that song was over, that even the Führer must have heard the applause that followed, heard and shuddered.

Dropping into a mellow mood for the oldsters who recalled that other terrible war, Cherry sang:

“There’s a long, long trail a-winding

Into the land of my dreams,

Where the nightingale is singing

And the white moon beams.”

Then, scarcely pausing for breath, leaning far forward, a bewitching smile on her face, she sang: “No! No! No! Papasista.”

When the roar of applause had died away, Dave heard a gray-haired lady in a Persian lamb coat say:

“Such a vulgar song!”

“Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar and wonderful. I quite love this war. It has given me one more chance for a fling at life.”

“All out for England!” Cherry called into the megaphone. “Everybody sing, ‘We’ll roll the old chariot along’.”

They sang. They roared. They sang.

“If Hitler’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.

If Tubby’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.

If Il Duce’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.

If the devil’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.

We’ll roll the old chariot along

And we won’t tag on behind.”

In the hush that followed, Cherry announced in a low, husky voice: “God save the King.”

There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man, woman and child was on his feet. Even the enemy planes above seemed to hush as the glorious National Anthem rolled over England from Dover to Newcastle.

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