“Contact,” Kern said commandingly.
“Contact,” Russell replied.
The motor roared. Kern stared at Russell. He saw the commander standing there to one side looking straight back at him, his face expressionless. Russell grinned when Kern tooled the ship across the field. Kern caught only a glimpse of it—but there was something startlingly familiar about that grin.…
It was pitch black up there, although when Kern looked down he could see hundreds of thousands of lights brought out by the Very signal pistols. Sometimes there was a wide flash of lightning like blue light, and he could see the forms of men moving down there. The Nazis had to do little fighting since the French had given up.
* * * *
He was flying as per directions at 9,000 feet carrying that green light under his wings. He pulled a map from his inner pocket, and studied it a moment. Then he looked down to get his bearings and was guided by the various lights beneath. And then, he stopped following the appointed course!
He switched the green light off. The Spitfire veered sharply to the left. After gaining altitude, instead of pointing toward Germany, the Spitfire made a crazy zigzag course. The simple reason was that Kern had only a vague idea of where he was going. But he knew what he was trying to get away from. He knew that in spades!
Guided only by his wrist-watch now—for he was using time and time alone as the means by which he should reach a certain spot behind the German lines—Kern maneuvered his fast plane fully thirty miles along the Rhone, then turned again and started over the German lines. He kept a straight course for five miles, and then turned to the right again.
Finally, he started to lose altitude. And then, when he saw what he wanted to see, when his eyes lighted up and a Yankee grin came over his lips, he cut off his motor. Then he started to circle a dark area that seemed to be a patch of flat meadow. He couldn’t take a chance on throwing down a flare. He could only land and hope that he wouldn’t have to face a welcoming committee.
But his luck lost out.
The plane came to a stop. And when Kern started to climb out of the cockpit, a gruff voice sounded out of the darkness. The gleam of approaching helmets nearby caught Kern’s eye. He didn’t wait for a big hello. With a lightning quick movement he whipped out his gun. Then he kicked out viciously at the nearest German, and sent a bullet whistling at the oncoming soldiers. At the same time he sped up the idling motor and started to swing the ship around.
German soldiers were swarming around Kern’s plane now, their angry guttural voices giving way to shots. Three bullets whistled by Kern’s head. He discouraged them by dropping two German’s with his pistol—and then letting go full blast with the machine-gun.
They went down like tall grass before a scythe, those Nazis. But they weren’t giving up. They were still shooting at him. And just before he got into the air, Kern felt a sickening plop directly in front of him, as a bullet pierced the motor. The propeller stopped turning. The ship nosed over—and Kern was hurled into the air twenty feet above ground. And as he spun around like a doll thrown by a child from the second story window, he lost consciousness.…
It was a very angry German who flew back to his Jagstaffel that night. As von Krim brought his ship to a landing he spat disgustedly over the side of the cockpit. The other flyers came up as the Bache leader took off his helmet and goggles.
“Well, Captain, it was easy, ja?” one of his subordinates said, grinning.
Von Krim’s face was like stone.
“Something is wrong,” he said. “Something is very wrong.”
The other flyers did not question him further. They knew better than to annoy von Krim when his plans went wrong.
Cursing and muttering to himself, von Krim entered the low barracks at the side of the airdrome. But even as he set foot in the doorway he turned around, and stared curiously.
A group of soldiers were hurrying across the field toward the barracks. Two of them were carrying a still form, and they were yelling excitedly. Von Krim hurried over, and before he could ask any questions, a soldier supplied him with all necessary information.
“An American flyer,” the German said. “He just crashed in that field over there—”
Von Krim looked down at the still, pale face of the American flyer.
“Very unfortunate,” he murmured, grinning thinly. “Yes. It is very unfortunate.” Then the grin: faded, and a snarl burst from his lips. “Take him into the barracks,” he ordered. “Tie him up.”
“But Herr Captain,” one of the soldiers protested. “The American, he is injured.”
