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

by Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery

  On a corner he bumped into two bobbies. They closed in on both sides of him.

  “Easy, my man,” one of them said. “Easy, now. We’ll see you safe back to your bed.”

  “Fine,” Stan answered. “Get me over to Merry Flying Field as quick as you can.”

  The bobbies looked at Stan then exchanged glances. He looked perfectly healthy and very powerful, though he was a bit pale and had a wild look in his eye. They nodded their heads.

  “I’m from Red Flight over at Merry Field. Get me there and the Flight Lieutenant will vouch for me,” Stan urged as he looked down the street and saw an ambulance rocking around a corner.

  The bobbies were satisfied that this young giant was crazy and they had better humor him. They shoved him through the curious crowd that had formed on the corner. Within a few minutes he was seated in a cab bowling across the city.

  Allison was lounging at a table drinking tea with O’Malley when two bobbies and a disheveled man wrapped in a wool blanket marched into the mess. They both leaped to their feet and rushed across the room.

  “Stan, old chap!” Allison shouted.

  “By the scalp of St. Patrick!” O’Malley boomed. “An’ I thought you would drown sure before the boat got to you.”

  The bobbies nodded their heads and grinned broadly. They lifted their sticks and moved out, well satisfied with their work. Stan called after them:

  “If you meet an ambulance wandering about tell the driver to go back to the hospital and give my regards to the head nurse.” He sank into a chair and grinned up at his friends. “How about some clothes?”

  “Coming right up. You can borrow my dress uniform,” Allison said. “O’Malley insisted we hold off replacements for another day. The hospital said you’d be laid up for weeks, but O’Malley had a hunch you wouldn’t let them keep you.”

  Stan told what had happened. When he had finished O’Malley beat a bony fist on the table.

  “Faith, an’ I think the gas business is a trick of that rotter, Garret. What he’s after needin’ is a good taste of me fist,” he bellowed.

  “We have no proof. If one of you fellows beat him up we’d all be grounded, you know,” Allison cut in.

  “If Garret was on the crew that handled the fueling that’s enough for me,” Stan said grimly.

  “He was put in charge of our hangar by the O.C. But you can bet he covered his dirty work carefully. We’ll just have to trap him.” Allison spoke grimly.

  “And in the meantime we better check our ships before we go out each time,” Stan said. “If I’d done that this time I’d have brought my Spitfire back whole and wouldn’t have had to take a bath in the channel.”

  “I’ll bet the spalpeen will get a scare when you walk into that hangar,” O’Malley said with a grin.

  Stan got to his feet. “I’m going out there just as soon as I get some clothes. I warn you, O’Malley, this is my fight. You stay out of it.”

  O’Malley’s eyes glittered. “I niver could stay out of a good scrap, but if you wade into him I’m thinkin’ there won’t be anything left for me to do but pick up the pieces.”

  “You better keep a tight hand on your temper, old chap,” Allison warned.

  “I will. I’ll have the low-down before I sock him,” Stan promised.

  A half-hour later, dressed in one of Allison’s uniforms, and looking little worse for his ducking, Stan strolled into the hangar. Garret was not about so he went to the crew that had handled his ship. They were really glad to see him, he was sure of that. He looked them over and had a feeling none of them had had any part in the plot.

  “Who gassed my Spitfire before she went out on the last raid?” His eyes moved from man to man.

  A corporal stepped forward. “I did, sir.”

  “Was the tank full when you rolled her out?”

  “Yes, sir. I rechecked. She was full up.” The corporal was positive.

  “Did you gas her up immediately before the flight?”

  “No, we always gas up as soon as the Spits come in, so they’ll be ready without delay. Sometimes they go right back up.”

  Stan nodded. He had known that. “Was the squad out for breakfast?”

  A sergeant spoke up. “Yes, sir. Lieutenant Garret sent us all out together. Squad Four was on duty down the line and could keep an eye on things and shove out for us if a call came.”

  “He went with you?”

  “Yes, he walked as far as his mess with us.”

  Stan smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “My gas turned out a bit short and I got a ducking in the channel.”

