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

by Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery

  Stan banked steeply and shouted into his flap mike. “They’ve slipped in behind us. Come on, Red Flight!”

  “Sure, an’ I’m way ahead of ye,” came the voice of O’Malley.

  Moon Flight wheeled and went thundering back. They could not stop the raging fires below or do anything about the shattered buildings, but they could make sure that few of the raiders ever made a return trip.

  In the dull glow from the fires below Stan saw O’Malley’s ship dive down, like a streak of dark shadow, straight upon a Junkers that was flying along in a manner that suggested it thought it was over unprotected territory. O’Malley’s guns drilled fire and the Junkers’ right wing flipped upward and faded into the night. Then the killer nosed over and went down like a flaming torch.

  Stan was into the battle before the wrecked Junkers had dropped 500 feet. He laid over and raked a big death ship with his Brownings. It folded and slid off, spewing its crew into the night.

  Having made contact Moon Flight really went to work. Their first savage attack had broken up the spear-shaped Stuka formation. Now they gave their attention to individual combat. There was no need for commands from anyone. They swung about on invisible hairpins and screamed after the big fellows.

  It didn’t take so very long. Stuka after Stuka went down. From the black pit above the Jerry fighters were diving down to see what had happened to their charges. The Messerschmitts twisted and ducked and dived, clearing their guns for action.

  Down at the 4,000-foot level the Spitfires were knocking down the last of the raiders. This done, they nosed upward to meet the Messerschmitts as eagerly as they had attacked the killers. They were overeager to contact the fighters and one of them caught a crossfire as he roared in. His ship went slithering off to the west, spinning madly. The Spits darted through the flame filled sky. They flipped over and spun and dived, always seeking targets to make their guns flame.

  Stan sent his Spitfire into a screaming reversement, tipped out of it with his guns hammering as he laid his sights on a leering swastika. It was over quickly. The Messerschmitts had no stomach for such a deadly game. After a gesture at rescuing their bombers, they fled into the night.

  “Moon Flight, come in. Moon Flight, come in.”

  Then O’Malley’s brogue burred. “Begorra, ’tis a very fine avening.”

  Stan grinned. He was glad to hear the voice of the wild Irishman. After a battle in the sky the voice of a pal always sounds good. He bent forward.

  “The same to you, Irisher.”

  “And to you, Yank,” came Allison’s voice.

  They slid in like mottled ghosts and Stan counted them. Nine Spitfires. There would be three new faces in Moon Flight tomorrow. Three new men for the raider shift. He toyed with the idea of slipping by and checking Garret’s guns, but gave it up. Garret would be wise enough to fire a burst or two. And, of course, he might have misjudged the lieutenant.

  In the briefing room there was little talk. The boys were grim and sour. London had been bombed. They got little comfort out of the impressive score they had chalked up—ten Stukas and six Messerschmitts. They knew that if they had headed west they would have stopped the raid.

  No one challenged Garret when he claimed one Stuka and a Messerschmitt. Nobody spoke to him. They went on into the mess and flopped down to wait for the metallic voice of the intersquadron speaker.

  O’Malley lay on a bench with his feet up against the wall. Allison lay back, his eyes closed, his thin face colorless. Stan sat staring at the floor. He was trying to get a lot of things straight in his mind. He couldn’t honestly say Garret had led them east purposely. The main control room must have sent them in the wrong direction, but it all bothered him, anyway. And he knew the other boys had the same feeling.

  CHAPTER IX

  SPECIAL MISSION

  Stan was further mystified the next day when Garret came to him in the mess. He was smiling and very friendly.

  “I have been a rotter, Wilson,” he said and held out his hand. “After all, this is pretty serious business and there isn’t much place for personal grudges and gripes.”

  Stan hid his surprise. He could find no words to answer Garret. He shook hands with the Squadron Leader. Garret slapped him on the back.

  “I have the toughest gang of sky-busters in the whole Royal Air Force,” Garret said. “We’ll see that no more bombs land on London.”

