O’Malley was showing a rare amount of knowledge of carrier landings. He stalled the Hawk as the deck opened under her, then clamped her down furiously. There was a thud, dull but solid. The Hawk wrenched around, screamed complainingly, then set herself at landing position.
Stan tossed his arm over his face and set himself for the crash that would tear him apart. The blow did not come. He slid his arm down, and all around the ship a ring of red-faced sailors peered at him, some of them grinning broadly. Then a cheer broke out.
O’Malley was first out of the ship. He plumped down on the deck and faced an officer who came charging from somewhere. He saluted solemnly. Standing there, with his flying suit hanging on his bony frame, his hawk face peering at the officer, he looked more like a scarecrow than one of His Majesty’s crack pilots.
“Where did this come from and what is it?” the officer demanded.
“’Tis a dive bomber, the very colleen that smacked that pocket battleship not so far back. An’ ’tis a valuable specimen as must be delivered to His Majesty’s air forces,” O’Malley said gravely.
“Go up on the bridge and report at once,” the officer said and his voice was not so harsh. He had seen the Hawk make a direct hit on the deck of the Nazi battleship.
They clumped up to the bridge, Stan edging in ahead of O’Malley. There ought to be a bit of diplomacy used and he was afraid O’Malley might not use the proper approach to the skipper. The flag officer, who had piloted them to the bridge, saluted smartly and retired. Stan faced a grizzled man of about sixty. Steel-blue eyes regarded him frostily. Then the commander smiled.
“My compliments, gentlemen,” he said. “A mighty fine effort though a bit risky.”
“Thank you, sir,” Stan answered. “This plane is a test job and we felt she was so valuable she ought to be salvaged.”
“I see, so you set that superdemon down on my deck.” He gave Stan a searching look. “Your navy training is good. How does it come that you are not with the sea forces?”
“My friend, Lieutenant O’Malley, made the landing, sir,” Stan said.
O’Malley grinned broadly at the commander. “Sure, an’ it was pure luck, the luck o’ the Irish,” he said.
“You will be cared for and your specimen plane will be landed,” the commander promised. “In fact, I watched you dive bomb that battleship and I believe the navy could use some of this type of ship. I will make a memorandum to that effect.”
As they walked down from the bridge, Stan looked at O’Malley. “I never asked you where you learned to fly,” he said. “Could it have been the Royal Navy?”
“It could have been,” O’Malley answered and closed his big mouth tight.
Stan didn’t ask any more questions. They went below and had a good meal. Later they received word from the commander that the carrier was headed across to the Norwegian coast, but they would be sent home by motor launch. The Hendee Hawk would have to wait until the naval patrol swung around their course and slipped into Portsmouth, or some other port.
“How long will the swing take?” Stan asked.
The young officer who had delivered the message shook his head. “One never knows.”
They had to be satisfied with that. No one could tell what the squadron would run into, or when their course would be changed. Nor, of course, whether the carrier would ever see port again. In the meantime all they could do was trust to luck that the Hawk would be delivered ashore somehow. They were fortunate that they were being sent back by a motor launch and wouldn’t have to accompany the squadron across to the Norwegian coast.
CHAPTER VIII
STAN’S PAST RISES
O’Malley and Stan climbed out of a Bentley roadster and hurried across the street to the squadron gateway. The sentry let them pass after one look at their soiled uniforms and a brief word.
“We’ll be collectin’ a bushel of medals in about a minute,” O’Malley said.
“We’ll probably lose a strip of hide for not bringing the Hawk home,” Stan replied grimly.
They entered the mess and found a large number of men about. The rousing welcome O’Malley had forecast was lacking. A number of the boys looked at them, then turned away. There was something in the air, a definite tightness caused by their entering that Stan didn’t like at all. The Irishman barged cheerfully across the room and ordered a pie.
Stan sank into a chair. Without appearing to be interested, except in the paper he had picked up, he watched the men in the room. They were looking at him and there was hostility in the glances they shot his way.