  He saw the men begin eying each other when he said that. He turned and walked away. Garret had fixed himself a slick alibi. Stan was sure he would have little luck cracking it. As he neared the door Arch Garret entered.

  “Hello, Garret,” Stan said and grinned.

  Garret stared at him for a minute, then his dark face flushed and his eyes gleamed with smouldering anger. He stepped closer to Stan.

  “You think you can railroad me clean out of this man’s army, but you’ll get yours, and I’ll be back in the air again.”

  “If any other funny things happen to my ship I’m going to take a poke at that pretty face of yours,” Stan said.

  Garret quickly backed away and hurried into the hangar. Stan walked across the square to his mess. Garret was a dangerous fellow, there was no mistake about that, and he hated Stan Wilson. Stan had a feeling, too, that Garret was going to make good on his threat.

  He wasn’t sure how Garret intended to do it, or how much the fellow knew, but there was no doubt he was a dangerous antagonist. And Stan had an uncomfortable feeling that Garret knew or at least suspected the truth about a certain phase of Stan Wilson’s past that Stan had hoped he could leave behind him when he came across the sea to fight the Nazi war machine.

  But that, he grimly told himself, was too much to hope for. No man can ever wholly escape his past. Fate has a way of stepping in and smashing the best-laid plans of humans. And Stan had a premonition that Fate had selected Arch Garret as its instrument to ruin his careful plans.

  CHAPTER IV

  NEW QUARTERS

  O’Malley sat at a table with a whole pie before him. He sliced it neatly across, then turned it half around and sliced it across again. Allison snorted his contempt while Stan watched, a grin on his face.

  “Niver be it said an O’Malley is hoggish. Will ye have a wee slab o’ pie, Mister Wilson or Mister Allison?”

  “Thanks, no,” Stan answered. “I’m carrying all the ballast I can handle right now.”

  “I say, old chap, could that be the second or is it the third pie you’ve had this afternoon?” Allison cocked an eye at O’Malley whose big mouth was open to receive almost half of one piece of pie.

  O’Malley munched the pie. “’Tis but the third, Commander, and niggardly pies they make, too. Take the pies Mrs. O’Malley makes, now they are pies.” He grinned as he slid his hand under another quarter of pie.

  At that moment an orderly appeared and handed Allison a slip of paper. Allison read it and scribbled a notation on it, handing it back to the orderly.

  “Nothin’ iver happens in this here spot,” O’Malley was complaining as he fell upon the third quarter of pie. “And this mess has no idea of a proper pie. They have nothing but berry pie, which is little in the way of pie.”

  “We’ll be back on night flights up the glory trail by tomorrow night, O’Malley,” Allison said. “But right now the O.C. wants to talk to the three of us in his office.”

  O’Malley gathered up the rest of the pie. Allison scowled.

  “I say, Irisher, you can’t go in on the O.C. with a platter of pie in your hand.”

  “Sure, and that’s a fact,” O’Malley agreed. “Hold onto yerselves, boys, and I’ll fix it according to regulations.” He shoved half the piece of pie into his mouth.

  Allison and Stan waited until he had finished. Then the three of them headed for the O.C.’s office. Their rap
at the door was answered by a gruff voice and they entered.

  The O.C. was a grizzled veteran of World War I. He looked at them with grim satisfaction. They were three of the best men he had, flying fools, ready to tackle any assignment.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” he said gruffly.

  They sat down, O’Malley slumping into his chair with his head thrust forward. He looked lank and hungry as he sat there and anyone except Stan and Allison would have said he hadn’t had a square meal in a week.

  The O.C. picked up a sheet of paper and stared at it, then he glowered at the three fliers. He cleared his throat and tapped the sheet of paper. His eyes were upon O’Malley. Suddenly he put the paper down.

  “Something reminds me I have not had a bite to eat so far today,” he said. “Do you boys mind if I have something sent in while I’m talking with you? I won’t be able to get away later.”

  “Certainly not, sir,” Allison said.

  The O.C. was still looking at O’Malley. “Will you boys join me? A spot of tea or something?”

  Before Allison or Stan could politely refuse, O’Malley answered, “Well, sir, I’m not partial to tea, but I could manage with a wee slab o’ pie.”