  As he walked away Stan looked after him. Now that Garret had left him he could think of several things he might have said. Allison came up and there was a mocking leer on his face.

  “So you are teacher’s pet from now on?”

  “Search me, but I still don’t think he likes me,” Stan said.

  “He’s about to collar O’Malley.” Allison chuckled. “I’d give a new shilling to hear what that Irishman tells him.”

  It happened they were near enough, because O’Malley bawled out what he had to say so loudly it could have been heard out on the field. Garret had halted and was smilingly giving O’Malley the glad hand. He stepped back a pace and his face flushed as the Irisher cut loose.

  “Sure, an’ ye can save yer blarney!” O’Malley roared. “I’d as soon hang one on that hooked beak of yours as to be after lookin’ at ye!”

  Garret backed up a step and lifted one hand. Stan and Allison could not hear what he said, but the officers near the pair were openly grinning. O’Malley loosed one more blast and his words brought chill, brittle silence to the room.

  “I’m a thinkin’ you’d best head the Moon Flight in the right direction when the spalpeens come over again.”

  The clicking of Garret’s heels was the only sound in the room. He marched out without a word. Everyone looked about uneasily. Such talk to a Squadron Leader was unheard of. Any other commander would have had O’Malley’s hide off in a minute and draped all over the place. The very fact that the Irishman had gotten away with it had a depressing effect upon the fliers. Allison broke the spell. He barged over to O’Malley and shoved out his hand.

  “Shake, Irisher,” he said.

  Judd, McCumber, and Kelley, all men who had belonged to the first spread Stan had been with, strolled over and a little group formed around O’Malley. Judd squinted up at the lank Irishman. He was a short, chubby-faced youngster of nineteen. His face was beaming happily.

  “I’d never had the courage to talk like that to a Squadron Leader. I just went into a funk when he soaped me.”

  O’Malley squinted down at Judd. “’Tis with me own eyes I saw you cut the fire of three Messers, me bye. Don’t you be blatherin’ me about courage.”

  Judd flushed. He was all right when he was up there by himself, but he was bashful in a crowd. McCumber looked across at Allison.

  “Red Flight should get a break after this,” he said meaningly.

  Allison grinned wolfishly. “Really, now, Mac, Garret knows every boy in Moon Flight loves him.”

  Kelley had not spoken nor had he laughed with the others. “He’d better stay out of my circle. I have folks living out beyond Kensington Gardens.”

  No one said anything more about the raids. They all knew Kelley’s home had been smashed that night and that his father had been injured. Allison changed the subject.

  “We certainly should get rid of Garret for the good of the service. He’s no fit leader and the squadron will go into a funk under him.”

  “How will we do it?” Mac asked.

  “I don’t know, but it has to be done. A decent leader would have wiped the floor with O’Malley and then grounded him for the rest of the war. A yellow streak has no place in this outfit.”

  The men nodded their heads. What they could not understand was how Garret had gotten the job. They felt helpless because they had always depended upon the men at headquarters. Finally the group broke up without anyone offering a workable plan.

  Just after noon the next day the O.C. sent for Stan. He was alone in his office and in very good spirits. Stan sat down beside his desk and waited
.

  “We have a few Hendee Hawks coming in,” Farrell beamed happily. “You are the man to handle them and to show the boys their fine points. In fact, you’re the only man we have who can do it quickly. We need those superfighters badly. Headquarters would like to do a little daylight bombing. Do you think a flight of Hawks could take a squadron of Liberators through?”

  “They could,” Stan assured him. “Give me nine Hawks and my pick of pilots and well ride right in over Berlin.”

  “You won’t get nine for a while, but we have three coming in.” The Wing Commander seemed interested in what Stan thought of that.

  “Three will take a small flight through,” Stan said.

  “I have to depend on you, Wilson. Without you, it will take several weeks to get them lined out and set for action.”

  “We need train only one man. Allison can learn quickly.” Stan smiled broadly. “O’Malley learned in a couple of flights.”

