Red Randall on Active Duty

by R. Sidney Bowen

  “But not all of them are going back, if I can help it!” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Not even one of them, I hope. I’ll...”

  He cut short the rest as he saw the raiders wheel toward the south, and saw the sunlight ricochet off glistening silver cylinders that were falling end over end away from the bellies of the planes.

  “Bombs!” he cried, and unconsciously banged his free fist against the already wide-open throttle. “They’re dumping their load already. Come on! Up! Up! Up!”

  He fairly screamed the last at his plane as he inched the nose up more and more into the sky. Some four thousand feet still separated him from the raiders, but just the same he impulsively slid his thumb up to the electric trigger button on the stick, and hunched forward a bit to squint through his sights.

  He edged his P-40 a bit more over to the left. Now he was almost level with the bombers. In fact, he was closer than any other Yank plane. He had even pulled a bit away from Joyce. Maybe Jimmy was having engine trouble that cut down his climbing speed. He remembered that Jimmy had said something about a couple of bad plugs yesterday. Anyway, he was nearer than any of the others, which meant that he would have first crack at the raiders who were now wheeling to the west in an evasive maneuver. He just had to have first crack at those fiends who had blasted Pearl Harbor!

  Pearl Harbor! In a flash his jittery nerves calmed down, and he was cool as ice from head to foot. His brain was crystal clear, and every part of him was on the alert. The flak gunners had moved their fire to a point in front of the raiders, in order to keep their bursting shells clear of the climbing P-40’s. The flak fire caused the bombers to swerve a little to the south. And that was the opening Red Randall wanted.

  Instinctively he kicked his rudder hard, “cut the corner” in the air, and came streaking up under a bomber’s belly. Stabbing streaks of flame told him that the bomber’s gunners were striving to get a bead on him. A hard glitter was in Red’s eyes, and his face was a rigid mask of grim determination. At that moment only two things existed in all the world—himself and that Japanese Nakajima.

  “For you, Dad!” he breathed exultantly, and jabbed his trigger button.

  His guns replied with a savage, yammering staccato, and he saw his silvery tracers wink right up into the belly of the raider. But the Nakajima kept right on thundering along through the air. Red stared in amazement. He jabbed his trigger button again. As the first shots zipped out from his four guns, the belly of the raider seemed to split apart. A great sheet of flame flared out in all directions. What had been a proud bomber now was a great raging ball of fire. It hung motionless for an instant, and then started dropping toward earth, leaving behind a long trail of oily black smoke. It fell straight down to strike the ground and explode in an even greater fountain of fire. But Randall did not witness that very satisfying sight. Once the raiding bomber had caught fire, he wheeled off and away, and came roaring in broadside on another Japanese plane

  This one gave him a furious return fire, and the glass hatch in front of his face seemed to break into a million glistening slivers and then melt away. In an abstract sort of way he knew that other parts of his P-40 were being hit. The aircraft was bucking and jumping all over the sky. Yet, with all that, he still managed to keep the second Nakajima in his sights. His joy was wild when presently the left wing fell off as though severed with a knife, and the rest of the bomber went cart-wheeling down like some gigantic, prehistoric bird caught cold on the wing.

  “Two, Dad, two!” he cried hoarsely, and pulled up sharp to the right to avoid the parted wing that skipped and skated about in the air like a picture card flipped from a small boy’s fingers. “Two, Dad! And only the beginning, I promise. I’ll... Nice, Jimmy boy! Perfect!”

  He blurted out the words as he saw Jimmy Joyce’s plane wheeling off and out from under a third Nakajima. The bomber was a mass of flame from nose to rudder post, but momentum was still carrying it forward through the air, leaving behind a solid straight band of black smoke. A couple of moments later the flaming bomber stopped as though it had slammed straight into a brick wall. It sagged by the nose, started down, and then the whole thing exploded in a mighty flash of orange light.

