A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F.
( A Yankee Flier )
Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery
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A YANKEE FLIER WITH THE R.A.F.
by Al Avery
Illustrated by Paul Laune
CHAPTER I
GLORY TRAIL
Swing music was blaring from the radio set in the mess when Stan Wilson entered. His blue eyes, which gleamed with a great zest for living, gazed levelly around the room. There was a look in them which had been born of penetrating the blue depths of Colorado canyons and, later on, at the limitless spaces a flier sees. As usual, a half-smile, seemingly directed at himself, played at the corners of his mouth. There was seldom a moment so danger-filled that Stan Wilson could not laugh at himself.
Here he was, really a fugitive from his distant homeland, standing in the Royal Air Force mess while outside the closely curtained windows all of London lay under an inky blackout, listening and waiting for the whine of the bombers. Stan was to be a member of Red Flight, which had been taking on replacements so fast that even the Flight Lieutenant wasn’t able to get chummy with his men before they left him.
Stan smiled as he looked over the group in the mess. He had met Judd, a plump youth who was unofficially known as “jelly bean”; McCumber, a silent Scot who seldom smiled; and Tommy Lane, who never ceased to whistle tavern tunes. At a reading table scanning a paper sat Irish Kelley whose dark face and hawklike features made him look like a real lead slinger.
A man he did not know sat at a low table with a cup of black coffee before him. He was slender and even though his uniform needed pressing it seemed to fit him like a glove. His blond hair was closely clipped and the cool, gray eyes he lifted to meet Stan’s gaze held a hint of insolent mockery. This was March Allison, Stan knew at once. A crazy Flight Lieutenant who was fast making a name for himself by his savage fighting heart and his dizzy flying ability. Stan stepped toward the table.
Allison nodded to a vacant chair beside the table and Stan dropped into it.
“I’m March Allison,” he said and his cool eyes moved over Stan with irritating boldness. The superior air of the Britisher provoked Stan, but he refused to show it because he did not intend to lose his temper.
“I’m Stan Wilson,” he said, “the new member of Red Flight.”
“Stan Wilson, Canadian test pilot?” Allison clipped the words off in a manner that was almost derisive.
“That’s what my card shows,” Stan said testily.
“You’re a Yank,” Allison snapped. Then he grinned and little wrinkles crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I can smell a Yank,” he added.
“If you don’t mind suppose we leave it as the card reads?” Stan said coldly.
“All right with me, old fellow,” Allison answered. “Only I hope you’re a faster flier than the planes the Yanks have sent us so far.”
That nettled Stan. A picture leaped into his mind—the picture of a trim fighter plane with low wings, and two banks of Brownings on each side of a 2,000-horse-power radial motor. Stan had nursed several of those babies into the blue. He didn’t have to close his eyes to remember the test flight card he had filled out.
“Climbed to 20,000 feet in six minutes. Performed two barrel rolls, three loops. Checked all controls in neutral. Fired all guns and checked temperatures of gun-warming units. Did a series of sharp dives with steady pull-outs.” As Stan’s thoughts wandered back he grinned into Allison’s face. He had put a number of Spitfires through their paces and knew that they were mud hens compared to the new babies which would soon be coming over from the United States.
“You’ll soon get one with 2,000 horses up ahead and then you’ll junk your Spitfires and Hurricanes,” he said.
Allison cocked an eye at him and grinned widely. “Do you suppose you and I will be hitting the glory trail then?”
“I figure I’ll be around doing something,” Stan answered and matched the Lieutenant’s grin.
A mess corporal was standing near by hopefully fussing with Stan’s chit book which had just been issued to him. Stan gave the corporal a nod.
“Black coffee,” he ordered.
At that moment Tommy Lane strolled over and flopped into a chair. He winked at Stan as he elevated his lank legs to the top of the table, almost upsetting Allison’s coffee.
“If the notch don’t get you the Messerschmitts must,” he hummed softly. He seemed to be trying to tease Allison. When the Flight Lieutenant failed to show any interest, Tommy said, “Your treat, Allison. I’ll have black coffee with a big jug of cream on the side.”
Allison ordered Tommy’s drink and watched the corporal mark it up in his chit book. He rolled an eye lazily toward the lanky youth.
“Stan Wilson from Canada,” he drawled.
Stan grinned at Tommy Lane. His eyes bit into Allison. He did not like the way Allison was acting about his past record. If he was to have his chance to get a whack at the Jerries in this war, it was important that he be considered a subject of the British Empire, and he had come a lot of miles to get that chance.
All his plans would be ruined if the truth about him came out. Posing as a Canadian he had a good chance to get by, but there would be embarrassing questions about his past if his true nationality was found out. Questions that Stan Wilson couldn’t answer without having his new officer’s commission stripped from him. He waited breathlessly to see if Tommy would notice the challenge in Allison’s voice, but the tall youth merely grinned cheerfully and said:
“We get darn good men from Canada.”
Suddenly the intersquadron speaker rasped and began snapping orders. Every man in the room stopped talking and listened. A sudden tenseness filled the air of the room.
“Red Flight, all out! Red Flight, all out!”
