"Robertson-WendyDarling" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

straightening limbs, trying to make her still charges comfortable. She had seen
maimed children before, scores of times -- but always in Neverland, where death
and life are dreamlike things. In London it was too horribly real. All she could
do was cry and wipe at blood with the hem of her dress.

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."