The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  The adjutant put down the phone and said, “It’s a scramble.”

  They were out of the Hut, running across the field. The signal had already reached the ground crews, and motors were whining. Meader was tightening the chin-strap of his helmet and as he climbed into the Hurricane he turned and looked toward his right, toward Bersbee’s plane. Bersbee was hesitating. He was slow in putting on his helmet. Meader was thinking of what had happened last night. He was telling himself not to think about it. He saw Bersbee climbing into the plane. He was telling himself that it would be all right. Everything would be all right.

  He closed the glass cockpit roof, and then he was sending the Hurricane across grass, sliding into a crosswind take-off. As he pointed into steep climb, the earphones inside his helmet were buzzing, and he heard, “Eleven Heinkel mediums, escorted by twenty-plus Messerschmitts, approaching Portsmouth—height 16,000 feet—your vector 140—bend it 30 right.”

  And then Limm-Gawes’ voice was crackling the code words. The squadron widened out in echelon, reached 10,000 feet and kicked up past the 300 miles-per mark, continued to pick up. Meader was hunched, rigid for a minute, relaxed for a minute, rigid again, then completely relaxed as he remembered the first formula he had worked out from the papers.

  The seven Hurricanes reached 20,000, closed into V formation, and then started to slant downward. They came up again, went over the 20,000 mark, and then Meader could see the enemy planes. In the grey blankness that was Portsmouth he could see smoke. He could see points of fire.

  Limm-Gawes was flipping the final directions. Then he was saying, “Tallyho!” and it was every man for himself.

  The Englishman went down in vicious, spearing dive, cutting through the Nazi formation, ignoring the frenzied underside bursts offered by the Messerschmitts that tried to form a protective sheet above the Heinkel bombers. The Hurricanes pulled out of the dive, broke through again, regained their altitude advantage, and repeated on the dive. A bomber was going down. A Messerschmitts was going down. A bomber was wallowing like a sick whale. It was in flames and it was going down. Another Messerschmitt was going down. A Hurricane was going down.

  Meader peeled off from two Messerschmitts and fell on the tail of a Heinkel. He got swastika in his sights and he punched the gun-button, saw the eight lines of flame searing into the rudder, the tail assembly. He sneaked in closer, jumped slightly, and when he came down this time he found the cockpit of the Heinkel. The German plane went into a spin and Meader peeled off again from the two Messerschmitts, who were very hungry for him.

  He feinted a dive, carved it into a loop, and as he came up, he saw the Messerschmitts change course and lunge for a Hurricane that was alone, over to the left.

  It was Bersbee.

  The Nazi planes spread wide.

  Meader watched. He was telling himself that he wouldn’t have to go down there. Bersbee could handle this. He wouldn’t have to go down there, because Bersbee had a formula for this sort of thing, and interference would be a hindrance rather than an aid. Interference would spoil the beauty of the thing. He wanted to see how Bersbee was going to handle it. A triangle was in motion, with two points closing in upon the third. The situation was now in the stage of A, and rapidly advanced to the stage of D. Meader was remembering the formula, telling himself that now Bersbee would work it back to the stage of B, feint to the right, attack on the left, continue the attack to bring the situation to a stage of G.

  But Bersbee wasn’t working it that way. He was making a mistake. Either that, or he had new ideas. He was in a dive, and his defensive tactics were frantic and poorly timed. Like a novice he was pulling out too soon—he was pulling out much too soon.

  “Wait—wait—” Meader leaned forward, aimed his Hurricane toward the German planes that now lunged at Bersbee.

  They had Bersbee. They were pitching bullets into him. He was crippled. He was twisting. He was smoking, and the Hurricane was whistling and trying to stay up there. Flames were crawling over it.

  “Jump,” Meader said. “Why don’t you jump?”

  Even as he said that, he knew that Bersbee would not jump. He watched the ignited plane sizzling toward earth, and then he saw that the two Messerschmitts had joined with a third, and were converging on Illvers, over to the right. He waited—waited until they were in the position that called for him to work the third formula he had learned from Bersbee’s papers.