  “Nice, Jimmy boy!” Randall yelled again into his flap-mike. “Pretty as a... Look, Jimmy! One more. Over to the right. Just asking for it. Let’s go, Jimmy. This one we share, hey, kid?”

  “I spot it!” Joyce’s voice rang in his earphones. “Right with you, Red. The old one-two, Mister!”

  Like two bullet-spitting avenging eagles, Randall and Joyce cut their P-40’s across the Australian sky toward a Japanese raider that had separated itself from the others. The enemy pilot at the controls must have seen those two Yanks closing in on him, because he instantly went into a dive, and tried to pull away. A ten-year-old kid could have told him that no bomber ever made could out-dive a P-40, but perhaps the Tokyo killer went just a little bit haywire when he saw that his days of strutting around with his samurai sword were numbered.

  The Japanese pilot plunged his big bomber down in a dive, and those two P-40’s came wing-howling down after him, one from either side, like comets in high gear. And as though at some unspoken signal, both Randall and Jimmy Joyce opened fire at the same time. The Nakajima was caught cold. It was as though an invisible giant had slashed down and crushed it between two mighty steel fists. Actually, the two eagle-eyed Yank pilots cut the bomber in half. The front end went right on plunging down. The rear end hung in the air for a moment, then flip-flopped about, broke into a thousand smaller pieces, spilling out the two gunners it carried, and showered earthward.

  “Okay, Jimmy!” Randall roared, and pulled up out of his dive “Let’s go. There must be more of the enemy still around.”

  But there were no more bombers within reach of the two Yank pilots. Sweeping the surrounding sky with his eyes, Randall counted nine Nakajimas high-balling westward as fast as their twin engines could take them. They were a good ten miles away, and a single look told Red that he would never be able to overhaul them, and have enough gas left to get back to the base. He heaved a disappointed sigh, and eased back a little on the throttle.

  “My error, Jimmy,” he spoke into his flap-mike. “No more today, I guess. How many, did you get?”

  “One all by myself,” young Joyce replied with a little laugh. “And the one I shared with you. So that makes four between us. Not bad, but not enough, I’m saying.”

  “And you can say it again for me!” Randall echoed grimly. “It won’t be enough ever, to suit me, until there isn’t a single one of them left. Well, I guess that’s that. The others are going in to land. So, here I go!”

  “And me,” Jimmy Joyce’s voice grunted in his earphones.

  Red Randall only half heard it because by then he had slid around and down to where he could get a good look at the base. And what he saw caused him to grit his teeth with rage. Six Japanese bombers would never be of any use to Hirohito’s heathens again, but they, and the other nine, had accomplished their mission to a certain degree. The Darwin base was marked by a dozen bomb craters. And Randall could see four biers of flame which were four Yank bombers that had not been trundled out of harm’s way in time. If only there were some sort of air raid warning system at this northern end of Australia! If only there were a radio-aircraft detector station, so that the Yank pilots could have been informed of the approach of the enemy raiders in time to get aloft and meet them out over the sea, instead of over Darwin itself, as it had turned out. Of course, all that sort of thing would arrive in time, but meanwhile it was like trying to fight a skilled boxer with one of your eyes blind and one of your hands useless.

  “But Jimmy and I got four!” Randall breathed, as he took his gaze off the scene below and prepared to land clear of the bomb craters. “That’s something, anyway. At least it’s a beginning. But like I promised you, Dad, it’s only the beginning. Only the beginning, so help me!”

  Chapter Three – New Assignment

&n
bsp; THREE DAYS HAD passed since the surprise Japanese raid on the Darwin base. The bomb craters had been filled and smoothed over, and the charred heaps of junk that had been four Yank medium bombers had been carted away and all usable parts salvaged. As yet, though, four new bombers had not been flown up from the south to replace them. Three days of cleaning up the damage left every fighting pilot secretly hoping that more enemy planes would come back, and that the alarm would be sounded sooner, much sooner.