  Allison glared at him while Stan struggled to smother a grin. The O.C. looked at them. “Would you boys have some pie?”

  “No, thanks,” both spoke in unison.

  The O.C. rang and an orderly appeared. He took the Commander’s order and hurried away. When the door closed the O.C. turned to Allison.

  “I always get the bad part of every deal. Before me I have an order transferring you three men to Croydon Field. As soon as I get a few satisfactory men around me they are taken away.” He looked sourly at O’Malley as though blaming him. “Take this wild man, O’Malley. He has begun to attract notice.”

  “It’s been so quiet no man could attract notice,” O’Malley said gloomily.

  The O.C. smiled and fished another paper out of a tray. “Twenty-four hours in the air,” he read. “Three Dornier bombers and two Messerschmitt fighters shot down by Lieutenant O’Malley.” He slid the report into a file. “So this is quiet, eh?” He actually smiled as he said it.

  The orderly returned with a tray which O’Malley eyed hopefully. The O.C. lifted a cloth from his luncheon. The orderly carried a plate to O’Malley and handed him a fork. O’Malley waved the fork aside and scooped the pie off the plate. Sadly, he inspected it. It was blueberry, the same as his mess was supplying. Out of the side of his mouth he said:

  “Ah well, it will do, but I thought it might be the O.C. ate at a different mess.”

  “You boys will report to headquarters at Croydon at once.” He looked at O’Malley and a startled expression came over his face. The Irisher’s pie had disappeared.

  “Yes, sir,” Allison said and got to his feet.

  The O.C. got to his feet and his wintry face cracked into a thin smile as he shook hands with each of the boys.

  “This is quite a war and we have to hit as hard as we can and all pull together. They need you more at Croydon than I do here. Good luck to you.”

  The three snapped salutes and faced about. They hurried out of the building and across the square. Within a half-hour they were packed and ready for the car that was to take them to their new home.

  “I’m not sorry saying good-by to those bloated balloons,” Allison said as he looked up toward the south.

  “I’m glad I’m leaving. It will save me punching a fellow officer in the jaw,” Stan said grimly.

  “There won’t be anything excitin’ goin’ on over there,” O’Malley said sourly.

  “They may have some other kind of pie.” Allison grinned.

  An eager light came into O’Malley’s eye. “Sure, and that’s a thought worth rememberin’,” he muttered.

  The mess at Croydon was a large room and had a phonograph as well as a console radio. There was a nice assortment of old but comfortable chairs and lounges, and there was a counter where food and drinks were served. The three members of Red Flight arrived at the mess about the same time.

  O’Malley saw the counter at once and his eyes lighted eagerly. Back of the counter were shelves and on one of the shelves sat a half-dozen pies. A Wing Commander and a Squadron Leader were leaning against the center of the counter. Allison was for barging on past without disturbing the superior officers, but O’Malley had his eyes on the pie shelf.

  “Shove in, me hearties, the treat’s on Mrs. O’Malley’s son.”

  O’Malley shoved in beside the Wing Commander with Stan and Allison facing him.

  “Tea,” Allison ordered.

  “Coffee, black,” Stan said.

  “Pie.” O’Malley said it hungerly.

  The corporal behind the pie counter fixed Allison’s pot of tea and poured Stan’s coffee, then he turned to O’Malley.

  “What kind of pie, sir?”

  For a moment O’Malley was struck dumb over his great good luck. This mess had a choice of pie.

  “Apple,” he said hopefully.

  The corporal set a brown crusted pie on the counter and poised a knife over it. O’Malley reached over and took the knife. He proceeded to cut the pie four ways.

  “But I say, sir, we don’t cut pies that way. It’s against regulations, sir.” The corporal was plainly flustered.

  “Indaid?” O’Malley said. “An’ could ye put down the whole pie in me chit book?”

  “Of course, sir, but really if you let me cut it, sir, it wouldn’t be ruined and you’ll pay for only the portion you eat.”

  “Ah,” O’Malley said and slid a quarter of the pie out of the tin and into his big hand. The corporal watched with fascination as the slab disappeared.

