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    Taffy of Torpedo Junction
    Taffy of Torpedo Junction
    Taffy of Torpedo Junction
    Ebook122 pages1 hour

    Taffy of Torpedo Junction

    By Margaret Rogers

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    Back in print
    A longtime favorite of several generations of Tar Heels, Taffy of Torpedo Junction is the thrilling adventure story of thirteen-year-old Taffy Willis, who, with the help of her pony and dog, exposes a ring of Nazi spies operating from a secluded house on Hatteras Island, North Carolina, during World War II. For readers of all ages, the book brings to life the dramatic wartime events on the Outer Banks, where German U-boats turned an area around Cape Hatteras into 'Torpedo Junction' by sinking more than sixty American vessels in just a six-month period in 1942. Taffy has been enjoyed by young and old alike since it was first published in 1957.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe University of North Carolina Press
    Release dateMay 15, 2012
    ISBN9781469601366
    Taffy of Torpedo Junction
    Author

    Margaret Rogers

    Margaret Rogers is Professor of Translation and Terminology Studies and Director of the Centre for Translation Studies at the University of Surrey. She initiated the Terminology Network in the Institute of Translation and Interpreting, UK, and is a founder member of the Association of Terminology and Lexicography. She is a member of the Advisory Boards of Terminology, LSP and Professional Communication and Fachsprache as well as being a member of the Executive Board of the International Institute for Terminology Research.

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      Book preview

      Taffy of Torpedo Junction - Margaret Rogers

      1. A Call in the Night

      Taffy clucked to her horse, gently pulling the left rein of the bridle. The little Banks pony, shaggy from burrs in his matted, reddish-brown mane, tossed his head as he turned off the beach and trotted down the sandy trail through Buxton woods.

      Oh, but you’re a proud one this morning, Taffy said to her horse. Reckon you’re thinking of those Barbary ancestors of yours that Sir Walter Raleigh’s colonists brought over. Shucks, your grandpop might have been brought over by a Portugee sailor for all you know. Anyhow, you’re just an old sandfiddler like me. She grinned, showing white teeth in a face as fair as an evening sunset off the Cape. If you want to feel proud, look at those sea oats over there, gleaming like gold on the dunes. Reckon the fall of the year has really come to the island for sure.

      Taffy looked down at her faded blue shirt and jeans, one leg rolled to her knees, the other flapping against the wind, and at her bare feet, as brown as berries. She sighed, thinking of the winter ahead—the time when she would have to encase her brown feet in shoe leather again. Oh, well, she shrugged as the pony jounced over a knoll of sand in the trail, what has to be, has to be. Sailor, we might as well ride down the back road. ‘Tisn’t mail time yet. Sure hope Gramp gets his check this morning.

      Horse and rider passed through a thicket of pines under which stood hundreds of twisted yaupon bushes and green palmettos. Nowhere in the thicket could she see a tree or shrub whose leaves had turned brown or yellow. The Gulf Stream kept the North Carolina Banks subtropical all the year, as a general rule. Occasionally, though, a hard northeaster would whip up a storm that would chill the island with a wintry blast. Taffy shivered, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a thick blanket of white snow just once. I reckon that’s too much to wish for, she thought, but it would be nice.

      The horse came to the end of the thicket. Taffy stopped the pony and stared at the big old gabled house sitting on a high sand knoll in the edge of the woods. The round wooden tower always made her feel as if Bluebeard were lurking somewhere close by to snatch her, lock her up in the tower, and finally have her head chopped off. She shuddered deliciously, relishing the blood and thunder of the old fairy tale. She wondered, as she had dozens of times in the past, why in the world the old tower was built and what it was used for now. As usual, the windows were boarded up and there was no appearance of life around the place. The big sign, NO TRESPASSING, still hung on the high board fence. The gate was securely padlocked. The place had always fascinated her, ever since she could remember. Like all the Buxton folk, however, she respected the NO TRESPASSING sign and kept her distance, wondering why the furriners from Baltimore were so unfriendly. She remembered hearing that some Kinnakeet boys had been peppered with bird shot one night when they had attempted to climb over the high fence.

      Taffy had seen one of the Snyder sons that day three years ago when they took over the old Wollinson place. He sure was sassy-looking too, she remembered. Reckon that’s how all Yankees look, though, she giggled to herself.

      Sailor snorted at a sand fly. Steady, boy, she said to the pony, gently rubbing his flank where the fly had bitten. She squinted against the sun. Seems like there’s something a little different looking about the place this morning, but I can’t figure what. Wish I could go inside and look at all the fine things they must have in there, she thought wistfully.

      The brief moment of wistfulness went as quickly as it came. She wheeled Sailor around and galloped down the sandy trail, forgetting the whole business in her desire for Gramp’s check to be in the day’s mail. That was the real important thing. So much depended on the small stipend which Gramp received each month from the government. So much depended on its not being late in arriving.

      She jumped down from the pony and threw his reins over the scrawny limb of a scrub oak which stood near the back of the post office. She could see the elderly postmistress sorting the mail.

      Did Gramp’s pension check come, Miz Oden? she asked in a sprightly, chipper voice over the high

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