“Well, well. Out for a breath of night air,” Allison drawled. No one else said anything and the men of Red Flight barged toward the door.
“Green Flight, stand by,” rasped the speaker.
Stan moved out behind Tommy Lane with Allison striding ahead. In less than three minutes they were bundled in flying suits, with parachutes batting their legs. Like waddling Arctic explorers they shoved out into the damp blackness of the night.
On the cab rank three Spitfires were shuddering under slow throttle. Flight sergeants were clambering down after warming up the motors. The ragged flare of exhausts whirled grotesque shadows across the ground, and oil fumes mixed with raw gasoline sucked up into their faces.
Sidders, Recording Officer, waved a sheaf of papers at Allison as he halted before the Flight Lieutenant. Sidders looked like a big bear with his greatcoat muffled around him. “Take the notch at 2,500. Landing signal, K. Good luck.”
Allison grinned as he saluted. “Landing signal, K,” he repeated mechanically.
A moment later Allison was jerking his hatch cover back and pinching one wheel brake. He rammed the throttle knob up and swung th
e Spitfire around. It lurched away and his voice came through the earphones of Tommy Lane and Stan Wilson.
“Slide up, Lane, Wilson.” His voice was cold and impatient.
The three Spitfires shoved their noses into the black wall of the night, their exhausts snarling flame. They hesitated, waiting for the take-off signal.
“Check your temperatures,” Allison droned into his flap mike.
Stan Wilson settled himself against his crash pad and got his chute squared under him. He had taken up his belt a notch beyond what he thought was possible. Tension gripped him. This was combat with a flaming trail ahead. He wasn’t test diving and stunting now, he was hunting and would be hunted. And up there the night was as black as the inside of a cellar.
They got the clearance signal and the tails of the Spitfires lifted with a blast of prop pressure. They slid down the runway, gathering terrific speed. A few seconds later they were screaming over the blacked-out city.
“Close, close, tight in,” Allison’s voice droned.
Stan saw below the gray rectangle that was Hyde Park Square. He watched the knifing flame that the searchlights stabbed into the black heavens as they probed and searched for the black bellies of the bombers. The dull rapping of anti-aircraft shells beating against the heavy dome above smashed back the roar of his motor. The ground boys would soon spread a muck of fire and bursting steel over London.
“Tight, tight, we’re coming into the notch,” Allison’s voice warned.
Red Flight swept north now in a steep, battering turn. The notch was dead ahead.
“Shove in, Tommy. Don’t try slicing a cable,” Allison snarled. “Come in! Come in! Here we go!”
The Spitfires slid closer together, bunched like darting swallows, their flaming breath licking into the night. In a few seconds they would be out where they could spread and go into action. For the first time, since rubbing elbows with a Spitfire, Stan wondered how you bailed out of the roaring monster if it broke up going 350 miles per hour. He slid his thumb across the black gun button as he set his windbreaker’s edge on a line with Allison’s aileron slit.
Blood pounded in his ears and a chill eagerness laid hold upon him. He leaned forward and would have shouted. Allison and Tommy and the whole British Broadcasting System would likely get the benefit of it if he cut loose with a cowboy yell. He closed his mouth firmly and fixed his eyes on the aileron slit ahead. The 1,000-horsepower Merlin engine was throbbing, hurtling him up and into the night. He could feel the assuring Brownings in the wings, ready to spew a hail of lead at the enemy. He did not realize it but beads of sweat stood on his forehead.
He was glad he was coming out of the narrow channel of terror which was charted anew each week. The notch was guarded by unseen, steel cables, slender knives of spun death, waiting to slice through the wing of a plane like a knife cutting through hot cheese. Or to come coiling down upon any ship that struck them squarely. The hydrogen bloated monsters that held the cables aloft swayed and tugged, sometimes swinging the steel lines far out into the notch.
Out of this avenue the three Spitfires bored. When they were clear Allison’s drawl came in clearly:
“Pick yourself a bandit.”
Two blades of silver light knifed upward. They swept back and forth, then stopped, remaining straight up. This was a signal Allison understood perfectly.
“Four bandits, quarter left,” he snapped.
Before Stan could lay over, Allison’s Spitfire was hurtling across his hatch cover, zooming up at the droning bombers. A second later he sighted a big Dornier just as she lurched upward in a frantic effort to avoid Allison’s Brownings.
A half-smile came to the lips of Stan Wilson. Everything they had said about March Allison was correct. He was a demon in the air. Stan shot his Spitfire up at the belly of the floundering Dornier. He had no time to play spectator. Pressing the gun button he felt the kick of his eight Brownings as they drilled away. Pinkish flames spurted from the mid-section of the bomber as it whirled about, sliding off on one wing with flames, red now, belching out of it. It turned over and four men tumbled out. Stan watched long enough to see their chutes blossom against the red glow of gunfire from below. He was glad that the crew had been able to bail out.
