“You wait and see,” Stan said. “We’ll have to stick with him no matter what fool stunt he pulls.”
“Sure, old chap,” Allison agreed, but the sardonic twist of his mouth showed he thought Stan as crazy as O’Malley. He got to his feet. “Don’t let him miss dinner or we’ll have trouble. We aren’t on the call list until tomorrow morning. I have a bid to a bit of a dinner outside tonight.”
“Gal?” Stan asked.
“Gal,” Allison agreed.
“I’ll wake the Irisher up,” Stan promised.
The next morning Allison came barging into the breakfast room glowering savagely. He dropped into a chair across from Stan and O’Malley and snapped his order at the corporal. O’Malley gave him a brief look, then returned to his job of spreading jam on a huge stack of hot cakes which were flanked by a double order of sausages. The lank Irisher was not in a talkative mood. Stan grinned at Allison.
“What’s eating on you? Did some civilian steal your gal?”
Allison glared at him. “We have friends over here at Croydon. The way they run a war! You’d think somebody would wake up to a few things!”
“What sort of an assignment did we get?” Stan was sure Allison was riled over the assignment they had been given.
“Nursing a flock of coal barges through the channel. Just big, lumbering boats not worth as much as the coal inside them. The Jerries won’t waste a pound of T.N.T. on any of them. The only chance we’ll have will be if they try to dive bomb a destroyer tagging along.” Allison jerked a plate of bacon and eggs to him and shot a hard look at the corporal. “Black coffee,” he snapped.
“We rate better than that,” Stan said.
“My dear fellow,” Allison spoke with elaborate politeness. “We have a friend over in the flight office. He got himself transferred yesterday so as to be helpful to us.”
“He couldn’t be anyone I know,” Stan said.
“But of course he is. He is a dear friend of yours. In fact you offered to punch his nose for him once.”
“Not Garret?” Stan stared at Allison.
“Lieutenant Arch Garret.”
“How did he do it with a blackball against him?” Stan demanded.
“Pull, my dear fellow, as the Americans say. A drag somewhere. Now he’s sitting where he can retire Red Flight to a peaceful life, and if we do bag a bandit, we’ll have to have an affidavit from the King to get credit for it.”
“How about a transfer?”
“No go, he’d have a finger in that too. In fact, my dear fellow, I applied for a transfer and got turned down, all before breakfast.”
Stan looked across at O’Malley who was on his last hot cake. He was beaming pleasantly, his eyes looking out across the room. He had paid no attention at all to the bad news.
“You seem to like it, O’Malley,” Allison growled.
“Huh?” the Irisher said with a start. Then he grinned. “’Tis a poor spot in the channel that has no Messerschmitt One-Tens poking about in the clouds.”
“And we’ll sit around warming a chair waiting for a chance at a single or a double,” Allison snapped.
“Sure, an’ I can’t be worried this mornin’,” O’Malley said and got to his feet.
“What’s got into him?” Allison asked sourly.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,” Stan said with a wide grin.
Allison glared at him, and muttered, “You two make me tired.”
CHAPTER V
O’MALLEY BAGS A JERRY GUN
No call came for Red Flight until late afternoon. Other flights roared away to strafe the French coast, or to meet incoming bomber formations, or to do scout duty; but Allison and his crew just sat around and groused. O’Malley’s good humor finally broke down and he began prowling around hurling choice Irish words at the mess crew.
When the call did come, he was out of the room like a wild bushman. By the time Allison and Stan reached the cab rank, he was jerking his hatch cover into place and feeling out his Merlin.
“You’d think the boy was off to raid Berlin,” Allison said sourly. “All we have is a call from a few barges of coal.”
Red Flight roared out and up, heading toward the channel. Stan had checked his instruments carefully. Everything seemed to be in working order, though he could not be sure of his wing guns until he opened them up.
“Keep in close,” Allison’s voice droned.
They were up now and heading for the channel where a few big clouds hung over the sea. So far as Stan could see they were kings of the air and there might have been no war on at all. Not a wing was in sight except their own.