  The O.C. smiled, too. “Yes, your pie-eating friend will handle one, if we can drill some sense into his head.”

  “O’Malley’s crazy but it’s the sort of lunacy we need,” Stan answered dryly.

  Farrell nodded. He was already thinking about other things. “The Royal Air Force considered this shipment so important they routed the freighter north to avoid submarines and Stukas. It seems Nazi agents found out when she left. She had quite a trip and was chased far north, damaged by a sub and finally landed at our naval base in the Shetlands.”

  “We pick them up up there?”

  “I’m sending you up there to service them and get them ready. When you have them set up and ready to fly, I’ll send Allison and O’Malley up there to help you bring them back.”

  Stan waited but the O.C. had nothing more to say, so he got to his feet.

  “When do I leave?”

  “As soon as you can get away.”

  “Do I fly a Spitfire?”

  The O.C. considered this for a long minute. At last he nodded. “You’re too valuable a man to be shot down by stray raiders.”

  “I’ll be on my way in an hour,” Stan said as he snapped a salute.

  As Stan swung out of the office he almost collided with Garret.

  “Whoa there, you’re in a big rush, aren’t you?” Garret asked with a grin.

  “Sorry,” Stan grunted and was off.

  As he strode across the field he got to wondering if Garret had been listening at the door. It didn’t seem possible. Eavesdropping in an officer of Garret’s standing would have laughed him out of the service if he had been caught. He dismissed it from his mind.

  He told Allison and O’Malley about his plans and warned them not to mention his trip to anyone. Allison grinned lazily. O’Malley was excited.

  “Sure, an’ the war’s about over,” he boasted. “With me coaxing one of them sweet colleens through the skies there won’t be a Jerry left in a week.”

  “You lugs come a-rattling when I send in the call,” Stan said as he strode toward his quarters.

  A half-hour later he was kicking his Spitfire into line. He was into the air swiftly and laid his course across the serene green countryside to pick up the shore of the North Sea at the nearest point.

  At that height it was difficult to realize he was in the sky above a war-torn nation. There were no evidences of destruction below, and the blue sky was clear of enemy planes. The steady throbbing roar of the Spitfire’s motor was a pleasantly lulling sound, and he settled back comfortably with his mind at ease, checking over the structural details of the Hendee Hawks in his mind for use in putting the dismantled ships together as fast as possible when he landed at the naval base where they awaited him.

  It was pleasant to be out of danger for this brief period. It gave him a chance to examine his thoughts, do a little readjusting of his personal concepts to the grim realities of war. He found he had been under such terrific tension every instant since reporting to the Red Flight that this was the first chance he had found to look back over what had happened and realize how supremely lucky he had been thus far to escape death.

  Flying at 4,000 feet, he appeared to be merely creeping across the green blanket of England beneath him. Ahead, he could faintly see a silver line of mist marking the shore of the sea. Though the Spitfire was tunneling through the blue at 350 miles an hour, he suddenly found he was impatient for even more speed. Behind him men were even now fighting and dying. He wanted to get back into it, start doing his part again.

  An alien sound obtruded suddenly into the throbbing of his Spitfire. He heard it almost without consciousness of what it portended, then was abruptly aware that a stream of bullets was ripping through his fuselage.

  A Heinkel had slid up behind him from nowhere and its smoking guns were streaming hot, leaden death at him. For a moment he was too amazed to properly meet this unexpected danger. He had a curious feeling that it was after him. That it wasn’t merely a stray enemy plane making chance contact. It was an absurd thought, but it gripped him strongly and he couldn’t shake it off.

  Another burst of lead hosed from the Heinkel. Stan rolled the Spitfire to the left, then pulled it up tight and hard. The Heinkel shot under him, went into a loop, then faked a turnover. Stan smiled grimly.

  “That won’t fool me, son,” he muttered. He leveled off fast and eased over into a three hundred yard safety zone. Setting the Spit on her ear, he faced the Heinkel, testing his Brownings as he slid into place.

