A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. (a yankee flier)

by Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery

  “And about this Yank business.” Stan looked Allison squarely in the eye. “It isn’t international. It isn’t a violation of any of the laws of Britain or any country. It’s a personal matter. If you keep on talking about it you’ll lose a flier, that’s certain.”

  “I see,” Allison said, but he kept on grinning his superior grin. “I knew it wasn’t anything rotten. Sorry I was nosey. It won’t come up before anyone, Yank.” He lifted his cup. “Here’s to the glory trail!”

  Stan joined him. Tommy came in and sprawled out on a bench with his feet against the wall. He looked over at Allison and Stan.

  “The O.C. says Green Flight is taking over for the rest of the night, so you birds can go to bed.”

  “Where are you going?” Allison asked.

  Tommy uncoiled himself and stood up. He began humming a snatch of song, stopped abruptly and answered Allison.

  “Too quiet around here for me.” Without any further explanation he strolled out.

  “That nut can’t get action enough running the notch. He’s on his way over to a bombing squadron. He’ll talk the O.C. into letting him go on a bombing raid as a gunner.” Allison got to his feet. “Me, I’m going to bed.”

  “Reckon I will, too,” Stan answered.

  CHAPTER II

  CLOUD TAG

  Stan entered the mess room the next morning and stood looking around. There was the same air of indifference, with that undercurrent of tension. A dozen men were eating breakfast at the tables in the far end. They were all talking and joking, but at any moment they might be called to face the grim specter of death high in the clouds. Stan spotted Allison sitting by himself at a small table near a window. He looked about for Tommy but the lanky flier wasn’t in the room. Probably sleeping in after an all-night party aboard a bomber, thought Stan.

  He crossed the room and as he approached Allison he saw that the Flight Lieutenant’s breakfast lay untouched before him. His coffee looked cold and stale. But it was the grimness of his face that jolted Stan. Allison looked up and there were savage points of light in his eyes. His mouth twisted into a sardonic grin.

  “Sit down, Stan,” he said, using Stan’s first name, something he hadn’t done before.

  “What’s up?” Stan demanded quickly as he slid into a chair.

  “We’re on day shift,” Allison said. “Sunshine all the way.”

  “Where’s Tommy?” Stan drove at the thought that had leaped into his mind.

  Allison looked at him and his lips pulled into a thin line. “The kid picked up a package last night. A Flak-88 laid a shell right up against the Bristol and cracked her open.”

  Stan said nothing for a minute. He knew that the words of the Flight Lieutenant were likely the last he would say about Tommy Lane’s last ride. Then something like red fire surged up inside him.

  “We’ll keep him in mind,” he said grimly.

  “I’ll see that the score keeps even,” Allison said and savage lights flickered hot in his eyes.

  The mess corporal appeared with a private at his heels. “We have some very fine waffles,” he said.

  “Bring me black coffee,” Stan growled.

  “And waffles?”

  “Sure, sure.”

  The corporal turned away. It worried him that his fliers were so temperamental they didn’t eat enough of his food.

  Allison shoved aside his cold coffee. “We have a new man coming in. He ought to be here any minute now.”

  Ten minutes later a tall man entered the mess. He stood looking around, then spoke to one of the privates. The soldier nodded toward Allison, and the tall youngster headed across the room.

  “Here he comes,” Allison muttered sourly.

  Stan saw a black-haired, hawk-faced young man of perhaps twenty. The new flier had a big mouth that was pulled into a loose frown as his dark eyes stabbed about the room, pausing to rest for a moment upon each face. He walked with a swagger and his uniform was neatly creased. At first glance Stan didn’t think much of him.

  “Hello,” he greeted Allison. “Are you Flight Lieutenant Allison?”

  “Sure. Sit down and have something.”

  “I’m Arch Garret. The O.C. sent me over to plug a hole in Red Flight. I’ll take care of you boys.” He glanced at Allison’s sloppy uniform and then at Stan’s, which was little better.

  “That’s nice of you, old man,” Allison said in a soft drawl.

