A Yankee Flier over Berlin (a yankee flier)

by Rutherford G. Montgomery Al Avery

  “See that Lieutenant Wilson is furnished a complete outfit of clothing. Show him to the east room.” Domber spoke in English.

  “Yes, Herr Domber,” the man said and bowed.

  “Run along with Herman,” Domber said. “I’ll be having a brandy in the library.” He turned away at once.

  Stan followed Herman up a wide stairway and into a large room. It was furnished in a luxurious manner. Herman bowed at the door.

  “You will wish me to draw hot water for a bath?” he asked.

  “Thank you, Herman, I will take a hot bath. See that there’s plenty of soap.” Stan grinned.

  Herman drew water in the bathroom and laid out snowy towels. Coming out of the bathroom, he said:

  “I will lay out clothing for you.”

  Stan lost no time in getting into the tub. He splashed and built up a mountain of suds, then wallowed in them. As he lay there he suddenly began to laugh. This was the oddest experience he had ever had. Yet there was something sinister about it. Domber had a fishy coldness about him that was chilling. Stan decided it was the way he looked out of his little eyes. There seemed to be a smoldering hate back of the light in those eyes.

  Herman had laid out clothing, a business suit which was very close to Stan’s size, fresh linen, a shirt, a tie and a pair of dress shoes. Herman was nowhere in sight.

  Stan dressed slowly. The shoes fit well and so did the shirt. Herman was an expert man’s man. He had sized Stan up correctly. As he knotted the tie, Stan walked to a wide window overlooking a garden. There were no bars on the window and the garden was deserted. No guards paced back and forth. Stan began to wonder if he was not supposed to escape again.

  Walking to the door he opened it. The hallway was empty. Stan walked toward the back of the house and found a balcony with a flight of steps leading to the garden below. He wondered what would happen if he walked down those steps and into the garden. With a grin on his lips he did just that.

  Stepping off the last step he strolled into the garden. No one challenged him, so he walked around the house. He was standing looking out into an alley lined with trees. Suddenly a man stepped out from behind a wall and bowed to Stan.

  “Luncheon is ready,” the man said in perfect English.

  Stan noticed, as the wind whipped open the man’s coat, that he was wearing a heavy shoulder holster. He smiled. The man reminded him of a Chicago gangster he once had seen captured.

  “I was just going in,” he said. Turning about he entered the house. Herman appeared at once and bowed. Stan followed him into Domber’s library. A table had been set before an open fire. Domber was seated in an easy chair, puffing on a cigar.

  “Have a pleasant stroll in the garden?” he asked.

  “You certainly requisitioned a nice place for yourself,” Stan remarked.

  “Oh, I have owned this for years,” Domber said. “This is my home.”

  That accounted for the hated looks the people on the street had given Domber as he passed. He was a Dutch Quisling, a traitor to his own country. Domber seemed to read Stan’s thoughts.

  “I always have been credited with having brains enough to take care of my business and my own comforts,” he said dryly. Then he smiled. “But sit down. We will see what we have for luncheon.”

  The common people of Germany might be eating poorly and tightening their belts, but Herr Domber’s table gave no hint of lack of supplies. There was real coffee, strong and black, fruit, fish, fresh vegetables and a roast squab for each diner. Stan put aside all unpleasant thoughts and ate heartily.

  While they ate, Herr Domber kept up a steady conversation. He talked about fighter planes. Stan was surprised at the things Domber revealed in a casual way. He gave a very good description of the new secret rocket which was doing so much damage to the Forts and Libs, even telling Stan how it was handled. Once in a while he would ask a question. Each time Stan matched wits against the traitor to keep from telling him anything important.

  After a while Stan was convinced Domber was so sure he would never live to repeat what he had heard that he felt no need to be careful about what he told the Yank.

  “I have had many guests, Dutch, Norwegian, British and now an American.” Domber beamed. “I have enjoyed each of them, and I am sure they never complained of my hospitality.”