  The Jerry was a crack flier. The Heinkel came in with a roaring thrust, her Madsen slugs drilling away at the Spitfire. Stan heard the stingers zipping through his fuselage. A blue flame began playing up and down over a hole in his fuel tank.

  “Well,” Stan muttered sourly. “I’ll have to put a stop to this, or else——”

  He sent the Spitfire off to the right like a streak. The Heinkel zoomed past, building altitude for a death thrust. Stan cracked the throttle wide open and kicked in the emergency booster. The Merlin answered splendidly.

  Glancing into his mirror he took in the setup, then faked a steep climb. Up he went, 500 feet, then sent the Spitfire into a screaming back-over roll, holding his ship upside down until he was behind the Heinkel and above it. Then he dropped the Spitfire as though she were crippled. This placed him under the Heinkel and he went up. The Jerry was now trying to make a run for it. Stan saw a spread of fuselage and a wing through his windscreen and he pressed the gun button. The Brownings spat fire and lead. The Jerry was trapped and knew it. He swayed and rocked and twisted in an attempt to get away. The bullets drilled out again, a four-second burst.

  Fire and smoke rolled out of the port motor. The flames licked in around the stricken ship. A rancid whiff came to Stan and reminded him that his own fuel tank was on fire. It would be only a matter of seconds until he would be in a flaming coffin himself.

  The Merlin was still hitting beautifully. Stan squirmed about and jerked loose a fire extinguisher. He turned the handle and pumped frantically. The liquid spray feathered out and blanketed the fire. Stan sucked in a deep breath and looked down at the plummeting Heinkel. The Jerry was trying to bail out, but he wasn’t making much headway. Stan nosed down and watched the struggle.

  He was sorry for the pilot but it was not pity that made him circle lower and check the field toward which the Heinkel was spinning. Stan wanted to ask that Jerry a few questions, and the Jerry had to be rescued from his firetrap or he couldn’t do it.

  The Heinkel turned over, flattened and eased up, then plunged into a tangle of bushes beside a road. Stan gauged the rolling field which spread beside the road. He could have set a Hurricane down on that field easily, but a Spitfire was different. Her landing gear was high and narrow. He side-slipped and leveled off, then skimmed over the grass and bumped down, jerking and swaying. The Spitfire rolled up to within a safe distance from the burning plane and Stan leaped out.

  The Jerry had almost made it out of the plane. He was draped over the side with his parachute harness caught in the smas
hed hatch cover. Risking an explosion which would have finished them both, Stan jerked the pilot loose and dragged him a safe distance from his ship. They were less than fifty feet from the Heinkel, when her tank cut loose and billows of smoke and flame rolled up, licking at the grass and brush.

  The Heinkel’s pilot sat on the grass. He watched his ship vanish and his face worked. If it had not been for the Royal Air Force pilot bending over him, he would at that moment be frying to a crisp. He shuddered and licked his lips.

  Stan gave his attention to the fellow’s wounds. He was badly hit in the shoulder and bleeding freely. His face was white.

  “Who tipped you off that I’d be flying solo along this route?” Stan demanded.

  The Nazi lifted blue eyes to Stan and shook his head grimly.

  “Better talk, son, you are bleeding plenty.”

  “That would be revealing a military secret,” the Nazi said in clipped English.

  “I suppose you think I followed regulations and war rules in ducking down into this pile of rocks to drag you out of your crate?” Stan’s eyes were cold and hard.

  The Jerry coughed and smiled weakly. “I am indebted to you,” he said slowly.

  “If I don’t get you to a doctor, you’ll be as bad off as if you were still in that bonfire,” Stan snapped. “Talk and I’ll see what I can do. And hand me that Luger.” He reached down and jerked the officer’s gun from him. The Nazi had been too weak to make fast use of it.

  “I suppose you are right.” The officer coughed again and his hand slipped to his breast where his tunic was fast becoming soaked with blood.

  “I might as well talk.” Fear was showing in his eyes.

  “Good. Who tipped you off?”

  “A man who has quite an inside position with you. His name is—” The Jerry paused and coughed.