“Red Flight, level off.”
They leveled off and headed for a big cloud. That seemed the most likely hunting ground. The three Spitfires were not up high because the clouds were hanging over the sea. Below, Stan saw the cause of their call. Seven of the foulest old tubs he had ever laid an eye on were churning and wallowing in the choppy sea. Their propellers thrashed the water into tawny foam. Their plates were scarred and patched with daubs of vermillion. Red, rusty streams of water trickled down their sides. Seven piles of rust, grime and junk belching smoke like so many volcanoes. Coasters and not one of them over twelve hundred tons.
The boats rode high and Stan decided they were making the run from Portsmouth to London under ballast to pick up coal. Running what was supposed to be a death channel the old tubs would slide under the big coastal guns of the Germans. In a few days they would plough back loaded with coal. Their audacity made Stan grin. The British were certainly a stubborn race of people and when they had a sea course marked out they stayed with it. A sleek gray destroyer nosed the string of ancient boats along like a nervous hound herding a flock of fat pigs.
“Two bandits coming out of a cloud, quarter right,” Allison’s drawl announced.
Stan spotted the two Heinkel bombers as soon as Allison spoke. They were slim-bodied, snaky-looking killers with long wings and widespread tail structures. Their pilots hadn’t seen the three Spitfires as yet, being busy spotting the sleek destroyer.
When they did see the danger they zoomed up and laid over, plunging back into the cloud. Stan drove straight after them because he was in the best position. O’Malley swept around one side of the cloud and Allison went around the other.
Stan had a chance to test his guns as his upward zoom rode him up on a ghostly form ahead in the mist. The eight Brownings drilled furiously, in perfect timing. The Heinkel nosed down and vanished into the wall of fog. Stan went down to see if he had done any damage.
Breaking into the clear he saw blossoms of white silk dotting the green of the sea. The bombers were gone but Stan knew from the number of chutes floating down to the water that both Heinkels had been bagged.
Below them two motor launches were slicing across the channel getting set to pick up the Jerries and make them prisoners. Then he heard O’Malley’s voice.
“Sure, an’ I’m thinkin’ I see four Messers off the port wing.”
“Coming up with you,” Allison called back. “Take them, Irisher.”
“Wilson coming up,” Stan shouted into his flap mike.
He went up and over a cloud and down on the other side. He saw O’Malley drilling away to the south like an irate bumblebee. Close behind him streaked Allison. Stan headed after them. Then Allison’s voice came in very softly:
“I think you’re seeing things, Irisher.”
Stan grinned as he shoved the nose of the Spitfire down a little. O’Malley was duck hunting. He didn’t aim to go back without some more action if he could help it.
“Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in,” droned a voice from the field.
“Red Flight in contact with bandits!” O’Malley roared back.
“Red Flight, come in. Red Flight, come in,” headquarters insisted.
“Red Flight going into defense,” Allison cut in.
Stan’s grin widened. Allison was going to see that O’Malley got his duck hunt. They ro
ared on, swinging in a wide circle, beating upward again. O’Malley would have his way now. Allison couldn’t argue with headquarters listening in.
Stan began to think they were stymied when all Hades broke loose from above. Out of nowhere five Messerschmitts came roaring down on them, three One-Nines and two One-Tens.
“Prepare for attack. Peel off and take some altitude,” Allison drawled.
“Start peelin’, darlin’,” O’Malley shouted.
They zoomed upward, spreading to let the attack slide past. The enemy scattered out and swooped to meet them. Stan saw O’Malley drive straight over a One-Nine almost ramming the Jerry, and missing him clean with a burst of fire. That was not like O’Malley.
The Jerry banked and flipped over, thinking only of getting away before O’Malley cut back across him and sawed him in two parts; but O’Malley kept straight on. Stan picked up the One-Nine, scissoring off a wing tip and sending him wavering away toward the east.