  Then Arch Garret began to tell how good he was, and how many Messerschmitt One-Tens he had knocked off in coast combat. He spoke loudly so that all in the room could hear. After listening for a few minutes, Allison yawned and got to his feet. Without a word he walked away.

  Stan was sure Garret hadn’t had all the experience he claimed. One thing was certain: Stan knew the new flier would soon have the gang down on him. He listened silently to Arch Garret’s talk while he finished his waffles and coffee.

  “I’m from the United States,” Garret said. “I was the best test pilot Lockheed ever had or ever will have. Spinning those Yank jobs was too slow for me. I had to have action.” Garret smoothed a closely cropped little mustache and swelled out his chest.

  Stan pretended to be dumb, but he was looking Arch Garret over very closely. He knew every ace test pilot Lockheed had had in the past five years. He was sure Garret was lying.

  He was about to ask some questions when the intersquadron speaker began snapping and clicking. A voice filled the room.

  “Red Flight, all out! Red Flight, all out!”

  “That’s us,” Stan said as he jumped to his feet. “Sorry, you’ll have to miss your coffee.”

  Arch Garret’s manner changed at once. He quit bragging and seemed to be a little nervous as he got to his feet.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “I don’t know,” Stan snapped.

  They barged out of the mess close upon Allison’s heels. Everything was rush, with parachutes to adjust and flying suits to climb into. Stan paid no more attention to Garret until they were outside.

  The three Spitfires of Red Flight were throbbing with restrained power on the cab rank. Stan felt better about sliding into his cockpit because the sun was shining and he could see the silver wires attached to the hydrogen gorged balloons. This was better.

  The flight sergeants had cleared the ships and Allison had gotten his orders from the recording officer. In another minute the lead Spitfire had cramped about and was sliding toward the line. Stan swung into place and watched Garret get set. The new flier slid his plane up to the line with showy flash, gunning and idling the big motor in a way that made Stan’s nerves rasp. To him a motor was a living thing and he hated to see one abused.

  “Steady, Red Flight,” Allison was snapping into his flap mike. “Check your temperatures.”

  Stan called back his O.K. Garret did not clear. Allison’s voice came in angry, cold.

  “Are you set, Garret?”

  “Sure, big boy, I’m always set,” Garret replied.

  “Then sound off as you should,” Allison snapped.

  A second later they were off, tails lifting, boring across the turf. With a wrenching lift, they bounced up and lifted into the blue where big clouds floated over the city of London. Allison’s voice came in. The crispness was gone and the drawl was there again.

  “Close formation, and keep it close all the way out. We’re headed for emergency work below the Thames estuary. Junkers Ju 87’s for breakfast.”

  The Spitfires closed in and roared away, gaining altitude as they bored into the early morning light. In a very short time the twisting streets, the masses of little squares that were blocks of buildings faded away below them. Allison took them up above the fleecy clouds and into the great, high-piled formations.

  “Ought to find them sneaking around up here,” he drawled.

  Stan looked out upon the mountains of clouds and the patches of blue sky. The Junkers Ju 87’s were dive bombers, popularly known as Stukas, and their presence meant a raid upon shi
pping.

  “Red Flight, keep west by south. Red Flight, keep west by south.” It was the control room at the field sending them directions from the big room with the table which had a huge map spread on it. On that map were toy planes which the watchers shoved about with wooden rakes.

  Ahead, Allison broke out of the feathery edge of a cloud into a great valley of clear blue. Stan sliced through the cloud close beside him. Garret was trailing a little now.

  “Three Stukas cruising, four points right,” Allison grated. “Three Stukas. Don’t let one of them get away or he’ll come back again.”

  Instantly the Spitfires broke formation and Allison went plummeting down, his Merlin roaring wide open. His twisting flight was an amazing show of cold skill. Stan peeled off and shot after him. He was sure Allison had picked the Stuka on the right so he took the one on the left, leaving the center bomber for Garret, who wasn’t getting in as fast as he should.

  “Easy, a cinch!” Allison’s voice roared out of Stan’s headset. “Here’s one for Tommy.”