  The Japanese, however, did not return again during those next three days. Perhaps they were back on Timor licking their wounds. Just because one sees only planes that are shot down does not mean that all the others get away safe and sound. Upon landing, several of the other pilots had reported having slammed in some very telling bursts on the bombers, though they had failed to knock the aircraft out of the air. Perhaps some of those “damaged” bombers fell into the sea on the way home. Perhaps more managed to land, but needed repairs that would keep them out of the air for days.

  All that was something that the Yank air defenders of Darwin probably would never find out. They had to be content with the six that actually had been seen crashing to the ground. Of the six downed, Red Randall and Jimmy Joyce had accounted for four. And brother pilots and senior officers alike heaped praise on their youthful shoulders. No longer did a couple of veterans of Philippine battle look upon them as a pair of green, eager kids. They had won their spurs and their wings. They were veterans, now, so to speak. They had passed through their combat baptism of fire with flying colors.

  “Got any dough, Jimmy?” Randall grunted as Joyce and he sat thumbing through some six-months’-old magazines in the pilots’ mess on the evening of the third day after the raid.

  Young Joyce looked up and made a face.

  “Flat,” he said. “I gave you my last buck yesterday. And by the way! That makes a total of...”

  “Skip it,” Red grinned and held up a hand. “I’ll pay you back as I promised. And...”

  “I know!” Joyce snapped. “I’m not worrying about that. It’s the when that bothers me. What do you want dough for, anyway? Nothing to spend it on around here.”

  “Oh, yes, there is, my friend,” Red said quickly and pointed. “The Coke cooler over there in the corner. I’m parched, so help me. Come on, dig up. Only two nickels. One for you, and one for me. You know I’d treat you if I had it.”

  “The way you’re busted all the time,” Joyce growled as he dug a hand in his pocket, “I’m wondering if you’re not married, with sixteen kids, and they get your entire pay allotment. Okay, this once. But this once only, see? Friday is pay day, and by heck I’m...”

  Jimmy Joyce did not finish. Neither did he hand over the two nickels he had fished out of his pocket. At that moment the Base Commandant’s orderly came through the mess lounge door, saw them, and came hurrying over.

  “The General wishes to see you at once in his office, gentlemen,” he said.

  “Thanks, Sergeant,” Randall said. He tossed aside his magazine, and got quickly to his feet. “Coming, on the jump.”

  The orderly saluted and beat a retreat; and Randall and Jimmy Joyce hastily buttoned up their tunics, smoothed out a few imaginary wrinkles, and reached for their hats.

  “This time of night, Red?” Joyce breathed as they made for the door and went outside. “What do you think of it?”

  “You got me,” Randall grunted.

  General Scanlon was waiting for them in his office, just as the orderly had stated. And the smile of welcome that he gave them as they came in lifted a very gray cloud from each youth’s mental horizon. The General took a dead pipe from his mouth and waved it in the direction of a couple of chairs.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” he said. And then as an afterthought, “And relax. I haven’t got you in here for anything that you’ve done. I...”

  The senior officer stopped short, chuckled, and gave a little shake of his head.

  “No, that’s not quite true,” he said as the two youths seated themselves. “Fact is, I have sent for you because of something you’ve done—knocking down four Nakajima bombers to be exact. But it certainly isn’t for punishment, in case you’re wondering. I’ve just received a message, rather a request, from High Command at Melbourne.”

  The General stopped talking, and fished about among the pile of papers on his desk finally to come up with an official-looking yellow sheet. He glanced at it for a moment or two, frowned, and then put it to one, side.

  “A request,” he suddenly spoke aloud, “for the two best fighter pilots in my command. They are to report to High Command at Melbourne without delay. Just that. No explanation, or anything.”

  Silence settled over the office, and Red Randall allowed it to remain for all of fifteen seconds.

  “But you probably know why, sir?” he then asked.

  The senior officer shook his head and gestured with his two hands, palms upward.

  “Not the faintest idea,” he replied. “They simply want my two best fighter pilots for a special task.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Randall said with au effort, as a tingling warmth began to swell up within him.