  The Germans had Illvers in a trap when Meader sliced through, placing the situation in the stage of E.

  In the lounge of the Officers’ Mess, Bensing was placing a new needle in the phonograph.

  Illvers and Litchington were talking to one of the new men. Illvers leaned forward earnestly, gestured with his silver tankard, still full, although the beer had been poured five minutes ago. The new man was nodding slowly as Illvers said, “You understand now? You understand why we want you to steer clear of him? You see, he’s got to be left alone. He’s just got to be left alone. Not a single question. Not even a hello, unless he says it first. He’s downed 31 planes. He’s saved Limm-Gawes. He’s saved Hackedorn, and Bensing. He’s saved me three times. Did you hear that? Three times. I’d die for him. Any of us would. And the least we can do is to see that he’s left alone. I realize that this sort of thing is somewhat out of bounds, but I do hope you’ll be decent about it and if—”

  The phonograph whined once and was quiet. Hackedorn was quiet. Illvers was quiet, looking at his beer and then drinking it. Someone got out of a soft dark green leather chair, moved away quickly.

  The room was very quiet as Meader walked toward the chair.

  KILLER ACE, by David Goodis

  The German plane came hurtling out of the sky like a pain-crazed eagle. Trigger fingers jabbed death-filled lead through the air four thousand feet up. Von Krim’s mouth twisted in a devilish grin. He looked like Satan himself as he dove for the Englishman’s tail, traced a pattern of dots up the fuselage, and then shrieked in eerie delight as that death-line reached the cockpit. The English pilot slumped down in his seat, his brain riddled by bullets.

  But a moment later von Krim’s grin faded. There was a determined note in the whining, buzzing Spitfire behind him. He twisted uneasily in his cockpit, turned his head—and saw crimson flames spurt from the guns in the ship fifty yards away. He felt the slugs whistle by his cheek. He ducked low, and dove.

  The Englishman dove also. Von Krim banked. The Englishman did likewise. Then the Hun went into another dive, twisted sharply and rolled out, zooming up and above the Englishman. Then he came down on him almost vertically, his guns barking.

  Von Krim’s screech blended with the sound of his guns, as he saw the second English boy go down—dying a death of horror in a flame-filled plane.

  Then the German waved his arm, and signaled the three remaining Boche to head for home. But the two Englishmen—the only two remaining out of the original seven who had started out that morning—had other ideas about the matter.

  They were fighting like madmen. The tears in their eyes were not tears of fright or horror. They were tears of sorrow, tears of rage, tears of vengeance. But the English flyers needed more than sobs to combat the ruthless von Krim and his squadron of devils.

  The English planes were fast, but they weren’t as fast as the Messerschmitts used by von Krim and his flying hellions.

  That fact proved itself in the next few moments. One by one, in quick succession, the Boche took their chances on the two English flyers. It was four against two now. Grinning like a madman set for the kill, von Krim zoomed his ship to gain more altitude. Then he aimed his ship as if it was an arrow, and dove like a bullet at the first of the now faltering Spitfires. The outcome of the battle was decided.

  For the Nazi now repeated what he had done exactly thirty-three times before. He sent snarling slugs of death into that ship, and then soared upward. His screech of triumph carried over and above the angry roar of the motor.

  But there was one Englishman left—an En
glishman only because of the outfit he flew for. Dane Kern was as American as ham and eggs. He had been studying at Oxford when the war broke out—had been there as a student of advanced physics. And because he was scientifically minded, planes fascinated him. He had joined the Royal Air Force not so much because of a love for the British, but because the war would give him a chance to play around with planes. He knew his ships, he knew his flight and attack methods—and most important of all—he had guts. And he was showing that now to the German pilots.

  Kern acted the coward on purpose. He wanted them to think he was grounding the plane, giving up the fight. He kept on losing altitude. Then he looked up to see a Boche slowly gaining on him, saw the German signal him to ground. He pictured the Nazi’s face wreathed in smug triumph.