  Stan saw his Spitfire lay over on her side and slice down upon the Stuka, her eight Brownings drilling flame and lead. The startled crew of the bomber immediately came to life. They had been craning their necks, looking for slow crawling freighters headed into port. They sent the Stuka into a nose dive, spewing bombs to lighten their load, but they were not fast enough. Stan saw the right wing of the big raider rise, then whirl away. The Stuka spun out of the square space in his windscreen doing grotesque loops.

  Ahead lay Stan’s target and his thumb pressed gently on his gun button as he roared down. His Brownings opened up and he saw the Stuka stagger and swerve as he thundered past in a hissing dive. Coming up he noticed that Garret’s Stuka was streaking away toward the south with Garret making a feeble try at coming up under the big ship.

  “Missed a dead target,” Stan said grimly. “He hasn’t fired a single burst.”

  Then Allison’s voice cracked in over the air. “Messerschmitts up above in the big cloud. They’re coming down. Seven in all.” His words snapped off in a sputter of crackling static. Stan nosed up and saw the seven fighters diving upon Allison. Then he heard Allison’s voice again.

  “Better let me have them. Keep clear!”

  Stan yelled into the flap mike. “Coming, Allison.”

  He gave the Spitfire all she had and the Merlin wound up beautifully, lifting him up to meet the fighters diving out of the cloud above. As he went up he looked for Garret. At that moment they sure needed all of Red Flight. He spotted Garret diving for a great thunderhead.

  “The scum,” Stan snarled. He shot the words into the flap mike without realizing it.

  It did not seem possible that Allison could escape from the deathtrap. The Stuka setup had been too easy after all. The Spitfires were twisting upward, straight on to meet the seven diving Messerschmitts, any one of which was near their match. Stan knew the boys at the controls of those ships were good fliers.

  Allison’s ship rolled over suddenly and fell away, then hit a steep spiral climb. For a few seconds it knifed along on its back. The maneuver threw the seven fighters off for a moment, giving Stan time to get more lift and more ceiling. Allison laid over in a vertical bank, and, as he swung back his guns, cut a swath across the enemy craft. One Messerschmitt went into a crazy whirl.

  After that Stan was busy with his own end. He cut across the path of a streaking fighter and sawed off his tail so neatly it seemed to have vanished by itself. But the next second he had a brace of roaring guns in his face and the hatch cover above his head shattered, showering him with glass and pieces of metal. His engine did not falter as he stalled and slid off after the Nazi, his Brownings ripping away. The fighter dodged and twisted and got away, though it was plainly hit.

  As he dived to shake off another red-hot gunner he saw Allison going straight at another Messerschmitt, the only one in his field of vision. He waited for the burst from Allison’s guns that would send the Nazi down, but it did not come and Allison thundered over the enemy ship, taking a ripping hail of lead as he went.

  “His guns are out,” Stan groaned as he sent his ship over in a roll and went down after the raider, who was banking to dive upon Allison’s defenseless tail. Stan’s lightning drop carried him down just in time to drive the Messerschmitt away from Allison. The crippled Spitfire ducked into a cloud. Allison’s voice came to Stan, mocking but with his old drawl.

  “Thanks, old man.”

  “Where’s Garret?” Stan rasped back.

  “I’m up here. Just finished off my second bandit.”

  “You don’t say,” Allison cut in. “Well, we’re going in, boys, before we meet all of Goering’s gang. If they’re all as active as those Messers we just slipped away from, I don’t care to tackle any more of them.”

  They settled into formation and dropped down upon London. The headset began to sputter and a voice from the ground said.

  “Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, are you all there?”

  “All here,” Allison called back cheerfully. He had recovered his sardonic good humor.

  They slid up the Thames and on over the city to their field. Sliding in, Allison and Stan set down on an even glide. Garret slid in with a grandstand flourish. Stan eased in close beside him, clambered out of the cockpit and stepped across to Garret’s Spitfire, giving it a searching look. His lips were twisted with anger as he caught up with Allison.

  Allison gave him a wide grin. “Sweet going, Yank,” he said softly.