Tossing aside the paper, he got to his feet. There was one quick way to find out. He’d collar one of the boys and put it up to him, demanding a straight answer. He was moving across the room, when an orderly spoke to him. Stan swung around. The orderly was nervous and kept his eyes roving everywhere but upon the Flight Lieutenant.
“Wing Commander Farrell wishes to speak to you, sir,” he reported.
“Thanks, I’ll be right over,” Stan answered.
Stan guessed what had happened. Garret had tracked him down. Possibly had seen him. Stan stepped over to O’Malley. The Irishman, his mouth full of pie, turned around. He glanced at Stan, then shoved aside the remainder of his pie.
“Sure, an’ you been seein’ a ghost.” Then his big mouth clamped shut tight. After a moment’s thought, he added, “If they try givin’ you a ride for the job I did, I’m in on it.”
“No, O’Malley.” Stan shoved out his hand. “But if I don’t see you again, here’s luck.”
O’Malley looked at the hand, shook his red thatch and glared at Stan. “By the bomb rack of a Stuka,” he snarled, “I’m standing by. Let’s go get the spalpeen that’s makin’ the stink!”
Stan grinned in spite of himself. At that moment O’Malley would have laid a bony fist on the jaw of an Air Marshal. He had never seen the Irishman so wrought-up; he was twice as mad as he ever got when he went into action.
“This is something only Stan Wilson can handle.” Then he added more softly, “It hasn’t anything to do with the little show we put on. And you can’t help me. Thanks, just the same.”
O’Malley stood glaring after him as he went out, then he faced the man in the mess and his eyes were snapping dangerously.
Stan went straight to headquarters and an orderly let him into the Wing Commander’s office without delay. The instant he stepped into the room Stan knew his whole world had blown up under him. Beside the O.C.’s desk sat Charles L. Milton and across from him was Garret, smiling triumphantly and smugly. He leaned forward as Stan hesitated at the door.
“Come in, Wilson,” Farrell said curtly.
“How are you, Stan?” Milton said. He was clearly upset over what he had been listening to before Stan arrived.
“I am fine, thanks.”
Garret said nothing. He just leaned back with a sneer on his lips.
“You wished to speak to me, sir?”
“Sit down, Wilson.” Farrell straightened some papers on his desk, cleared his throat, then looked at the young flier. “Lieutenant Garret has laid your former record before me and Mr. Milton has confirmed it.” The Wing Commander paused and his eyes followed the lines of the report. He looked up and his eyes bored into Stan. “You were charged with selling plans of the Hendee Hawk to Nazi agents.” Stan knew he was supposed to answer.
“I was tried and acquitted.”
“That is true, but no American firm would hire you and the Army refused to allow you to enlist. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Wing Commander cleared his throat. “Have you anything to say for yourself that would clear up this angle?”
“I was the victim of Nazi agents who stole the plans. That was proved at the trial. Later, they cleverly planted rumors and suspicions about me so that no one wanted to have anything to do with me. In plain American, I was framed.” Stan spoke slowly, putting all the conviction he could into his words. He didn’t expect the O.C. to
believe him any more than the American firms or the army officers to whom he had applied for entry into the service.
“You have done a splendid job here, for which the British people and His Majesty’s Government thank you; but, in these times of great danger, we cannot take chances with anyone whose past record is in doubt. I am sorry, Wilson, but I have orders to release you and send you back to the United States.”
Stan sat looking at the Wing Commander. Suddenly anger boiled up inside him, a savage, cold anger.
“If you can show no more appreciation than this, I do not care to stay. My record with the Royal Air Force should be proof that the charges against me were phony.”
The O.C. reddened. He looked at Garret. Scowling blackly, he said, “I took that attitude, personally, but my superior officers have ordered your release.”
“Before you release him I suggest that you consider another angle,” Garret said. “I have just learned that, though he and an Irish recruit returned safely, the new plane did not return. The fighters of all groups have been questioned and they did not see the Hawk in action against the enemy at all. I think the plane was delivered to Nazi agents on the coast.” Garret’s voice was little better than a snarl when he finished.