  “Oh yeah?” he muttered grimly, and zoomed his ship up like a streak, made a complete loop and came down hard and fast on the German’s tail. Both his guns barked their message of death. The Boche never knew what happened. He dove a hundred feet to the ground, and when he spilled out of the cockpit he was a corpse.

  That was all Kern wanted. That one last German. He knew he wouldn’t have a chance with the three others, particularly when von Krim was one of those three. So now he streaked for home, even as the Boche flyers started down after him.

  They chased, grim determination in their eyes. Looking back, Kern figured that he was about done. They were gaining on him too fast. But suddenly the ground artillery began hurling shells at the Boche as they passed over the English coastline. Von Krim had a special dislike for Archies. He signaled his men home.…

  The commander and the adjutant and the rest of the men were waiting for him on the home tarmac. Dane Kern couldn’t see their faces but he knew what expressions those faces held. He was coming back alone. Seven had gone out that morning and only one was coming back.

  If this had been the first time, it wouldn’t have been so tragic. But this was just a repetition of what was happening to Commander Russell’s flyers day after day. It wasn’t even a fight anymore. It was a slaughter.

  Kern taxied his ship across the field. For the first time he felt the groping weariness that first sets in the eyes then seems to work back to the brain, and finally fills the entire body. That dull, throbbing, ache of exhaustion that only men who live with death constantly can know.

  He climbed out of the cockpit and shook his head as the other flyers and mechanics clustered about, eager to help. Russell put an arm around Kern as he wiped grease from around his eyes.

  “What happened?” Russell asked wearily. He was a tall, spare figure in his late forties. He was a quiet man, respected because he never flaunted his authority.

  “The old story,” Kern muttered. “It was von Krim again. He must have a special agreement with every cloud in the sky—that Hun. The clouds are always with him. They were with him today. He took us completely by surprise. He hid in the clouds and dove on us too fast. We didn’t have a chance.”

  “And there’s nothing we can do about it,” Russell said, dejected.

  “Yes, there is,” Kern said angrily. He looked square at the commander and said, “Von Krim’s the brains of that outfit. They don’t make a single move without him. He’s about the smartest man in the air today. And the dirtiest fighter—”

  “Well?” Russell demanded.

  “There’s only one way to deal with him,” Kern said.

  “And that is?”

  “Kill him.” Kern said it slowly, almost casually.

  Russell frowned. “Are you kidding me?” he said. “What have we been trying to do these past three months—play cricket with him?”

  “You don’t understand, sir,” Kern said. “I don’t mean to kill him in the air. I mean, murder him. Send someone over there and do away with him. That’s the only way we’ll ever be able to meet those Boche on an equal basis, because—”

  “You’re crazy, Kern!” Russell snapped. “And besides, I don’t believe in fighting that way. We have a certain code, you know.”

  Kern’s eyes flashed angrily.

  “Code be damned!” he yelled. “I went up there today with six of the finest boys I ever knew. Where are they now? You tell me! And why? Because that dirty Hun never comes out in the open. Because he has what I call uncanny luck in being ready for us. He hides behind clouds—big clouds—and dives on us before we know what’s happened! It’s either von Krim or us! That’s the set-up. And if we don’t get that German, he’ll get us!”

  Russell’s face was emotionless. He barely moved his lips as he said:

  “We’re not doing things that way, Kern.”

  Kern’s lips tightened. For an instant his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched hard. Then he gained control over himself.

  “Well, what are you going to do—stand by and let him erase us out of the air completely?” he asked.

  Russell straightened.

  “Perhaps you’re forgetting, Kern, that I’m your superior officer.”

  That was too much. Kern was an American, and Americans have a habit of saying what’s on their minds, come what may.

  “You’re not proving it!” Kern yelled, loud enough for other flyers to hear.