  “No, don’t thank me!” the General said quickly. “Whatever the reason High Command may have in mind, I know that it isn’t any health cure. And don’t go patting yourselves on the back either. You two aren’t the best fighter pilots I have in my command. No such thing exists here at Darwin. I personally rate all my pilots the same. They’re all tops!”

  Red Randall came diving down out of the pink clouds, but he felt very good just the same. “I only meant, sir...” he said, and stumbled.

  “I selected you two for several reasons,” the General interrupted with a wave of his hand. “You made a splendid showing the other day against the Japs. You both requested a transfer to a more active front. And, also, I know the special reason why you want immediate action. Therefore, I felt that you rated the call, even though I have plenty of pilots in my command with considerably more training and experience than either of you.” The General paused, then added, “You have the privilege of accepting or refusing this assignment.”

  “I’m ready to go, sir!” Jimmy Joyce said eagerly, as he inched forward on the seat of his chair.

  “And that goes for me, too, sir,” Red Randall echoed a split second later. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, “But I’d like to say, sir, that it isn’t because either of us wants a new commanding officer, sir.”

  General Scanlon smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, Randall. You are both to report within twelve hours to the High Command in Melbourne. A dispatch plane is leaving in three hours. It’ll get you to Melbourne in time for breakfast. Good luck, and good hunting. I envy you boys, whatever you may be heading into.”

  “And good luck to you, sir,” the two youths said in more or less the same breath.

  Twenty seconds later they were both outside and hurrying over to their quarters to pack the few belongings they were to take along.

  “Melbourne!” Jimmy Joyce panted as he kept pace with Randall. “Report to High Command, no less! Boy! I wonder what’s up?”

  “Could be any number of things,” Red grunted and slowed down as they reached their hut door. “Maybe we’re getting shifted to another theater of war. Or maybe back home to the States to become instructors.”

  “Instructors!” young Joyce cried out in alarm. “Don’t even think that, dope! It might come true.”

  “Well, I only hope we don’t snarl into something really tough and turn out a couple of busts,” said Randall, doing his best to appear casual.

  “Pack your stuff and shut up, will you?” Jimmy growled as he switched on the light and made sure that the blackout curtains were drawn. “Just remember what the General said about his being sure the reason wasn’t for any rest cure. Something’s in the wind, that’s sure. Let’s just hope it isn’t a cyclone that catches us with our flaps down, is what I say.”

  “And you’ve said it!” Randall snappe
d. “So you shut up, too, my friend!”

  And after a silent exchange of grins the two of them went to work packing. And up in their high places the gods of war and death grinned, too.

  Chapter Four – Secret Mission

  THE DOUGLAS TRANSPORT had to circle the Melbourne field three times before it was given permission to come in and land. A large flight of Yank bombers had landed just ahead of the Douglas, and it required a bit of time to get the field cleared. However, the transport eventually did land and was trundled up to the ramp in front of the Administration Building. Six Army nurses, seven Air Corps high-rankers, and Randall and Jimmy Joyce made up the passenger list. And everybody, save the two young pilots, stepped out of the plane and headed off in a hurry for their respective destinations.

  The two friends were standing on the concrete runway waiting for a car to take them to general headquarters when a young captain, attached to Staff, approached them with an inquiring look in his eyes.

  “Lieutenants Randall and Joyce?” he asked with a smile.

  “I’m Randall, Captain,” Red said, saluting. “And this is Lieutenant Joyce.”

  “Glad to meet you both,” the Captain replied, and shook hands with them. “Welcome to Melbourne. From Darwin base, aren’t you? How are things up that way? Had a few of the Japs over the other day, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, a few,” Jimmy Joyce replied with a grin. “And not all of them went home, praise the Lord. It’s been pretty quiet, though. And the news we get about what’s going on other places wouldn’t fill a thimble. Has anything special happened elsewhere, Captain?”