Stan watched O’Malley as the wild Irishman zoomed up over a One-Ten. The Messerschmitt banked and tried to escape, but O’Malley was on him in a reckless roaring dive. Stan shot over the two and saw the Jerry spray O’Malley’s ship with lead. Pieces of his hatch cover showered away like feathers from a potted duck. Again O’Malley missed a perfect burst and came up under the Jerry. He returned the compliment paid him by slicing the top off the Messerschmitt’s hatch cover. Stan knew the miss had been deliberate. O’Malley never let one get away when he had a spot shot like that.
Then light dawned upon Stan. O’Malley was after the Jerry’s gun. Allison was very busy himself and doing such a savage job that he was about to clear the air without Stan’s help. Stan dived down to make the game one against one for Allison. When he came up, O’Malley was on the tail of the Messerschmitt and bawling at Allison:
“By the shades of St. Patrick, you keep out of this!”
The Jerry was hurt, but not badly, and O’Malley had him on the run. When the Jerry dived O’Malley was on his tail. He didn’t shoot him down. When he dropped off on one wing, peeling away under full throttle, O’Malley had him covered. Then Stan heard the Irisher yelling at the Jerry pilot.
“Leave that gun like she is, you spalpeen, or I’ll send you to the fishes!”
Apparently the Jerry did not understand what O’Malley said, possibly his radio wasn’t set to pick up the transmitter of the Spitfire, but he did understand the short bursts of fire that clipped pieces out of various parts of his ship. He headed the way the lank Irishman pointed and drove ahead.
Allison and Stan dropped in behind, letting O’Malley have his prize. Stan called to Allison:
“Somebody ought to tip off the Ack-Ack boys or O’Malley may get a warm reception.”
“Let him show his stuff,” Allison drawled and Stan thought he heard the Flight Lieutenant chuckle.
The Messerschmitt ducked over the coast and down with O’Malley steering him expertly to the field. Bursts of gunfire began to blossom below and puffs of white smoke broke around the Jerry and his pursuer.
“They think O’Malley’s Spitfire is a captured plane with a Jerry in it,” Stan muttered.
O’Malley sent his catch down through the shellfire, twisting and turning. The Nazi pilot was an expert and wiggled through until they got close in, then the fire got so hot he and O’Malley had to hit for the ceiling. They circled and were high up when Stan and Allison slid down the field.
Undaunted, O’Malley came in again and this time he sent his prize through the rain of exploding shells. The Messerschmitt rolled to a stop with O’Malley close behind him. In a moment the flustered Jerry was climbing out of his shattered hatch with his hands elevated above his head.
Ground men closed in around him, shouting and doing a war dance. O’Malley climbed out after removing part of the hatch cover from around his neck. He strode to the Messerschmitt and bellowed at the ground men.
“Git ye a hump on yerselves an’ pull out that fore gun!”
Four mechanics raced away to get tools while O’Malley stood guard over his prize. He refused to let anyone touch the ship. A senior ground officer came hurrying up and O’Malley gave him a sloppy salute. The officer snapped:
“I’ll take charge here now.”
“Ye’ll do nothing of the sort,” O’Malley shouted. “And as I live and breathe them’s Wing Commander Farrell’s very orders!”
The officer looked at the wild-eyed O’Malley and decided it would be best to wait for reinforcements, possibly a Group Captain or an Air Commodore.
“It’s my job, you know, old man,” he said but his tone had changed.
“’Tis my job, me hearty,” O’Malley assured him.
The mechanics arrived and in a few minutes the fore gun was on the ground at O’Malley’s feet. It was so heavy he could not handle it. He turned to the grinning Stan who was standing beside Allison.
“Lend a hand so we can deliver this gadget before sundown.”
Stan and Allison stepped forward.
“This is positively against regulations,” the senior officer sputtered.
“An’ who, may I ask, bagged this here gun?” O’Malley demanded. “I may be bold, but I suggest ye give some attention to that Jerry waitin’ over there to be captured accordin’ to regulations.”
The Jerry was standing with his arms still elevated. He was alone and unguarded.
“And be lettin’ O’Malley of Red Flight be knowin’ where you put the bye. I aim to see that he has cigarettes and a few of the common comforts.” O’Malley grinned at the Jerry. The youngster grinned back at him and saluted stiffly.