  The Wing Commander was talking and the three junior officers could not avoid overhearing him.

  “The Messerschmitt One-Tens coming over lately have a new gun. We’d like to get our hands on one of them, but so far we haven’t salvaged anything.”

  “How about Intelligence in France? They ought to be able to get us something,” said the Squadron Leader.

  “No, if we get one it will be by pure accident,” the Wing Commander answered sourly.

  O’Malley was starting on his third piece of pie. He had it in his hand and halfway to his open mouth. He lowered it and swung around to face the Wing Commander.

  “The aisiest thing in the world, gettin’ one of them guns,” he said.

  The Wing Commander turned toward O’Malley and looked from his face to the big slab of pie and then back again. His manner dripped frost. Allison got a glimpse of his insignia and kicked O’Malley on the shin. O’Malley grinned at the Wing Commander, then took a big bite of pie. The Wing Commander stiffened and snorted like a Merlin backfiring on a sub-zero morning.

  “Did you speak, sir?” he asked.

  O’Malley was unabashed, even when the Wing Commander bent a frigid look upon the wreck of the apple pie on the plate at his elbow.

  “I said it would be aisy, gettin’ one of them new guns,” O’Malley repeated.

  “Perhaps you can bring one to my office not later than tomorrow night,” the Wing Commander snapped.

  “And may I ask who I’ll deliver it to?” O’Malley opened his mouth and the rest of the pie disappeared into it.

  Signs of apoplexy began to show on the Wing Commander’s face, but his voice was steady.

  “Just deliver it to Wing Commander Farrell.”

  “Sure, an’ I’ll hand it to ye personal,” O’Malley promised.

  The Wing Commander bowed stiffly and turned away. The Squadron Leader wiped a smile off his lips and stared stonily at O’Malley. They marched off together.

  “Now you’ve done it, you Irisher,” Allison growled. “That’s the man we have to fly under and I have to report to him within a half-hour.”

  “’Tis a lot too many brass hats this man’s army has around and I don’t like them, but I’ll do this Wing Commander a favor, bein’ as he seemed a bit worked up over that new J
erry gun.” O’Malley looked at the pie counter but shook his head. Five pies in one afternoon might spoil his dinner and he planned to enjoy a real feed.

  Allison shoved off to report to the O.C. while Stan and O’Malley went over to the phonograph and turned it on. O’Malley lay on a divan with his feet well above his head. Stan sat back in a deep chair. Before dozing off he wanted to ask the Irisher a question.

  “Whatever made you pull that crack to the Wing Commander?”

  “Sure, an’ I was just offerin’ to do me bit of winnin’ the war,” O’Malley said and closed his eyes.

  Stan stared at him. It suddenly dawned upon him that O’Malley hadn’t been fooling, he meant to deliver a Messerschmitt One-Ten to Wing Commander Farrell. He began to laugh. O’Malley opened his eyes and a grieved expression came over his face.

  “You laughin’ at me?” he demanded and there was a dangerous glint in his dark eyes.

  “No,” Stan said slowly. “I was thinking about how Wing Commander Farrell will look when you plump that gun down on his desk.”

  O’Malley grinned and closed his eyes again. “I’ll let you go along with me,” he said.

  Stan studied the wild Irishman. He knew enough about O’Malley to expect anything from him. There could be no doubt but that Red Flight was in for some real circus stuff the next day. He hoped they contacted a flight of Messerschmitt One-Tens over the channel. He had no relish for the idea of trailing O’Malley into Germany and covering him while he filched a gun from one of Hitler’s arsenals, but he was anxious to find out what scheme the Irisher had up his sleeve.

  Allison came back and plumped into a chair. “I was lucky. The Wing Commander never suspected that I was with this wild Irishman. He thinks our hungry friend here is a ground man escaped from a nut-house.”

  O’Malley made no comeback. He was sound asleep, his Adam’s apple riding up and down gently, his lips moving as he snored deeply. Stan said in a low voice:

  “He meant it when he offered to get a gun for the O.C.”

  “Now, now, you Yanks are gullible, everyone knows that, old man, but you shouldn’t be taken in so easy.”