Stan moved up the front steps, picking his way through a litter of brick and broken timbers. He saw a doorway ahead, with a door sagging open upon smashed hinges. Moving slowly and carefully Stan entered the room. A pile of plaster and brick lay on the floor with some broken furniture stacked in a corner. He was about to turn away, knowing that anyone below would hear footsteps above, when he saw a beam of light coming up through the floor.
Moving very slowly he crossed to the center of the room and bent down. A torn rug lay under a pile of bricks and the rug covered a broken board in the floor. Stan got down on his hands and knees. With great care he slid the rug back a little and more light shone through the hole in the floor. Stan lay down and put his eye to the hole.
He could see very clearly everything in the basement below the wrecked house. There was a table directly under him and on it stood a portable short-wave radio sending and receiving set. A light, swung from the ceiling, flooded the table and the room.
A little hunchbacked fellow sat before the radio with earphones clamped over a shiny bald head. Three men sat across the table from the radio operator. One of them held Stan’s attention. He was a short, thick-shouldered man with a bullethead that was covered with bristling, cropped hair. His eyes bulged and his mouth was a grim slash across his face. On the table at his elbow lay an English fire warden’s hat. He was tapping the table with a thick finger and talking to Garret.
Garret sat beside the radioman, his face black and dour. It was plain the man had been giving Garret a tongue lashing. The other two men, seated beside the speaker, looked to Stan like London wharf rats.
“Herr Kohle, you are a blundering fool. Seventeen bombers were lost tonight, and because you failed to do your duty. The Kommandant will hear of this,” the bullet-headed man snarled.
“But, Herr Naggel, I followed instructions. The O.C. ordered the three to return in the morning and that order was sent to you by Mickle,” Garret whined.
Stan made a note of the name Mickle. He had a hunch an orderly or a mechanic would be put on the spot once that name was traced to its owner.
“Now that the great blitzkrieg is set for an hour before daylight we cannot afford to take chances. You must do your part as planned.” Herr Naggel spread a map on the table. “Here we have the concentrations of planes in Belgium, in France and in Norway. One thousand planes will come over London. There will be no city left tomorrow night. We will walk out and join the refugees pouring out of London, and then make contact with the parachute troops and the men from the gliders.” He smiled wolfishly and licked his lips. “Those gliders are ready. You should see them. Three for each pilot plane and each will have its squad of men. At 20,000 feet the pilot plane will cut them loose and they will glide down upon England without a sound.” He laughed softly.
“They say there will always be an England. Bah. England is done.” He glared at Garret. “When the decoy bombers come over, you will lead your flight after them. Now that they have increased your squadron to twenty Spitfires, and the three American planes, they could do much damage. With early dawn light to fly by they might break up the whole plan.”
“I will take them on a chase that will lead them so far away they won’t get back. Send a big flight of Messerschmitts in after my squadron contacts the decoy bombers and have them start a dogfight. They never quit as long as there is anything left to fight. But you better send plenty of fighters.”
“That is planned,” Naggel said gruffly. “We cannot control the other flights that will go up, but yours is the key defense unit, the best they have, and it is most important in our plans.”
Stan bent forward and strained his eyes to see the markings on the map. He wanted to know where those three concentrations of invasion planes were. He was able to spot them because they were marked upon the map with red circles. He was pressing his face against the boards to see better when one foot slipped a little. His right boot scraped across the floor.
Naggel did not stop talking and none of the others seemed to have heard. One of the men beside Naggel lighted a cigarette and leaned back. The radioman turned a dial and began talking softly into the portable mike. Stan could not hear what he said.
Slowly Stan got to his feet. He had the information he wanted. The thing to do was to beat the Jerries to the punch. The Royal Air Force would blast every one of those air fields and get the enemy on the ground. But he had to get to headquarters at once, everything depended upon speed. Only a few hours remained for the job.
Stan slipped through the wrecked door and paused for a moment. As he started to move down the steps a dark shadow loomed behind him. Before he could leap aside a hard object crashed down upon his head. Red and white lights danced before his eyes and stabbing pains racked him. Then he slid slowly forward and fell on his face.
When Stan opened his eyes he was sitting in a chair with his head hanging on one side. He shook his head and groaned, then focused his gaze upon the leering face of Herr Naggel.
“You would listen?” Herr Naggel said slowly.
Stan said nothing. He expected no mercy from the men who had taken him prisoner. His head was splitting and he felt weak and sick. A thought stabbed through the pain. They had heard him when his foot slipped. The man at the radio had called to someone near by. His sky fighter training had been poor preparation for ground sleuthing, Stan decided.
“We will be gone in a few minutes, and when we go, we will leave a little comrade with you.” Herr Naggel motioned to a large grenade sitting on the table. As Stan fixed his gaze upon the grenade he realized that the radioman had gone, and had taken the portable set with him. Garret was gone, too, and he was alone with Naggel and his two rats.
Stan made another discovery. He was not bound. Likely the spies had not had rope or wire to make him fast, or they were sure their heavy Luger pistols would keep him in his place. Herr Naggel tapped the iron case of the grenade.
