That's it, thought Harry Lockwood with resignation as the tail end of the train cleared the platform at Northwick Park Station. I seem to be here whether I like it or not.

Harry was facing the prospect of his first term at a prestigious English public school with mixed feelings.It would be a challenge, certainly, and Harry had always relished a challenge. But at his prep school he had ended up as a large fish in a small pool. Now he would be just the opposite.

The journey from his home in Christchurch on England's south coast had been long and lonely, and he breathed a mental sigh of relief as he carried his belongings through the station entrance to the gravel car park. Harry considered himself a seasoned traveler, having often taken the train to his prep school in Devon by himself, but this was the first time he had crossed London without an adult. In 1941 this was no mean feat for a thirteen-year-old. In addition to getting lost in the London Underground, there was the ever-present risk of being caught in an air raid. Not a pleasant thought.

The letter from his future Housemaster, a Mr. Hutchison, had been quite specific in its instructions. He was to await the arrival of the school bus. This would take him, along with any other boys who might be waiting, on the half-hour drive through the autumn countryside to their final destination, Markham College.

There were about a dozen or so other boys—Markham Collegians, he supposed they'd be called—and Harry cast a wary eye over each one. They were easy to recognize by their identical clothing: gray shirts, gray V-necked sweaters, black jackets, gray trousers and polished black shoes. Some sported straw hats, which Harry thought ridiculous. He had tried his on at home. The thing didn't suit his rather long features, straight brown hair and intense-looking, almost black eyes. And it seemed quite inappropriate for his athletic build. Unfortunately, according to the school's prospectus, straw hats were compulsory.

Only a couple of the boys seemed to stand out from the rest. One was tall with a large mouth, while another had a slightly bent nose, a somewhat battered-looking face and dark hair. A few were obviously new. Harry could see that from the apprehensive expressions on their faces.

I wonder if I'll get to know any of them really well, he mused. With about three hundred students at Markham, he thought it was a distinct possibility.

As Harry shifted uncomfortably under the afternoon sun, the loop of string that held the cardboard box ontaining his gas mask slipped off his shoulder. He hitched it back on again, picked up his two suitcases and walked over to join the group. Harry was hoping someone would speak to him, but a London-bound express roared through the station, its noise and acrid smoke precluding any conversation. Just then, the bus arrived and he lined up behind the other boys, who had begun to scramble on board with their baggage.

The boy in front of Harry, the battered-looking one with the bent nose, clambered up with difficulty.

The driver turned in his seat. "You're new, aren't you? Which house?"

"Hutchison's," Bent-Nose said, then pushed his way down the center aisle.

Harry felt pleasantly surprised as he informed the driver he was going to the same place. Here was a fellow prisoner about to serve the first of many three-month terms at the institution. Looking around, he saw that his soon-to-be acquaintance had gone to the back of the bus, so he followed and sat beside him. This move drew a disapproving look since there were many empty places, so Harry endeavored to break the ice.

"My name's Lockwood," he said, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes and offering a hand. "I heard you say your house is Hutchison's. So's mine."

"I'm Martin Bulman."

A powerful handshake accompanied the reply and a confident smile replaced the scowl. Harry felt good. Here was a newfound friend before he had even arrived at the school.

"Nice to meet you, Bulman," he replied as the engine clattered into life.

The bus lurched once or twice as it pulled out of the car park onto a tree-lined road, which presumably led to Markham Cross, a village near the school. There were no signposts. All had been removed to make life difficult for German spies or, worse still, invading troops.

Every boy at Markham College was assigned to a study where he could spend his spare time and relax. Each senior and prefect had his own study, but two juniors or three new boys shared slightly larger rooms.

When they arrived at Hutchison's House, one of the large, somewhat forbidding-looking, gray stone buildings surrounding the main school, Harry was delighted to discover that he and Bulman would be sharing. Their study was just large enough to accommodate three people. While Bulman was well built and of average height, Harry was quite slim. Even so, the third person would have to be less than average size for a comfortable fit. The room had bookshelves fixed to the top half of the walls, and a gray hot-water radiator sat beneath a small window overlooking the sloping grounds of the residence. The distant smoke of central London could be seen on a clear day. There were three small desks, but no evidence of a third person. They dumped their bags on the floor and hung their gas masks on hooks provided for the purpose.

"I don't suppose it matters which desks we have," said Bulman.

"Toss you for first choice," said Harry, pulling a penny from his pocket.

"Done," Bulman answered. "Heads."

Harry flipped the coin and Bulman won. He chose the desk out of sight behind the door, while Harry selected the one on the same wall as the window.

Bulman sat at his desk. "I wonder who we'll be sharing with."

"It says on the door that his name's Wetherby. We're stuck with him anyway, whatever he's like."

"Whether the weather be wet," intoned Bulman. "Looks like we can christen him already."

"Let's see if he deserves it first."

