted to be in the
building, which heartless people were busy repairing. What could she say to the
children who survived? She hardly knew what to say to herself. She had always lived
full out, with a child’s absolute abandon — now she felt ragged and faded, overrun.
The War had been a far-off brainless endeavor that tootled along without her, as
distant as Neverland, something in the papers to be taken with morning tea.
Zeppelins prowled at night, scattering bombs. Endless “pushes.” Draft after draft of
young men sent off. Michael was a railway engineer —exempt. John was a balloon
observer, somewhere in France. Peter was in Neverland, fighting pirates. One was as
real as the other.

Mother used to rummage through her mind at night, tidying up unpleasant
thoughts. But now Wendy had grown up — a day ahead of other girls -and she
lacked Peter’s knack for forgetting. Images stayed with her, a smashed chair,
charred rubble atop a broken child. If she could not forget, she needed to do
something, or die inside. Mother thumbed through the papers, hoping to find a place
for her. “They say they need nurses’ aides.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” Wendy grimaced, “trying to patch up boys as fast as
rapid-fire guns puncture them — there’s a useless task.” She had seen enough of
mangled young bodies.

“There are great cries for young women to do munitions work.” Wendy made
a mouth. “Totally ghastly. Sitting in rows, screwing fuses into shells. A thundering
bore, unless your shop chances to blow up. I’d rather be a balloon observer.”

“Really, dear?”

“My, yes. Open air work, getting God’s own view of France. I could plot
shell bursts as neat as John.”

“No doubt. But they aren’t asking women to do that.”

“Or I’d even bomb a German aerodrome.” Wendy had no desire to kill
Germans — not the way she and Peter had cut pirate throats when she was a child.
But bombing them back seemed letter perfect. “They say the Wong-wongs are
based in Belgium.”

“They don’t want women for that either.”

“Why not? The Russians have women pilots. Two princesses have already
signed up.”