“The little one cannot be kept from exploding once the pin is removed. I will pull the pin and lock the door.” He smiled and his mouth twisted at the corners.
Stan rose to his feet. He was not so bad off as he had thought. Dizzy, but not out by any means. He staggered and swayed, putting on as good a show of grogginess as he could. Herr Naggel seemed to relish watching him struggle to remain on his feet.
The thing that was pounding away inside Stan’s head was the question: “How long was I out? How much time have I left?” He was not thinking about the almost certain death that stared him in the face. Naggel pulled out a big silver watch and looked at it.
“Two o’clock,” he muttered. “We must wait fifteen minutes.”
Stan almost showed his relief. There was still time! At that moment someone in the street above began shouting and screaming. Car brakes ground and there was a crashing noise. The blackout had claimed another victim of blind driving. Involuntarily the eyes of Herr Naggel and his men turned toward the door.
Lightning thought brought lightning action to Stan Wilson. It was no planned or prepared action, just wild, whirlwind action that was launched in the flicker of an eye-brow.
With one hand Stan clamped down upon Herr Naggel’s Luger; he lunged in close to the squat Nazi. In the same movement he sent a right smashing across to the jaw of the spy. Herr Naggel let out a gusty grunt and rocked back on his heels, then went down in a limp pile on the floor.
Jerking the Luger free, Stan swept it upon the two rats. “Down on your faces,” he gritted. “Flat on the floor or I’ll shoot!”
Stark fear leaped into the eyes of the two men and they tumbled flat on the floor, sprawling there with faces covered. Then Stan saw Herr Naggel pulling himself slowly up to the table. A wild, crazy light flamed in the eyes of the spy. Stan made a lightning decision.
It made his flesh creep to think of shooting these men, but he dared not leave them in the cellar, and there was nothing to bind and gag them with. If he left them, they might get away and send word through the vanished radioman to the Jerry sq
uadrons awaiting the zero hour.
He was saved from any solution of his own planning by Herr Naggel. The spy reached over, after getting to his feet, and grasped the grenade. Jerking out the pin he hurled the grenade at Stan’s head. Stan ducked and the bomb struck the wall and bounded back. It spun around and came to rest a few feet from the door.
“We all die. The plan shall not fail!” Herr Naggel screamed hoarsely.
Stan leaped over the grenade and halted before the door. He jerked at it but it was locked. There was no time to get a key from the men. Behind him he heard Naggel’s insane laugh. He brought the Luger down and blasted away at the lock. It shattered and the door opened.
Stan dived into the blackness outside, kicking the door shut as he went out. He had stumbled only one step when the whole wall of the basement burst outward and he was hurled up the steps and sent sprawling out into the street.
Stan swayed, sagged forward, then pitched on his face upon the hard street. A trickle of blood ran from the corners of his mouth. His eyes closed slowly, glassily. He lay still, a twisted, inert bundle of flesh.
A few minutes later car brakes screeched and a black roadster with hooded lights came to a halt. Two police officers jumped out. The dim lights were fixed upon the body of a man lying face down in the street. They lifted Stan to his feet and revived him after a few minutes of work.
Stan blinked his eyes and took one big gulp of air. He began talking in jerky sentences, repeating over and over.
“Get me to M Section of the Royal Air Force.”
“That’s as close as any first aid station,” one of the officers said as he looked at Stan’s uniform. “And I’m thinking he belongs there.”
They helped Stan into the car and sped away. Stan wiggled his arms and legs and decided he had been hit a hard jolt in the back which had knocked the breath out of him and shocked him badly, but otherwise he was all right.
CHAPTER XI
PLENTY OF TROUBLE
Stan Wilson followed by O’Malley and Allison barged into Wing Commander Farrell’s office. Before them marched Arch Garret with a Luger shoved into the small of his back. The O.C. leaped to his feet. He had been nodding in his chair and thought he must be dreaming. He quickly changed his mind.
Stan told his story in brief, clipped sentences. Farrell did not interrupt. When he had finished Garret broke in before the O.C. could say anything. He was not the defiant and arrogant lieutenant he had been. Fear showed in his eyes and his voice was shaking.
“I’ll talk if it will save me from a firing squad,” he begged.
“I may try but I do not think any power will save you,” Farrell said sternly. “But you had better talk for the sake of your own conscience.”
“They had me where they wanted me. My father was in Germany, in a concentration camp. I had to do what they ordered.” Sweat was standing out in big drops on Garret’s forehead. “I was straight and did my job until they got to me.”
“That’s why you got where you are and why you were not released after your first bad report. Your past record was fine.” The O.C. dropped back into his chair. He jerked a phone from its cradle. He was looking intently at Garret as he clicked the receiver. “Go on, talk. I’ll do what I can for you.”
“The radioman is at 30 Elm Inn,” Garret babbled. “He is to wait there for word from Herr Naggel. When Naggel gives the word, all will be clear for the attack.”
“Naggel won’t send any messages,” Stan said grimly, remembering the terrible explosion which had blown him clear out into the street.
The O.C. had gotten his man and was barking into the phone. He kept on putting through calls and talking to Stan and Allison and O’Malley at the same time.