"Too late, Lockwood. Wetherby Wet fits and Wetherby Wet it is. Do you know when we eat? I'm starving."

"I seem to remember seeing a piece of paper headed 'Instructions for New Boys.' I think you're sitting on it. We'll find out from that, I expect."

Bulman stood and caught the typed sheet as it fluttered toward the floor, scanning it briefly. "You're right. We get breakfast at eight, lunch at one and high tea at five. It also says that all trunks and tuck boxes sent 'Luggage in Advance' should have arrived. We have to unpack our trunks tomorrow morning, but can get our tuck boxes from the baggage room at any time. What did your mother put in yours, Lockwood? Anything good?"

"Dunno. It's a surprise. Come on, let's find them and we can swap things. I'll never last another hour until tea."

The small wooden chests contained such durable goodies as parents could buy or cook under the strict food rationing that prevailed. They were retrieved after getting directions from an older boy they met in the long passageway. This extended down one of the building's appendages known as the Study Wing. The boxes would remain in their room throughout the term, to be replenished from time to time by means of parcels from home, or purchases from the Tuck Shop, or from the nearby village.

While eating, they exchanged information about each other. Harry explained that his mother worked in a munitions factory, while his father was in the Army and stationed in North Africa. Bulman lived in the north of England, and since both his parents were in reserved occupations, they had not been called up.

It was just as well that the boys had eaten something, because at a quarter to five an air raid siren wailed from somewhere nearby.

"Wow! That was quick!" Bulman moved over to the window. "I thought we'd have lots of air raids, being so close to London, but not on our first day."

Harry joined him at the window, which had an eight-inch lattice of brown paper strips glued on the inside. This would reduce flying glass if a bomb landed in the immediate vicinity. They each chose an uncovered square and peered in the direction of London.

"Hey," said Bulman. "These windows open. Let's slide up the bottom half so we can see better."

"Have you been in many air raids?" asked Harry, guessing from Bulman's excitement that he hadn't.

"No, none at all."

"I was in a few, but never saw anything."

After several minutes, during which absolutely nothing happened, Harry was just about to suggest giving up when he heard the distant drone of aircraft. They were bombers. He was certain of that. He'd heard their low, distinctive roar earlier that summer.

"Can you hear the engines, Bulman? We ought to be able to see them by this time."

"They must be miles away."

"Four or five at the most." Compared with what he could tell of Bulman's experience, Harry felt like an authority on the subject.

"Wow!"

The setting sun was more or less behind them, which made the light perfect as it glinted on the wings of three twin-engined bombers, flying in close formation.

"Junkers eighty-eight's," said Bulman, wide-eyed with anticipation.

"They're Heinkels," retorted Harry. "Junkers don't have rounded tailplanes."

At that moment, puffs of black smoke blossomed around the marauders as antiaircraft shells exploded, but they were way off the mark.

"Wow!" repeated Bulman.

The distant "crumps" of their detonations followed more than ten seconds later.

"What rotten shots," commented Harry. "No wonder London's been bashed if that's the best we can do."

For some unknown reason, the enemy pilots ignored the antiaircraft fire and were flying in a dead straight line, taking no evasive action. Then Harry understood. They were on their bombing run.

"They're going to drop their bombs, Bulman! We might be able to see them falling!"

While too far away to make out any details, they were overawed by the severity of the explosions that followed. A line of several bright red flashes erupted from the ground, accompanied by clouds of dense black smoke. Distant rumbles and thumps shook the old building just as the formation broke up and the planes took evasive action from the antiaircraft fire.

"Show's over," said Harry. But as he turned away from the window, he was almost deafened by the concentrated roar of six Spitfires.

The boys cheered as the fighters flew directly over Hutchison's at treetop height. They were able to see the characteristically curved wings as the formation banked in hot pursuit of the rapidly disappearing bombers.

"Get 'em!" yelled Bulman.

But he didn't see them in action, because at that moment the study door opened and they found themselves confronted by a very large and very angry-looking prefect. His straight hair was black and he had a mean, slightly turned down mouth.

"What the hell are you two doing here?"

"Er . . . nothing, sir," Harry replied.

"You don't address me as 'sir.' My name is Parnaby and you will address me as Parnaby. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Parnaby," said Bulman.

"Did you read the Air Raid Precautions?"

"We didn't see any," answered Harry.

Parnaby pointed to a sheet of paper that had been glued to the inside of the study door. It was outlined in red.

"Read it to me," he snapped.

"It says, 'When the sirens sound an Air Raid Warning, all boys will proceed to the shelter in the cellar. No one will leave the shelter until the All Clear.'"

"Did you hear the siren, whatever your name is?"

"Yes, Parnaby."

"I should hope so. It's loud enough. You will go straight to the shelter and report to my study immediately after the All Clear. You'll find it at the end of the corridor, in the row of prefects' studies."

"Yes, sir . . . Parnaby."

