Red Randall on Active Duty

by R. Sidney Bowen

  Red Randall and his buddy Jimmy Joyce completed their flight training and were assigned to a base in Darwin, Australia. They were looking forward to getting some revenge against the Japanese for Pearl Harbor, but there wasn’t not much excitement to be had at first. And then—

  The young pilots distinguished themselves in combat, and were picked for a special secret mission. It seems Douglas MacArthur needs new planes and pilots to hold the Philippines against the Japanese invaders. Unfortunately, both men botch their mission and are captured by the Imperial forces. But maybe … just maybe … they can free themselves in time to save the day!

  RED RANDALL 2:

  RED RANDALL ON ACTIVE DUTY

  By R. Sidney Bowen

  First Published by Grosset and Dunlap in 1944

  Copyright © 1944, 2021 Robert Sidney Bowen

  First Electronic Edition: July 2021

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with Cosmos Literary Agency.

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  This and the other books in the series were originally written and published in the 1940s, when language and attitudes were much different to today. In order to preserve the spirit of the original writing and terminology, we have kept revisions to a minimum.

  Chapter One – Hangar Hopping

  SHOVING UP HIS goggles, Second Lieutenant “Red” Randall, of the U. S. Army Air Corps, rubbed his eyes with his fingertips for a moment, then unsnapped his safety harness, and legged out of the Curtiss P-40 and down onto the ground. He stretched his legs a couple of times, unbuckled his chute harness and placed the pack on the trailing edge of the wing so that he could grab it up and slip into it in a hurry.

  Every combat pilot stationed at the Darwin Air Base always left his parachute pack on the wing of his plane, just in case an alarm came through to go up aloft in a hurry. As yet that call had not come through, but every pilot at the base secretly hoped with each new dawn that this day would see Jap bombers over Darwin.

  No, not right over Darwin, of course, but approaching Darwin, so that they would have a chance to tear aloft and pay back a little for Pearl Harbor, Hong Kong, Manila, Singapore, Bataan, and all those other places that had suffered so savagely. Japanese hordes were sweeping down through the Southwest Pacific in high gear. The Dutch East Indies had fallen, the doom of Malaya was history, and New Guinea was beginning to be pockmarked by the enemy. Next would be Australia’s turn. But when? How soon?

  “She turn over okay, sir?”

  Randall turned around and gave the grease-smeared mechanic a grin and a nod.

  “Sweet as honey,” he said and pulled off his helmet. “All I need now is a Jap to come sailing along, and then everything will be swell.”

  The mechanic grunted and cast a searching look at the skies to the north, just as everybody else did no less than five or six hundred times a day.

  “Those devils will be along in time, don’t worry, sir,” he said grimly. “They’re out to grab all they can, while they can.”

  “They’ll be stopped, and stopped cold,” Randall assured him. “Just as soon as we get the stuff, we’ll show them. And we’ll show them plenty.”

  “Me, I’d like all that stuff to be right here now,” the mechanic said as he cast a gloomy eye over an air base that could handle ten times the number of warplanes actually there. “I heard rumors that Jap subs got one of our convoys. Fourteen ships, it was. That’s a lot of stuff to lose. But maybe it’s the bunk, huh, Lieutenant?”

  “Sure it’s the bunk!” Randall said quickly, and inwardly wished he felt as confident as he spoke. “You’ve been listening to the Tokyo radio, Henderson. Don’t let it get you.”

  “I don’t,” the noncom said with a shrug. “But I’d sure like to know how things are on Bataan and Corregidor. I got a kid brother with those boys. But suffering catfish! They don’t tell you a darn thing about how the war’s going. We could be in the middle of Greenland for all we’re able to find out.”

  “Well, the middle of Greenland wouldn’t make me mad at all right now,” Randall laughed, mopping sweat from his face with his handkerchief. “But I guess we’ll hear the news soon enough. Until then all we can do is hope, and keep the old chin up, no matter what the news turns out to be. Well, I guess I’ll duck this sun before I get toasted to a crisp. Cheer up, Corporal! We’ll have our turn at bat, and probably a whole lot sooner than any of us think.