“Get a guard, O’Malley, and turn Garret over to him. Wilson, stand by. Allison, get back to the mess and see that all of the men stand by ready for action.”
Stan watched the O.C. with admiration. He was a demon for getting things done in a speedy and effective manner. Stan handed his Luger to O’Malley. The Irishman prodded Garret with it.
“Get a move on, ye skulkin’ hyena,” O’Malley growled.
They moved out of the room with O’Malley telling the wilted Garret what he thought of him.
“We can get a crack at them before daylight, if headquarters will let us pull an immediate raid.” The O.C. held the receiver jammed to his ear with one hand while he fished into a drawer with the other. He found a cigar and bit the end off, then clamped the cigar between his teeth. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he went on.
“How did you come to bag Garret?”
“I found him in the mess, sir. He was sitting there waiting for the call to action he was sure was coming. He had warned all of the boys against loose flying. They had strict orders to stick close to him,” Stan said.
“This is one raid they won’t put over, thanks to you, Wilson.”
“We can blast them at their bases,” Stan said eagerly. “They’ll be grounded and waiting, saving their gas and getting ragged nerves while they wait.”
“Ragged nerves?” The O.C. had his man on the phone and began barking at him, arguing furiously. He waved his cigar and pounded the desk and bellowed. Five minutes later he clamped the receiver into place and swung around to face Stan. Wiping the sweat from his face, he said:
“That was the Air Ministry.”
Stan grinned. “I take it you convinced them, sir.”
“Convinced them? I routed them!” Farrell found a match and lighted his frayed cigar. Getting to his feet, he added. “We’re off for those bases and this time I fly myself. I have been wanting to see how this show stacks up with the last one, and now I’m going to find out.”
Stan followed him out into the night. After that things happened with lightning speed. Stan lost track of all the things they did and the places they went.
First of all, the radioman was caught with all of his equipment. The hunchback cracked when faced with the grim prospect of facing a firing squad within a half-hour. His code book revealed a complicated mass of information which was deciphered at once, with some assistance from him. Exact locations were charted and objectives laid out. All of it was done on the run.
Before the officers were through with the radioman, a message was sent out to the Nazis holding up the attack until further instructions were given. The message was in code and properly sent so that it would be received by the enemy as an order from their key man in London. Herr Naggel’s secret code number was signed to it.
Then there was a cold and clearheaded gathering around the big map in the central control room. Four flights would go out. Not just four ordinary flights, but four all-out invasion formations with all the punch the Royal Air Force could put behind them.
Red Flight, with its three deadly Hawks, was assigned to go with the long-range Consolidateds over France to the base from which the biggest of the Jerry bombers would take off. This would be the first wave sent over, because it had the longest route. It would be protected by the Hawks and by Defiants equipped for long-range flying. At last Stan got away from the O.C. and dashed to the mess.
He had secured three capable gunners to take along because he expected an opportunity to do some ground strafing. The early morning sky was cloudy with high fog and black clouds. If the weather held all the way over, they would be able to stage a real surprise.
In the mess he found Judd and McCumber and Kelley talking with Allison and O’Malley. Other men were gathered in small groups. The tension was high in the room.
“When do we get the signal?” Judd asked. His detail was to a field in Belgium.
“Any minute now,” Stan said. He looked over Judd’s head and saw that O’Malley was munching a slab of apple pie.
“Sure, an’ we’ll all get to go on a long vacation after this is over,” O’Malley said. “There won’t be a Jerry left in the sky.”
Stan smiled but back of the smile there was a feeling of grimness. A lot of the eager youngsters gathered in
that room would not come back.
“I’ll see that you get your vacation in a pie factory,” he promised.
Three sergeants came in and stood waiting. Stan went to them.
“Kent, Ames, and Martin, sir, reporting as gunners,” one of the men said.
“Fine. Come along and I’ll give you a one minute lesson on the guns you’ll use, though you likely don’t need it.” He turned to Allison. “Pack out my togs, will you?”
“I’ll bring a helmet and a chute,” Allison drawled. “The Nazis will make it so hot for you, you won’t need a fur suit.”
Stan grinned in response to Allison’s casual manner. Both knew this would be the most important action they had yet been engaged in, that it would be one of the most terrific and devastating raids staged during the entire war, yet it was best to kid about it. That was the only way to relieve the tension all of them were under, keep them cool and collected until the shooting actually started.
CHAPTER XII
LUFTWAFFE IN REVERSE
The night was cloudy but there was little low fog. In a dozen scattered flight centers men were busy. Coveralled ground squads swarmed around fighter planes, medium bombers and long-range giants whose lettering B Y 3, painted there by Yank builders, had been smeared over with British lacquer. Exhausts flamed, bomb trucks trundled in and out, while pilots and gunners checked rigging and outfits. The big show was on, the biggest the Royal Air Force had ever planned.
Stan and O’Malley and Allison waited with their gunners near them. They had checked the Hendee Hawks so many times they could see every detail of the ships if they closed their eyes. O’Malley had come near being recommended for court-martial when he battled the O.C. over an order to carry extra gasoline instead of racks of bombs.
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. (a yankee flier) Page 11