“Do as I say!” Von Krim yelled savagely.…
When Kern opened his eyes he was sitting upright. He tried to move his arms and legs and found that it was impossible. He was tied to the chair. His head felt like white hot lead had been poured into it. There was a sharp pain in his left leg. And as consciousness fully returned to him, it seemed that every inch of his body was filled with a dull, throbbing ache.
A guttural voice, speaking broken English, caused Kern to look up suddenly. He saw a heavy-set, brutal-looking man looking down at him. There was a grin on that man’s lips. His narrow eyes—his beak of a nose—Kern had seen that face before thousands of feet in the air. He had seen it framed behind the ring-sights of barking Spandaus. And he had seen it some place else, too—
“You’re Von Krim,” Kern said weakly.
“Correct,” snapped the Nazi. “Are you comfortable?” He grinned mockingly.
“When we capture a Boche flyer, we don’t tie him up like this,” Kern said angrily.
“You don’t capture any of my flyers,” von Krim said haughtily. He bared his teeth now in an ugly grimace.
Kern nodded slowly. His mind went back to the physics classroom at Oxford, where it was nothing more than a job of thinking things out slowly and using plain American horse-sense. That’s what Kern was doing now—using his brains, figuring things out, moving ahead. For the next few minutes, it was a matter of looking the situation over and coming to a few conclusions.
“You came here to kill me,” von Krim said, breaking into his thoughts.
Kern’s eyes widened.
“Kill you?” he muttered. “You’re crazy. I was on night observation and lost my way. Of course, if you put it that way, my job’s to kill every German I can.”
Von Krim shook his head in a taunting gesture.
“No,” he said. “You came here with one idea in mind—to kill me and me alone. Didn’t you?”
Kern started to deny it, but von Krim’s hard knuckles jammed the words back in his teeth. The German drew back his fist again, then let it lash out once more. Kern took it full in the jaw, then threw himself back hard against the chair. He made almost a complete somersault. When he landed he came down hard, breaking the chair. He got to his feet, and he was still tied—but not to the chair. His hands and feet were free, although splinters of wood still kept him from full liberty of movement.
He was able to act fast now, and the first thing he did was to leap at von Krim. The Boche wasn’t used to a square fight. He stepped back, opened his mouth to shout an alarm. But Kern silenced him with a smashing right to the jaw that nearly took his head off. The German crumbled in an inert heap. If he had wanted to, Kern could have killed the man then and there. But he didn’t want to kill him then and there. He wanted to kill von Krim at another time, another place.…
It was a queer hour for a ship to be leaving the airdrome, but the German flyers were too busy drinking beer in the canteen to even think twice about the matter. Besides, von Krim had a habit of going off on night flights alone at certain times, and that was the conclusion reached by most of the Nazi aviators as they sat at their drinks. But if they would have looked into the cockpit of that Messerschmitt, they would have seen a much different story.
Dane Kern was speeding back toward his home drome. He had an easy time of it as he flew over the German lines. But when he hit the English coast he was shot at by Ar
chies. He had to leave the Messerschmitt out to the limit to get away from them.
But the worst trouble came when he reached home. And yet it started as trouble and ended as a joke.
As Kern circled the field, his fellow flyers, looking up, recognized von Krim’s plane. Kern saw them running for their ships. Here comes trouble, he thought. And then, as he stared down, he saw a figure running around excitedly. He needed only one guess. He knew who that was—what that figure was doing. Only one man down there wanted von Krim to be alive and safe—
The English flyers didn’t go up after him, for the simple reason that they were commanded to stay down. Kern’s lips tightened. He brought the ship down at the far end of the field. The flyers and mechanics were running toward him with drawn guns as he got out of the cockpit. One of the men was a little excited and took a shot at him. Kern grinned and put his hands up.
“Why—it’s Kern!” one of the men yelled.