  There was a silence that lasted only a moment, but it seemed like an eternity. And in that interval Kern was calling himself all kinds of names for not keeping his mouth shut. He knew what was coming. It came, all right.

  “Go to your quarters, Lieutenant!” Russell shouted. “And consider yourself under arrest!”

  Kern stiffened. In that moment he hated Russell. But there was nothing else for him to do. He saluted, walked away quickly.

  In the quiet confines of his room Kern’s thoughts were filled with von Krim, about what happened every time he had engaged the wily German.…

  We fly in V formation at 8,000 feet over the German positions. We fly over the blood and shambles that marks what is perhaps the bloodiest battle in the history of the world since Hannibal’s advance at Carthage.

  And suddenly an avalanche of death drops on us in the form of seven Messerschmitts. Their noses are painted in the famous checkerboard design. At the head of the Hun’s squadron is von Krim. His mouth spreads in a grin that widens as his ears take in the maddening chorus of Boche machine guns pouring death into Englishmen.…

  * * * *

  Kern heard the men talking about the last flight in the corridor outside his room. What he heard made him clench his fists and bring them a slowly up at a level with his eyes. That scrap lasted only three minutes. And this time none came back! There is nothing so futile as the knowledge that something can be done, and yet someone is keeping you from doing it. Several times in the past day Kern had thought about leaving his room to see Russell again. But he had lost his nerve. It’s these quiet, subdued officers that are the hardest to deal with in the long run, he thought. Kern remembered that phrase, “a barking dog never bites.”

  It would have been simple, though, to knock on Russell’s door, which was next to his, and to apologize, then plead for a chance to deal with von Krim. And yet—

  Like lightning the thought struck him. And as if the souls of his dead comrades had caused a thing to happen, a strange coincidence occurred at that very moment—a grim but enlightening coincidence!

  For as Kern frowned, and wondered just why Russell should have such a decided objection to his idea, there was a peculiar sound in the next room—Russell’s room. Kern barely caught it, it was so faint. Now he remembered having heard it before. He thought it was just another field insect in the grass outside.

  He kept his ear to the wall, and listened, straining his sense of hearing. Suddenly, his eyes widened, then narrowed. He looked at his watch. It was only mid-afternoon. For what he wanted to do now he would have to wait until evening. And yet, evening would be too late, because tomorrow morning seven more men would go up. No—he had to do this now!

  But as the thought became an icy determination in his mind, Kern heard a key click in the lock of his d
oor. It opened, and an orderly came in.

  “Commander Russell wants to see you,” the orderly said.

  Kern smiled. And as if he were playing of game of chess he looked ahead a few moves. When you take advanced physics at Oxford you learn to use your head for something more than a hat rack. And that’s what Kern was doing now.

  Russell was polite when he entered. He even smiled.

  “I’ve given your idea some careful thought, Kern,” he said. “Discounting the fact that you were guilty of insubordination, I’ve decided to let you have a shot at the plan. In fact, I’ve thought out an ideal schedule for you to use.” And then he proceeded to outline his plan. He drew up a chair for Kern, then spread out a map on the table.

  “That’s the only way you’ll be able to do it,” Russell was saying ten minutes later. “You’ll start at six o’clock this evening. Carry a green light so our artillery will know. It’ll be dark by then and you’ll have to be careful.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kern said.

  They looked into each other’s eyes. And it was Russell who blinked first.…

  A few flyers and mechanics were standing around as Kern came out on the field. He lit a cigarette and walked past the group without saying a word. Usually early evening was a time for gabbing. The flyers stared at him.

  “What’s the matter with Kern?” one asked.

  “Had a run-in with the commander today,” another replied.

  “What’s he all buttoned up for?”

  “Night observation, probably, although I thought he was due for some real trouble. The squadron leader was jolly well angry.”

  They weren’t supposed to know. Russell’s instructions had been specific on that point. It was to be a matter of confidence between Kern and himself. Russell was waiting there at the plane when Kern came over. Without a word he stationed himself at the prop. Kern climbed into the cockpit.