Stan’s gaze locked with that of the lieutenant. “The Hendee Hawk will be delivered here at the field in a few days. Lieutenant O’Malley set her down on a carrier in the channel after she was put out of action.”
Garret laughed harshly. “That is a fine story, Wilson, but one that only a fool would believe.”
“It is an impossible story,” the O.C. agreed.
“He should be locked up,” Garret insisted.
“I hardly think that will be necessary,” a voice from the doorway said. The men turned and saw Allison standing just inside the room, supported by the strong arm of O’Malley.
“Sure, an’ did I hear someone say I didn’t set that Hawk down on a carrier?” O’Malley growled. His glare traveled from Farrell to Garrett and fastened there. Garret shrank back in his chair.
The pair moved into the room. Allison’s face was white and thin but his eyes were snapping. The Wing Commander frowned.
“This is an intrusion. Remember, gentlemen, you are junior officers.” Farrell fixed O’Malley with a cold glare as the Irishman pulled forward a chair for Allison.
“We felt it of great importance, sir,” Allison said as he sank into the chair. “I am sure you will agree when I explain.” He took a thick envelope from his pocket and laid it on the desk before the O.C. “These papers will be of interest to you, sir, I am sure.”
The Wing Commander opened the envelope and spread a sheaf of papers on his desk. He bent over them, reading deliberately.
After laying aside the last report he looked up. His eyes were on Garret.
“It seems, Lieutenant, that you have made a jackass out of yourself and out of me. These reports are from the American Federal Bureau of Investigation, and from the British Intelligence. Both departments give Lieutenant Wilson a clean slate. Both report he was, as he says, ‘framed.’” He turned to Stan.
“With these reports you could join the United States Army Air Corps any time you wished. After the treatment you have received here I feel it my duty to offer you a release so that you may do so.”
The sudden turn of affairs had Stan groggy; however, the realization that he was at last freed of the smear that had blackened his name started a surge of warmth and elation through him. He turned to Allison.
“You knew it all the time,” he accused.
Allison grinned. “Yes, that report came in with your credentials. I took it out of the file to have a bit of sport with you. It was dumb of me to forget to replace it. But you were so stubborn over the whole matter I didn’t feel you needed to know.”
Garret got to his feet. His face was white and his voice was not very steady. “I merely did my duty as I saw it, sir. I had no way of knowing what was in the report Allison has laid before you. I ask leave to retire.”
“Stay where you are. I want to talk to you,” the O.C. snapped.
Stan got to his feet. Milton was thumping him on the back and O’Malley was grinning like a wolf. Milton rumbled in his deep voice:
“I said it all smelled fishy to me.” He turned to the O.C. “Wilson is the best test pilot that ever stepped into a plane.”
“Allison’s comin’ back in a couple days an’ Red Flight goes out in Spitfires,” O’Malley broke in eagerly. “Sure, an’ there’s no war on over in America. ’Tis right here you’ll be staying or I’ll give you a fine dusting when we get outside.”
“I’m staying until the war is over. In a way I figure it’s our fight, too, sir. If you don’t mind, I’ll stay in Red Flight.”
“Mind! I’ll recommend you for top honors.” The O.C. was beaming.
An orderly stepped into the room and laid a report on Farrell’s desk. He glanced at it, then picked it up. A minute later he pounded the desk with his fist and began to laugh.
“This report says His Majesty’s carrier, Staunch, has on board a new type of dive bomber which put a pocket battleship out of action and later landed upon the deck of the carrier. The commander considers the plane so valuable he is putting in to deliver it.”
“Until we can get three of those Hawks for you boys, you will fly Spitfires as Red Flight,” the O.C. said. “After that you will likely win the war without any help.”
“Sure, an’ we’ll do just that, sor, as a special favor to you,” O’Malley answered.
The O.C. looked at him and frowned. He wasn’t sure whether O’Malley was spoofing or meant it. Allison and Stan were sure O’Malley was in dead earnest.