Russell was bringing up the rear of the group running toward the plane. As the flyer yelled in recognition, Russell stopped short. He stiffened as if struck by lightning. Then Kern saw him raise his pistol, take aim—
Kern jumped to one side as Russell fired. The commander would have fired again had not an orderly grabbed his arm and yelled:
“It’s not von Krim, Commander! It’s Kern!”
Russell nodded shortly. He seemed to move in a daze. Then Kern brought him out of it. He ignored the excited queries of the other pilots, and stepped up to Russell.
“Surprised to see me, aren’t you?” he said with a noticeable lack of respect.
“I—” Russell stammered.
“Well, here’s another surprise—a pleasant surprise for you, Commander. Von Krim is still alive. I failed in my mission.”
Relief passed across Russell’s eyes. He couldn’t hold that expression back. He scarcely noticed that the other flyers were clustered about them now, questions in their eyes. He stared blankly at Kern. Then he found himself. He stiffened, and his eyes narrowed.
“Consider yourself under arrest!” he snapped. “Go to your quarters!”
Kern saluted, started to walk away, then came back.
“I have something important for you, sir,” he said.
“Well?” Russell murmured, sardonic triumph in his eyes.
“This!” Kern swung from the knee. His hard right fist smashed against Russell’s jaw. The commander went out cold. Then, as his buddies closed in on him, he shouted, “Okay, I’m under arrest. But before you guys jump me, here’s a funny story for you! This guy Russell is as English as Hitler! He’s a spy. And if you don’t believe me, take a good look at his room. You’ll find an interesting little toy there. They call it a telegraph! He’s been sending code messages to von Krim. He’s the guy that’s responsible for us losing five, six, seven men every time we fight the Boche!
“I thought something was wrong when I heard that thing buzzing away yesterday. No wonder von Krim’s been ready for us every time we’ve gone up against him. No wonder he’s known exactly where to surprise us! Russell sent me over last night with instructions to get that damned Nazi. That was the only convenient way to get rid of me. He wired the Hun, told him where to get me, and provided me with a green light so von Krim would have an easy job of it. But von Krim’s through with easy meat. From now on it’s our turn.…”
Seven English planes moved slowly across the Allied lines two days later. Flying above the others, Flight Leader Dane Kern scanned the skies around him. He fingered his Vickers with itching fingers. The urge to kill was burning high within him, although half of his job had been completed that same morning, when a certain “English” officer was shot at dawn for high treason. And as he died, there was this same smile on Russell’s lips—the smile that recalled a strangely similar smile on the face of another man—
Kern’s thoughts on the subject were blotted out as his eyes took in seven dots. Then they became larger, and were coming toward his flight at almost the same altitude. Kern looked closely at those oncoming ships—and gasped. It was von Krim’s squadron, and the murderous killer was leading the flight himself!
“You’ve had your last bite of easy meat, Boche,” Kern muttered. “Now we’ll take a chunk!” Grimly, he signaled his men into battle formation. The Englishmen dived, looped, came out above and behind the German planes. The Huns broke formation fast, streaked for low altitude. But this time the English flyers had the advantage of first attack. In two minutes three Germans went down.
From then on it was a field day for the Britons. They were victory-starved, and they made the most of their opportunity—if an even break could be called an opportunity. Their guns chattered away incessantly, their trigger fingers became part of those guns. They fought like madmen.
Away to one side—almost a full mile away now—two planes fought it out on an even basis. Von Krim wasn’t grinning now, he was fighting for his life. And he knew who he was fighting. He passed close enough to Kern to recognize that face—the face of the devil who had escaped him only two nights ago. And it was this burning rage that made the Hun fight with his old fury, that made him forget the fact that he wasn’t fighting a surprised, helpless Englishman. Any fear that might have tugged at von Krim was now blotted out by anger.
He slammed down at Kern, put lead through the side of the Hurricane’s fuselage. But Kern rolled out, slipped to one side, dived, and came up in a full loop that brought him on von Krim’s tail. But the Boche was smart. He knew how to fly, knew how to slip out when he was in trouble. They kept on this way—endless circles, whizzing streaks of machine and man fighting for that precious combination of space and time—occasionally getting on the other’s tail.