  “What got into your guns?” Stan asked in an effort to let his wrath cool.

  “Got a burst through the center section. Those Jerries are liberal with their lead.”

  Stan saw that Allison was going to say nothing about Arch Garret’s cowardly trick in cloud-sneaking when his pals were in a tight spot. He hitched along beside Allison, his parachute rapping him behind the knees. Garret had paused to show off before the ground crews. They heard him say, in a loud voice:

  “I cut down on one Messer and then laid over just in time to take out another one.”

  Stan looked at Allison. He was grinning at Brooks who was chewing on a pencil and staring at him as if he had seen a ghost.

  “Mead of Green Flight said seven Messers had you bottled, Allison,” he said.

  “Mead needs his eyes fixed,” Allison answered as he slid out of his chute.

  Squadron Leader Rainey came in. He had three rings of braid on his sleeve and wished he had only two so that he could be out on flight duty with the boys. In the last war Majors were flying men, but in this one they were just ground officers. His grim face lighted in a thin smile as he looked at Allison.

  “Nice work, Red Flight,” he said. “Like to have been up with you.”

  “We could have used you, sir,” Allison said and laughed almost directly into Garret’s face.

  Garret had strutted to the desk just inside the briefing room. He spoke loudly, paying no attention to the Squadron Leader. He leaned on the desk and fixed the briefing officer with a steady look.

  “Chalk up a Stuka and two Messerschmitts for me. And add a note saying it was lucky for two stiffs I was along.”

  Stan swung around facing Garret. The gall of the man made his anger flare up and he forgot all about regulations. “Why lie about it,” he said, his lips a tight line. “You didn’t fire a burst, you hid in a cloud. Next time you better unlimber your guns while you’re in the cloud so you’ll have an alibi.”

  Arch Garret’s dark face twisted with rage. “So you play that way, lying me out of credit.”

  “I checked your guns before I came in. You didn’t fire a shot.” Stan turned upon Allison and the Squadron Commander. As he did so he realized he had made a mistake. They were silently watching, their faces expressionless.

  “Well then, Canuck, if you’ve checked my guns I’ll pull down those credits,” Garret snarled.

  “You said something about my lying,” Stan gritted as he swung around to face the flier. H
is six feet and two hundred pounds of muscular body made him look like a certain Colorado U. half-back who had once been picked as All-American. Stan wouldn’t have admitted it, he wouldn’t have dared, but he had once been a great blocking back.

  Allison stepped forward. “You come with me, Wilson,” he said. “I want to tell you a few things you ought to know.”

  The Squadron Leader nodded to Allison. He turned upon his heel without looking at Garret. Snarling, his lips twisted with anger, Garret made off to his cubicle.

  In the mess Allison sank into a chair. He grinned across at Stan, who had seated himself. “Mind if I order tea? I’ve drunk a gallon of coffee just to be polite to you.”

  Stan grunted, “You don’t have to be polite to me.”

  “I don’t intend to from now on, old man.” Allison’s eyes were twinkling.

  “What’s on your mind? Regulations and such rot, I suppose.” Stan was still hot under the collar.

  “We don’t do it that way here,” Allison said. “A rotter like Garret is always taken care of.”

  “You mean he’s out?”

  “No, I can’t swing that, but we don’t have to have him in Red Flight.” He reached for the cup of tea the corporal had set in front of him. “You made an enemy who will go a long way to stymie you.”

  “He’d better stay out of my way,” Stan growled.

  Allison grinned. “Guess he had, at that,” he admitted.

  CHAPTER III

  BILL O’MALLEY

  Allison leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. Stan waited for the Flight Lieutenant to explain his sudden mirth. Allison had just come from the O.C.’s office. He turned to Stan.

  “I put in a call for a new flier. After all, I can’t have a couple of prize fighters trailing me around. I got a very sweet fighting man. He doesn’t love the English so much, and he doesn’t hate the Jerries so much. He’s an Irish boy whose ancestors haven’t missed a war in a thousand years. He just couldn’t stay out of this one.” Allison chuckled and nodded his head.