  Back of the genial manner Stan felt the cold threat of death lurking in the way the traitor looked at him. Domber was very sure of himself and of his power. Stan resolved that he was going to be one guest who fooled the Dutch Quisling.

  After dinner Domber showed Stan his collection of war trophies and his laboratory and workshop. The laboratory was far more elaborate than the workshop. Stan was fascinated by the plants and animals Domber kept there. Domber laughed softly.

  “I experiment much,” he said. Then he added, “I have done much with poison gas as well as with rare drugs.”

  “You plan to use poison gas?” Stan asked.

  “If our plans work out well, yes,” Domber said frankly. “If Minter’s work is well done and we are able to smash a large part of the British and American air power, we will launch gas attacks upon the principal English cities and later make an invasion.” He smiled slightly.

  “You have the planes?” Stan asked.

  “For one big blow. First we smash the air power, then we attack. We have endured much bombing to save air power for this.” Domber had ceased smiling and for the first time his hate came to the surface. He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. “But we waste time. We will have a look at the P-51.”

  CHAPTER XI

  MUSTANG

  Herr Domber led the way from his shop and laboratory to the street entrance where a car was waiting. He scowled at the guards outside his door and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” Then he marched down the walk to the car. This time no uniformed guards went along. There was just the driver, Domber, and Stan.

  Stan was beginning to get the idea that the Dutch Quisling disliked the military. But he was not fooled into thinking Domber did not have his own henchmen. The driver of the car was a powerful fellow with beetled brows and scowling face. As soon as they pulled away from the curb, another car slipped in behind them and never left them until they parked outside a walled enclosure.

  They were getting out of the car when a German military machine roared up and stopped. Two officers got out and moved stiffly toward the spot where Stan and Domber stood.

  “Heil Hitler,” Domber said. Then he opened up with an angry flow of German.

  The officers snapped back at him and a heated argument raged. Stan gathered the officers were angry because Domber had taken Stan out without a proper armed guard. Apparently Domber won the argument. The officers saluted and made off.

  “Such fools. They fear you would escape,” Domber explained. “I have told them you would not get a hundred yards before you would be killed. No one has ever escaped from the Bloodhound.”

  “Bloodhound?”

  “That is a pet name my Dutch friends have given me.” He smiled at Stan. “But come, we are being delayed.”

  A gate opened and a man in coveralls came up to meet them. Domber spoke to him and the man walked with them to a locked door in a second wall. Producing a key, he opened the door and let them through.

  Stan was startled by what he saw. There was a sunken runway leading into an underground hangar. Domber beamed.

  “Not a bomb ever falls here. Above our shops there is a church and a schoolhouse. We do much valuable research here and cannot afford to be disturbed.”

  Stan looked along the runway. It ended abruptly at a steel fence, but a roadway went on in a twisting course, making detection of the runway difficult.

  “Very clever,” Stan said.

  “I was sure you’d appreciate it,” Domber said. “Now we’ll have a look at the P-51.”

  They entered the underground hangar by going down a shaft in an elevator. Stepping out of the elevator Stan saw a well-lighted and spacious hangar. Various planes stoo
d along one high wall. There was a Fort, a Wellington, two Spitfires, a Lockheed Lightning, and at the far end in a wide shop space stood a new P-51. Her nose was pointed out toward the runway and she looked ready to glide out from underground and take off. Domber laughed.

  “I’m sorry, but it can’t be done,” he said as though Stan had spoken his thoughts out loud.

  “Can’t blame me for thinking about it, can you?” Stan asked.

  They walked over to the fighter. She had been patched up and looked airworthy enough.

  “Mind if I go up?” Stan asked.

  A dozen men working in the shop stood watching. “No, go ahead,” Domber said.

  Stan climbed up and into the cockpit. A glance showed him that there had been considerable instrument damage which the German mechanics had not been able to repair. He noticed at once that the engine was hooked up to a small portable gasoline tank. That meant she had no fuel in her except just enough to make test runs of the engine. It probably was a fire hazard measure, but it also was one reason why Domber was so willing to let Stan get into the cockpit.