“Thank you, sir,” Stan said. “We’ll run along now.”
When they were outside the office, Allison said in his slow drawl:
“That ought to be the last of Garret.”
“Sure, an’ he’ll be brewin’ trouble if he stays around, you can bank on that,” O’Malley said.
Stan had the same feeling. There was something about Garret he could not understand. He had a feeling there was more than just a grudge against him in Garret’s acts. The lieutenant had certain connections that seemed to reach very high up into official circles. Stan planned to do some quiet checking, now that he didn’t have to be so careful.
During the next three days Stan poked about asking a lot of questions. He was very careful not to arouse suspicion. He learned very little. Garret came in as a ferry pilot and later was given a chance in the air. He was a Canadian who had lived most of his life in the United States. Why he was not released from the Air Arm after Allison reported his action in deserting Red Flight was not clear. And no one seemed to know how he had managed to get himself placed in a responsible position close to the O.C.
One thing looked good to Stan. Garret had left the squadron and no one knew where he had been sent. He was out of the way, yet Stan had a feeling he had not seen the last of him.
The day Allison returned to duty an order was posted creating a night defense group of fighters. It consisted of twelve Spitfires and Red Flight was included. O’Malley was so excited over the order that he walked away from a half pie, forgetting it entirely.
“Sure, an’ this is me dish,” he crowed.
“Swatting Stukas in the dark?” Allison asked grimly. “Dodging balloon cables and ducking through Ack-Ack muck?”
“This Moon Flight is the toughest job in the service,” Stan admitted. “But we should be swelled up. Look at the list of boys posted.”
“Oh, yes,” Allison admitted. “All aces.” He laughed shortly.
“You’ve recovered all right,” Stan said with a grin.
There was reason enough for setting aside twelve of the toughest, most reckless, Spitfire pilots for night service. London had been smashed and battered and set on fire night after night. The ground guns and the balloons got a few of the bandits, but too many slipped through and sent their cargoes of death down upon the city. It wa
s up to the boys with the eight-gun death in their wind edges to stop the invaders.
The first action came at eleven o’clock that evening. The call for the new formation blasted into the mess while the men were gathered around speculating on who would draw the job of being Squadron Leader. They rushed out into the night after hurrying into their togs. On the cab rank an even dozen Spitfires breathed flame from idling motors, trembling like things alive, straining to be up and into the blackness after the skulking killers.
Allison stumbled out after O’Malley, and Stan came behind the Britisher. They got their flight orders, tested their throttles, then pinched wheel brakes and slipped around and down upon the line. They would go up in threes. Red Flight was third out and O’Malley fumed into his flap mike over the delay.
The Recording Officer, looking massive in his greatcoat, backed away. A mobile floodlight slid over the field and took position, its long, wide beam slapping down the runway.
“Steady, Moon Flight, check your temperatures,” ordered the Squadron Leader.
Stan stiffened as the voice came in over his headset. He knew that voice. It was the voice of Arch Garret!
Affirmative replies clicked in. Stan managed to answer, but his mind was in a hard knot. This was all cockeyed. Garret leading a flight that called for the toughest of flying. Stan groaned. This would be a lucky night for the Jerries, and a tough break for the folks crouching in the darkened streets. He heard the banshee wail of the alarm sirens as he slid his hatch cover into place.
“East. Contact bandits at 8,000 feet. Moon Flight east,” Garret’s voice gritted into Stan’s ears.
The Spitfires roared up and away to the east. Every pilot was straining to catch a glimpse of the incoming raiders. They spread out and bored into the darkness, swooping and diving, but they made no contacts. Behind them the searchlights stabbed and crisscrossed and wavered. Then the ground guns began to blast, and tracer bullets arched upward like rockets in a celebration. The muck over lower London was thick and the searchlights began to pick out black shapes. Then came the bombs. They smashed into roofs and went splintering on to blow houses to bits. They rent and ripped mortar and stone and brick. People were buried under the debris.
A Yankee Flier with the R.A.F. (a yankee flier) Page 8