  “Sure, sure, sir,” the noncom mumbled. “We’ll smack ’em plenty...someday.”

  Randall opened his mouth to speak again, but thought better of it and walked away. There wasn’t any use in saying anything more. Deep down he felt pretty much the same way as the Corporal. So did everybody else. No one could help feeling a bit low and helpless, when day after day the news was the same. The Japs were knocking all opposition forty ways from Sunday...because too little was being thrown against them too late. Hell, no! Anyone trying to pull the Pollyanna stuff was simply kidding himself.

  “How many, Randall?” somebody sang out as Red approached a group of pilots lounging in the shade cast by one of the hangars. “From here I can see that your ship is full of bullet holes. “Nakajimas or Zeros? No, don’t tell me.”

  “I won’t,” Randall chuckled. “Besides, it’s a military secret.”

  “And has he got something there!” a bronze-faced straw-head yelled. “It’s darn near a military secret who we’re fighting, we get so little action.”

  “Little action?” groaned a chunky-built first lieutenant. “Have you had any action yet? Patrol and land. Formation flying and land. Target practice and land. And so forth. Nuts! Could it be that the gentlemen in Washington have something personal against us?”

  Somebody began to give an answer to that last question, but Randall did not bother to listen. He walked over to where his best friend Jimmy Joyce sat with his back propped against the hangar side, and dropped down beside him.

  “Howzit, Mister?” he asked with a grin. “This fast and furious pace telling on you, too?”

  “Ready to explode in small pieces any moment now,” Joyce grunted. “This darn waiting for nothing really does get a guy. And maybe us in particular, huh?”

  A hard, bitter light stole into Jimmy’s youthful eyes as his memory raced back to that terrible December day at Pearl Harbor. The day when Red’s father, Colonel J. G. Randall, Commanding Officer of the 5th Pursuit Group at Hickam Field, had been so seriously wounded in air combat that he would never fly again. He had been sent back to the Mainland for indefinite hospitalization. And the day when Jimmy’s Dad, Commander Paul Joyce, in command of an aircraft carrier torpedo-bomber squadron, had gone aboard the U.S.S. Arizona as a breakfast guest, and had gone down to his death under the bombs of the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor.

  “Sorry, Jimmy,” Randall said softly and touched his friend’s arm for a moment. “I know what you are thinking about right now, and I wish I could…”

  “Forget it, Red,” Joyce said
instantly. “We both think of that day constantly, so why try to kid each other that we don’t? And honest, Red, it doesn’t hurt me to talk about it anymore. I guess I’ve toughened up a little inside. Or maybe it’s because I realize now that Dad wouldn’t want me to mope and moan. He’d want me to do just what I hope and pray I get the chance to do. Go up and smack every Jap combatant I can get in my sights. And when there aren’t any left in the air, then smack all their heathen brothers on the ground. And keep smacking until there aren’t any of them left!”

  “And me right with you on that, kid!” Randall said grimly.

  Young Joyce shifted his position, plucked off a blade of grass, and started chewing on it.

  “All of which leads up to the fact that I’ve been thinking, Red,” he said after a while.

  “It’s done in the best of military circles, I hear,” Randall grunted. “About what?”

  “About an application for a transfer,” Jimmy Joyce replied.

  Red Randall studied his pal’s face anxiously for a few seconds, but could not quite figure out what he saw there.

  “You mean you’ve got regrets, Jimmy?” he asked slowly.

  Young Joyce blinked at him and looked puzzled. “Regrets?” he echoed.