Finally, von Krim did it. He maneuvered himself only sixty feet away, followed Kern like a hawk, and the Yank heard the bark of a machine-gun, felt hot lead smack into his shoulder. He cursed, dove, and behind him a surprised Boche, thinking the Englishman would side-slip, was fooled into passing beyond Kern.
Kern cursed again. He felt that throb in his shoulder become a sickening dullness in his brain. But he told himself that in this one last minute he had a big job to do.
And he did it. He came up behind the German and his trigger fingers sent white-hot lead into a Messerschmitt motor. Von Krim plummeted to the earth. This time his screech was not one of victory.…
A white-coated hospital orderly stepped up beside his bed. Kern opened his eyes and grinned.
“Think I’ll pull out of it?” he asked.
The orderly grinned back.
“You jolly well better. They have a Victoria Cross all ready for you.” Then his grin faded. “Say, I have an odd story for you—”
“About what?” Kern asked.
The orderly bit his lip.
“That blighter you shot down this morning,” the orderly said. “We didn’t want to tell you up to now, because the shock might have proven dangerous. But you’re all right now.… Well, your friend von Krim died only a few hours ago. It’s amazing that he lived so long, after that burning crash. And before he died he whispered a last request. He begged us to bury him next to his brother, Otto von Krim, otherwise known as—Commander Russell!”
THE FLY, by Katherine Mansfield
“Y’are very snug in here,” piped old Mr. Woodifield, and he peered out of the great, green-leather armchair by his friend the boss’s desk as a baby peers out of its pram. His talk was over; it was time for him to be off. But he did not want to go. Since he had retired, since his…stroke, the wife and the girls kept him boxed up in the house every day of the week except Tuesday. On Tuesday he was dressed and brushed and allowed to cut back to the City for the day. Though what he did there the wife and girls couldn’t imagine. Made a nuisance of himself to his friends, they supposed.… Well, perhaps so. All the same, we cling to our last pleasures as the tree clings to its last leaves. So there sat old Woodifield, smoking a cigar and staring almost greedily at the boss, who rolled in his office chair, stout, rosy, fiv
e years older than he, and still going strong, still at the helm. It did one good to see him.
Wistfully, admiringly, the old voice added, “It’s snug in here, upon my word!”
“Yes, it’s comfortable enough,” agreed the boss, and he flipped the Financial Times with a paper-knife. As a matter of fact he was proud of his room; he liked to have it admired, especially by old Woodifield. It gave him a feeling of deep, solid satisfaction to be planted there in the midst of it in full view of that frail old figure in the muffler.
“I’ve had it done up lately,” he explained, as he had explained for the past—how many?—weeks. “New carpet,” and he pointed to the bright red carpet with a pattern of large white rings. “New furniture,” and he nodded towards the massive bookcase and the table with legs like twisted treacle. “Electric heating!” He waved almost exultantly towards the five transparent, pearly sausages glowing so softly in the tilted copper pan.
But he did not draw old Woodifield’s attention to the photograph over the table of a grave-looking boy in uniform standing in one of those spectral photographers’ parks with photographers’ storm-clouds behind him. It was not new. It had been there for over six years.
“There was something I wanted to tell you,” said old Woodifield, and his eyes grew dim remembering. “Now what was it? I had it in my mind when I started out this morning.” His hands began to tremble, and patches of red showed above his beard.
Poor old chap, he’s on his last pins, thought the boss. And, feeling kindly, he winked at the old man, and said jokingly, “I tell you what. I’ve got a little drop of something here that’ll do you good before you go out into the cold again. It’s beautiful stuff. It wouldn’t hurt a child.” He took a key off his watch-chain, unlocked a cupboard below his desk, and drew forth a dark, squat bottle. “That’s the medicine,” said he. “And the man from whom I got it told me on the strict Q.T. it came from the cellars at Windor Castle.”
The Military Megapack Page 52