On his right Stan saw tracer bullets from Allison’s guns. He made out a dark hulk twisting and turning, then the hulk was lighted as the Nazi craft went down in flames. He couldn’t spot Tommy as he zoomed upward and in a split second he lost Allison. Circling, he throttled down and let the Spitfire cruise. A chill feeling gripped the pit of his stomach. This was new stuff for him. He was out in the darkness roaring in a steep circle, looking for another bomber, but mostly waiting to hear Allison’s voice. He knew the unseen cables were swaying and reaching, eager to knife him or to snarl his plane. Losing a wing wouldn’t be as bad as having the cable come down on you. If you tangle in a cable you can’t bail out. Stan peered down at the muck of shellfire below. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hit the notch without help from at least one of the veterans.
Then he saw a searchlight beam pick up a dark shape below. It was a bomber going down to unload. Stan nosed over and sent the Spitfire down in a screaming dive. The flaming field of muck leaped up to meet him and shells burst close. As Stan closed in on the dive bomber it suddenly seemed to explode in his face.
Instantly Stan knew the cables had gotten the bandit. Frantically, he pulled the Spitfire up and sent her roaring toward the ceiling. He sucked in his breath as he brushed past one of the bloated gas bags. That was a score for the Ack-Ack gunners and the ground boys. Then he heard Allison’s voice, cool and cheerful.
“Come in close, Red Flight. Somebody got two bandits. Who got two bandits?”
Stan slid over and down, sure now of his position. Ahead, he spotted Tommy and then Allison. They rocketed down through the notch, as sure of the narrow pathway as though the noonday sun was shining on the cables. Stan ducked in on Tommy’s tail and went home with them.
“Why ask silly questions,” Tommy was shouting to Allison. “Allison got one, Wilson got one, the Ack-Ack boys got one. Tommy got nothing except Allison’s Spitfire in his lap.”
Allison’s voice came back in a sarcastic drawl. “I just shut my eyes and cut loose. When I opened them, there was a bandit minus one wing. How about you, Wilson?”
Stan cuddled his flap mike and laughed. He was sure of himself now. He had hit the glory trail and could laugh at its terrors. “I just did potshooting. Later I’ll clip off tails and wings for you.”
“Later?” There was that mocking note in Allison’s voice.
The recall signal was calling them in. They swung over the blacked-out city and headed for home. Ten minutes later they did a parachute walk into the briefing room. Brooks, Squadron Leader, eyed them wearily. He acted as though he hadn’t had any sleep for a good many nights, which was about correct. The three pilots moved over to his high desk and reached for report forms.
“Everybody all right?” the Squadron Leader asked as he began filling out their time record.
“Fit as flying fish,” Tommy answered, grinning broadly. “Me, I like balloons.” He winked at Stan.
“Shut up,” Allison snapped.
“What did you spend on yours?” Brooks asked, looking at Allison.
“Six or eight seconds in one burst,” Allison answered.
“Hundred rounds,” the officer jotted down. Then he looked at Tommy. Tommy nodded toward Stan.
“Eight or ten, I guess. I used a pretty long burst,” Stan admitted.
“One hundred thirty rounds, eight seconds,” the officer jotted down.
A few minutes later Stan strolled into the mess with Allison. He felt tired and would have gone to his cubicle only he wanted to see what the boys did when they came in.
“Black coffee, that’s the thing for balloon nerves,” Allison said and looked sharply at Stan. “It’s on me.” He waved a hand to the mess corporal and called. “Two, black.” Facing Stan, with a glint of hum
or in his eyes, he said. “Not bad, old man, but you’re a Yank and you learned to fly in a fighter. And I think you’d best break down and tell me about it.”
“Sorry, but I can’t think of a story you’d believe,” Stan said and grinned to hide his uneasiness. Allison was sharp as a tack. He had it in his head that Stan was a Yank, which would have been all right except that no Yank needed to masquerade as a Canadian to get into the Royal Air Force. Not a flier like Stan Wilson.
They sank into chairs and waited for the coffee. Tommy hadn’t showed up and they had the mess to themselves. Allison leaned forward.
“I think the old man has something special up his sleeve,” he said. “When he acts tough and gets hard he’s about to cook up a messy job. Want in on it if it comes?” He was grinning at Stan in his most derisive manner. He might just as well have added, “Of course you won’t want in.”
“Check me in,” Stan said stiffly.
“Fine.” Allison leaned back and elevated his legs to the top of the table. “Fine. I figure the old man is going to give us a one-way ticket.”
“A what?” Stan asked. The way Allison spoke made a chill run up his spine.
Allison turned his head and looked at Stan. “In the last war when fighters were sent out as scouts they had to come back to report. In this man’s war they radio back their reports. After that they play tag with a swarm of Messerschmitt One-Tens.”
“I see.” Stan could well imagine what sort of tag three Spitfires would play with a dozen or more ME’s. It was just plain suicide stuff. “Ever been on one?” he asked.
Allison grinned widely. “Once. A cloud, plus eight Brownings and a lot of fool’s luck, brought me back with most of my ship. It beats hitting the glory trail every night.”
“Sounds interesting,” Stan agreed as he pulled his steaming cup of coffee to him and began dropping sugar lumps into it. “I aim to get a kick out of it.”
Allison laughed. “Hanged if I don’t believe you will. You’ll go if I do any of the picking.”
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. (a yankee flier) Page 1