  “Because you’re in the Air Corps and not Naval Aviation, like your Dad was,” Randall said. “Remember that day after Pearl Harbor how we vowed to stick together if possible? And we tossed a coin to see if, heads we would both enlist in the Army Air Corps, or tails we would both enlist in the Navy Air Corps? And it came up heads, two out of three flips? Of course you remember. But look, Jimmy, if you want…”

  “Don’t be a flat spin!” young Joyce cut him off sharply. “The Air Corps is perfectly all right by me. Hell, I’m satisfied, fellow. Fact is, I’m very delighted to give them the kind of flying that you can find only in Navy pilots. I…”

  “Now, just hold everything, Mister!” Randall cried. “That’s downright…”

  “Okay, okay!” Joyce laughed at him. “Just to get the old rise out of you, that’s all. The Army Air Corps is okay. Very okay. But about that application for transfer. How about requesting the Old Man to ship us to one of the fronts? To Port Moresby, in New Guinea, for instance. We’ve still got a toehold there. And I’ve a hunch we’re not going to let the Japs shove us out of there, either.”

  “I’ve got that hunch, too,” Randall replied with a grave nod. “Fact is, though I’m not one of those brainy military guys. I think that when we start shoving the Japs back, we’re going to begin at Port Moresby.”

  “No Philippines?” Joyce murmured and looked at him. “You think we’re sunk on Bataan and Corregidor? That MacArthur...?”

  “Is the best darn general ever to wear stars, in my book!” Red Randall interrupted feelingly. “But he hasn’t near enough troops and equipment. Everybody knows it. And the Japs most of all! Yes, I think our comeback will begin at Port Moresby. And I also think you have a very bright idea, my friend. The Old Man can’t say any more than, ‘No! And scram out of here fast.’ I’m with you, kid. But when?”

  Jimmy Joyce did not answer at once. He lifted his left arm and frowned down at his wrist watch.

  “In four minutes,” he finally said, “we go off, ‘Stand To’ duty for four hours. No time like the present, I always say. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Randall said, and checked the time by his own watch. “That’ll make it just before noon mess. Maybe we’ll catch him in a good humor. Brass hats always feel kindly toward shavetails when they’re about to stuff the old stomach, so they tell me. And he can’t say more than, ‘No!’”

  Chapter Two – Screaming Wings

  GENERAL CLARK V. SCANLON, Commandant of the Darwin Air Base, looked every inch the soldier, and every inch the battle-tried pilot, too. He wore a lot of ribbons from the last time Germany tried to take over the whole world. And all of them were not campaign ribbons, either. Some of them were for valor and daring in the skies over France. And you had only to look at the man’s granitelike features and piercing blue eyes to feel sure that he really had earned them.

  As the Base Office orderly ushered Randall and Jimmy Joyce into the Commandant’s presence, they both instantly had the feeling that their inner thoughts were as plain to see as the nose on their face.

  “Yes, gentlemen?” the General broke the silence. “You wish to see me?”

  “Well, sir,” Red spoke for the two of them, “we’d like permission to make application for a transfer.”

  “Back home, to the States?” the senior officer shot at him.

  “No, sir!” Randall replied hastily. “A transfer to an actual fighting front. We had Port Moresby in mind. You see, sir…”

  “Yes, I certainly do see, Lieutenant,” the General interrupted. “All too well. I’d like to apply to my superior for a transfer, too. Every day of this monotonous waiting is like a year. Every one of us here feels the same way. You don’t have to tell me, Randall, how you feel. But, unfortunately…”

  The senior officer paused, and made a half-hearted shrugging gesture.

  “But, unfortunately,” he repeated, “those are our orders. That’s our job. And though grumbling about it helps let off steam, it doesn’t change anything. Not at all.”

  “But, if I may ask, sir,” Jimmy Joyce protested, “is this waiting expected to go on indefinitely? I mean, sir, we have a fair number of planes and pilots here. And, according to reports, more planes and pilots are arriving every day. I realize that Randall and I went through combat flight training in a hurry, but is it because we didn’t take the usual length of time that we’re...?”

  “Not a bit of it!” General Scanlon interrupted with a brusque shake of his head. “You two went through combat flight in jig time simply because you’d had so many hours in the air before you enlisted. That reason, and that reason only. Naturally, I...”