"And you are Lockwood and Wetherby?" Parnaby glanced at the names on the outside of the door.

"Wetherby's not here yet," said Harry. "I'm Lockwood."

"And I'm Bulman."

"Very well. I'll take you to the shelter."

The air raid shelter in the cellar had been constructed at considerable expense. A stout wooden floor was mounted on bricks above the original dirt. Heavy reinforcing beams provided adequate protection against anything but a direct hit. The place was divided into several larger ooms with wide wooden benches built onto the walls. These could be used for sleeping during night raids.

"Juniors and new boys over there," said Parnaby, pointing to a sign over the entrance to one of the rooms as he disappeared into the prefects' area.

Harry and Bulman found the juniors' room half-empty. The uncertainties of wartime travel meant that the arrival of many boys from more distant parts of the country could be delayed for a day, or even two. Some fifteen faces looked up in unison as they entered, expressions of disdain on several. The two sat on a vacant length of bench.

"Did you see anything?" asked a tallish, heavily built, fair-haired boy with freckles, who was sitting opposite.

"Not much," replied Harry. "Three Heinkels were being shot at by antiaircraft guns while they dropped their bombs."

"And some Spitfires flew over," Bulman added.

"They often do." The freckled boy came over and sat beside them."There's an RAF Squadron at Beckley Wood about four miles away."

"That's a comforting thought." Harry stood and put his hands in his pockets. He was restless.

"The only trouble is that the Germans keep trying to hit the airfield, but they're not very accurate. Last winter a bomb landed on one of our soccer pitches and ruined it. By the way, you'd better watch out. New boys aren't allowed to put their hands in their pockets. After a year you can put in one hand and two after two years. Of course it's okay unless a prefect catches you." The boy grinned. "My name's Barnett."

"You mean Beastly," commented another fair-haired boy, who was quite skinny, didn't have freckles and looked rather effeminate.

"And he's Pansy," Beastly sniggered.

"Really?" queried Bulman.

"Of course not," replied Pansy. "You can call me Bloombury." But nobody ever did.

After the All Clear, Harry and Bulman knocked on the door of Parnaby's study. About half the size of their own, it was quite comfortable for one person.

The owner sat at, or rather presided over, a small table. "Shut the door and stand in front of me."

This one's definitely a nasty piece of work, thought Harry. His hair's brushed like Hitler's, and he looks like a prizefighter. But I suppose we were at fault.

"So what's your excuse?" continued Parnaby.

"We'd only just arrived," replied Bulman.

"You're supposed to read all the notices in the study as soon as you open the door. This is too serious for me to handle. I'm reporting you to Mr. Hutchison. He deals with worms like you at nine o'clock every evening, so you will go to his office at that time."

"Yes, Parnaby," both boys replied in unison.

"Out!" shouted Parnaby.

Harry shut the door with care.

"At least Mr. Hutchison's an adult and should behave like one," commented Bulman as they made their way back to their own study.

"We were in the wrong," replied Harry. "But Parnaby is a big oaf, wouldn't you say?"

"Better not let him hear you," said Bulman, grinning.

A few minutes later, a bell summoned them to a belated high tea. Bulman led the way to the dining room, with its six long tables and a shorter one on a small stage for the prefects. Harry surveyed the seven faces around it surreptitiously. He noticed Parnaby glaring at him and got on with his meal.

Mr. Hutchison's office was quite well appointed, with a cheerful fire burning beneath an ornate mantelpiece. A balding man, who wore a tidy moustache and what appeared to be a pleasant but somewhat artificial smile, waved the pair to a couple of chairs in front of his desk.

"I gather from Parnaby that you haven't had a very auspicious start at Markham College," he began. "Things like that often happen with new boys, and I can understand the excitement of seeing enemy bombers. However, Air Raid Precautions are there for your own safety and must be obeyed. I'll overlook the matter this time, but if there are any more incidents, there will be consequences."

"Yes, sir," chorused the two boys, much relieved.

Mr. Hutchison leaned back in his chair. "Now then," he continued, "I usually see each new boy separately, but since you're both here, I'll tell you a few things about Markham College and our traditions."

Harry and Bulman heard about virtually every facet of school life in a condensed lecture that Mr.Hutchison must have given hundreds of times.

Afterwards, he warned them that there might be night raids and they should be ready to go to the shelter at any time.

Back in their study, Harry sat at his desk for a while, deep in thought. It had been quite a day. It might not be so bad here after all, even allowing for the dreadful Parnaby. His study mate seemed a good sort of bloke. Who was it that he reminded him of, with that battered-looking face and bent nose? Oh yes, that was it.

He turned to Bulman. "If you don't mind, I'd like to call you Captain.You remind me of Captain Bligh in Mutiny on the Bounty."

"In that case, what am I supposed to call you?" asked Bulman.

"I was Woody at my prep school. It seemed okay."

"Then Woody it shall be."