  The other reason Stan soon discovered. Looking out, he saw on each side of the opening to the runway, batteries of aircraft cannon. Those guns could lay a concentrated cross fire over the runway so deadly that any plane would be blown to bits in a minute.

  Stan climbed down out of the cockpit. He faced Herr Domber. “Just what was it you wanted me to do?” He had to stall for time, more time.

  “You will assemble and repair the supercharger on that plane. Every tool you need will be at hand, and if you need an assistant I will furnish you one who speaks English.” Herr Domber was smiling as he spoke.

  “That’s a big order,” Stan said.

  “My experts could do this, but it might take several weeks and we do not have that much time. We have such a ship as this one. All we need is a supercharger to make it the best ship in the world. Naturally I am anxious and do not wish to lose any time.”

  “I’ll need an English-speaking helper. I may have to have parts made and I do not run a lathe,” Stan said.

  Herr Domber called a man over to him. After listening for a few minutes the man left. He returned a few minutes later with a youngster not more than eighteen years of age.

  “Swen, you will be Lieutenant Wilson’s assistant. Help him in every way you can. You are under his orders,” Herr Domber said.

  “Heil Hitler,” Swen said and saluted. He was a blond, curly-headed kid with a ready smile. Stan grinned at him and said:

  “We’ll get along.”

  “You may talk freely to Swen,” Domber said. “He is a tested party man, but he does not like killing, so he is a mechanic. I have to watch him to keep the generals from stealing him and sending him off to Russia to fight.” Domber laughed, but Stan saw fear come into the boy’s eyes.

  “Anyone else speak English in the shop?” he asked. “I might want another man.”

  “No others,” Domber said. “Now we must get to work.”

  Stan was supplied with a locker and a pair of coveralls. He was taken to a special room in the shop. There he found parts from P-51’s recently shot down. The smaller shop was completely equipped. Three other men worked at benches before a window. Stan was assigned to a vacant bench. Before him lay part of the new dual turbo-supercharger. Other parts were stacked on a table.

  “Know anything about one of these gadgets?” Stan asked Swen.

  “Gadget?” Swen repeated in a British accent.

  “Yank word for machine,” Stan explained.

  “No, I have never seen one before,” Swen replied.

  Herr Domber stood around for a little while, then made off. Stan grinned at Swen. He had decided to work upon the kid. There might be a chance to do something. Swen, like most young Germans, was deadly afraid of being sent to the Russian front. It might be that he secretly hated the men who bossed him.

  At the next bench a tall mechanic was working with a part from a Spitfire. Stan moved over to the edge of his bench.

  “Hand me that wrench,” he said to the tall German.

  The German reached over and handed Stan the wrench. Suddenly his face became very red and he spoke angrily in German.

  “Thanks, buddy,” Stan said. “I’m glad you speak American.”

  The German shrugged his shoulders and went on working. Swen looked at Stan and said:

  “I am your helper. I could have handed you that wrench.”

  “I just wanted to be sure Heinie, here, could understand everything we say. I noticed that he was just playing with that oil gauge. It’s an old type that’s been out of use for four years.”

  The tall German’s face got redder. He growled something and moved away. Stan figured he was going to report he had been spotted.

  “Now, Swen,” Stan said, “we’re going to be friends, you and I.”

  Swen looked scared. “Heil Hitler,” he said. “I am not to be your friend.”

  “You won’t get hurt,” Stan said softly. “Just tell them everything I tell you when they question you tonight.”

  “They will kill you,” Swen said in a low voice. “Herr Domber poisoned the other one. He will do the same to you.”

  “Tell me about it quickly. They won’t be leaving us alone without a spotter very long,” Stan said.

  “I do not know how it was done. I heard the Gestapo men laughing about it. The British flier thought he was going to get away. He fixed up his plane and had gasoline enough for much testing. But after he had it running and they learned what they wanted to know about it, he just fell over dead.”