  The senior officer paused again and a soft smile flickered across his usually stern-set mouth.

  “Naturally,” he continued presently, “I understand the eagerness with which both of you wish to get at the Japs. And if I could hasten that day in any way, I most certainly would. You two, like many others, have a personal score to settle with the enemy. Right now, though, our job is to stick right here and be on the alert, in case the Japs do take a crack at Australia. And...it’s my guess that they will. By air, anyway. And soon!”

  As though the war gods in their bivouac on high had simply been waiting for the General to speak those words, the alarm siren, mounted atop the Operations Office, let go with its banshee wail. For one split second the trio stiffened and stared unbelieving at each other. Then General Scanlon blew air out through his lips and jumped to his feet.

  “Well, this seems to be it!” he gasped. “To your planes, gentlemen! It could be another false alarm. Maybe not, though. It’s...”

  The last was cut short as the sharp crack and bang of anti-aircraft guns going into action sounded outside.

  “No false alarm this time!” Red Randall yelled and dived for the office door. “Those guns mean they’re close. Come on, Jimmy!”

  Young Joyce was right at his heels as Randall charged out into the blazing Australian sunshine. As they glanced up at the sky over Darwin, they could pick out the, clusters of heavy black smoke hanging in the gold-tinted blue. Neither of them saw any enemy raiding planes, but they did not take time for a good look. Japs were up there somewhere, or the flak gunners would not be doping their stuff. And so they lowered their heads and raced over to where their two Curtiss P-40’s were dispersed on the far side of the field.

  Every available pilot was answering the alert, and in an amazingly short time the mighty roar of high-speed aircraft engines was drowning out the bark and crackle of the flak guns. Mechanics and ground officers were rushing about in frantic efforts to move the few big bombers far enough apart so that if any bombs dropped, some of the big fellows might be spared.

  As Randall reached his plane, slipped into his parachute harness, and t
hen dived into the pit, he could not help but think of that morning at Hickam Field when all the Yank planes were lined up in solid rows, like soldiers on parade. Those planes were perfect targets for the Japanese dive bombers that came screaming down. It was a little like that right now at this field. Not until the alert had been sounded was anything done about dispersing all planes.

  Randall whipped his safety harness secure, banged the throttle, and punched the starter button. The power plant in the nose responded at once, and tremendous vibration shook the plane from nose to tail and from wing tip to wing tip. He kicked off the wheel brakes, fed more “hop” to the engine and sent the P-40 rocketing straight out across the field, and pulled it clear and up into the air.

  The instant he had cleared he remembered his radio-jack and plugged it in. At once he heard the quiet but firm voice of Operations giving information and instructions to the pilots prop-screaming aloft.

  “Enemy force of fifteen bombers coming in at eighteen thousand from northeast over Zone K. Eighteen thousand feet over Zone K! Fifteen enemy bombers. No fighter escort. Engage them at once and give combat. Eighteen thousand. Over Zone K. Give them the works, guys!”

  Randall grinned faintly at the last. The officer on duty at Operations was normally very much the spit and polish, and rules and regulations type. But in the excitement of bombers arriving he had discarded his toe-the-mark attitude for a brief word or two of encouragement.

  “Hear you clear and strong, Operations!” Randall spoke into his flap-mike. “And we’ll do that little thing for you!”

  “That you, Red?” he heard Jimmy Joyce’s voice. “Where are you? Never mind, I spot you now. Coming over right away. See them, Red? Just below the sun there. Smart rats, they think they are. Let’s go! Long time wait, hey, Red?”

  Randall snapped his head to the right and then to the left before he saw Jimmy Joyce’s plane boiling up to a level with his wing tip. He grinned, waved his hand, and then stared up at a point just below the ball of shimmering brass hanging in the pale blue sky. He saw the enemy raiders at once and recognized them for Nakajima 19, twin-engine, long-range bombers. No stuff off carriers this time, like at Pearl Harbor. These were big land-based babies, and he guessed they had come from a Japanese field on occupied Timor.