Dragging the gun between them, the three members of Red Flight stamped across the field and barged past a startled sentry who was walking post outside headquarters.
Wing Commander Farrell was just finishing a flight report. His gray eyes were hard and his mouth was drawn into a tight line. Coral Raid had dropped two bombers and three fighters. The credit side showed only one fighter and a Junkers. Farrell looked up and his eyes rested upon a lank and hungry-looking Irish youth. He stared at O’Malley for a long minute, then remembered him and his pie.
“What do you want, Lieutenant?” he snapped. “I suppose you have that new enemy gun in your pocket.”
His sarcasm was lost upon O’Malley. He grinned wolfishly as he stepped aside.
“Indaid, an’ I hope it’s the latest model. I put a very good Jerry flier to a lot of trouble to be after fetchin’ it to you.”
The Wing Commander’s eyes popped out as he stared at the machine Allison and Stan had dropped upon the floor. Suddenly he leaped out of his chair and charged around the desk. Getting down on his knees, he bent over the gun and examined it. When he straightened he was smiling.
“So you are the wild Irishman we have been hearing about,” he said. “It would seem some rumors are correct in this war.”
“An’ now, sor, I’ll be running along,” O’Malley said. “I’m feelin’ a bit o’ the pinch of hunger.”
“Have two pies on my chit book,” the Wing Commander said and smiled broadly.
“Indaid, that I will,” O’Malley answered gravely.
The three coal barge nurses returned to the briefing room and checked their chutes which had been discarded on the field. They found Lieutenant Garret waiting for them. He drew his mouth into a triumphant frown. Beside his desk lay the three chutes, neatly piled there by the field crew.
“See those chutes?” he snapped.
“Sure, an’ one of them gadgets is a personal friend o’ mine,” O’Malley said and grinned broadly.
“I’m putting it down against you. You discarded them on the field without properly caring for them. That is a violation of general orders.” Garret scowled at the Irish flier.
O’Malley leaned his elbows on the desk and regarded the officer thoughtfully.
“Very remarkable, indaid,” he said softly.
“Red Flight reports two Dorniers and three Messerschmitts down and one captured,
” Allison said and his eyes locked with those of the briefing officer.
“Red Flight gets credit for two Dorniers. The Royal Navy reported them. And one Messerschmitt brought in.” Garret’s eyes gleamed triumphantly.
“Sure, an’ are ye certain ye can give us one Messer?” O’Malley asked. “Perhaps the poor bye got himself lost an’ mistook this berg for Berlin.”
“There is no independent check on the other fighters,” Garret snapped.
Stan said nothing. He could not trust himself to speak. What he wanted to do was to lay a right on Garret’s jaw.
“You fellows better walk pretty straight from now on. And keep yourself looking like officers,” Garret barked.
Without bothering to fill in a report, O’Malley shoved off to the mess room. Allison filled out his report and Stan made his out. They reported the exact action and the results. They left Garret scowling at their cards.
“Wilson!” Garret called sharply as Stan started to walk away at Allison’s side. “I want a word with you, alone.”
Stan turned back and stood at the desk. His gaze locked with Garret’s.
“Have you ever flown stunts or test jobs in the United States?” He leaned forward and his small eyes searched Stan’s face.
Stan returned his stare. “You have my card where you can dig it out. Suppose you take a look at it?” Stan turned on his heel and walked away.
Garret let him go without asking any more questions, but he was shaking his head and frowning as though trying to remember something or somebody that had slipped his mind.
“He’s about got my number,” Stan muttered to himself as he went into the mess.
CHAPTER VI
THE SEA DOGS GROWL
Stan stepped out of the barracks and stood for a moment watching the scene on the field before the hangars. A row of Defiants had been rolled out. Men worked around them or scurried to and from the hangars. There was an uneasy feel about the scene. Stan scented action and a feeling of irritation filled him. Red Flight was on barge patrol when it should have been on combat. It was fools like Garret who messed up battle plans.
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. (a yankee flier) Page 5