  “That is quicker than working it out by themselves. Not much, but a few days,” Stan said grimly.

  At that moment the tall German who had been working at the next bench came running up. He was out of breath when he halted before Stan.

  “I am to be your helper.” He turned upon Swen. “Get out into the shop.”

  “Sorry to lose you, Swen,” Stan called after the boy. He turned to the new helper. “They sure sent you back on the run. Did you get a good skinning?”

  The German scowled at Stan. “I am to take orders,” he muttered.

  Stan laughed. The softhearted Swen had been planted on him. They were supposed to get chummy while the tall mechanic listened and picked up anything of value which might be said.

  “What am I supposed to call you?” Stan asked.

  “Hans,” the mechanic said shortly.

  “Well, Hans, we’ll have a try at assembling this thing,” Stan said.

  Stan worked on the supercharger all that afternoon and convinced himself that he could fit it together and make it work. Toward evening Herr Domber came back. He halted beside the bench and looked at the machinery there.

  “You have had some success?”

  “I don’t know,” Stan said innocently. “I’ll have to try it out on the ship.”

  “Certainly,” Domber agreed. “Of course. When will you wish to try it out?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” Stan said.

  “If you worked tonight you could try it out in the morning?” Domber suggested with a leer.

  “Yes, I guess so,” Stan said.

  “Fine. I know you won’t mind working tonight.”

  “Of course not,” Stan said and felt an itch to lay his fist against Herr Domber’s receding chin.

  “You will honor me by having dinner with me tonight?”

  “Certainly,” Stan said and laughed. He might as well live high while he could live.

  As they went out to enter Domber’s car, Stan asked, “Why do you go to all of this fuss? I can’t understand you Germans. There was a lot of fuss in planning to let us escape. Now you are putting on a big show for me. You could get results without it.”

  “We have much humor,” Domber said. “I have my own little jokes and enjoy them.” He smiled at Stan.

  Stan thought about the R.A.F. flier who had been poisoned after he revealed what Domber wanted to know. He decided Herr Domber
was a bit of a maniac as well as an enemy and a traitor to Holland.

  After an excellent dinner Stan was taken back to the job. Herr Domber was in high spirits. Hans was waiting at the bench. Stan saw at once that the mechanic had been trying to fit the machinery together. With a grin he fished several parts out of his coverall pocket and set to work.

  As he worked he began to plan. If he was to be poisoned, it likely would be done shortly before the tryout. He would have to watch closely. He would drink nothing and he would eat nothing. And he would keep two vitally important parts hidden until he had to put them into place. He also would be very careful no one bumped into him and jabbed him with a hypodermic needle. The last method of poisoning did not seem to fit in with the character of Herr Domber. His method would be cunning and crafty, and it would be done with a lot of showmanship.

  Nobody but Herr Domber, Stan decided, would have thought up such a crazy method of saving a few days time, and of making away with a prisoner of war. If he was called to face charges after the war, he could claim Stan Wilson had turned traitor to his country and disclosed secrets before meeting an accidental death.

  Stan looked at the machine on the bench. He was taking chances with valuable secrets, but if he escaped he would be able to stop a mass slaughter of British and American planes and men, perhaps even a gas attack upon England. He decided it was worth the risk.

  “You work very slow,” Hans complained.

  “You’re here to take orders,” Stan snapped.

  Hans jumped and scowled at Stan. He was so used to being snapped at that he reacted without thought. Stan laughed.

  “You jump like monkeys when they yell at you, don’t you?” he said.

  “Pig,” Hans muttered under his breath.

  Stan went to work again. At twelve o’clock he took off his coveralls and slipped several parts into his coat pocket.

  “Tell the boss I’m ready to go to bed,” he said.

  Hans made off and while he was gone Stan did a few things to the supercharger. Hans came back quickly.

  “Herr Domber will call for you,” he said, then seated himself and lighted a cigarette.