“Couldn’t we warn the lieutenant to be on his guard?” Tink suggested hopefully.
Tink shook his head.
“There’s only one thing to do,” he said finally. He swung around and faced Jing. His little eyes were gleaming with determination. “It may be dangerous, but it’s our only chance. Are you game?”
“Oh, yes,” Jing cried.
“We’re going with the lieutenant,” Tink snapped. “We’ll go along as his bodyguard, and I’d just like to see Nastee or the gremlins start anything.”
Jing clapped her hands together excitedly.
“Oh, Tink,” she cried, “you’re wonderful!”
Tink smiled modestly.
“That thought has often occurred to me,” he said . . .
THE London airport from which Lieutenant Tom Diggles was taking off, was a large, dark area, with only a few blue landing lights visible.
Tink and Jing arrived there a few days after they had decided to help the young lieutenant. They had heard nothing of Nastee since that time, and Tink knew in this case, that silence meant trouble.
They found the reconnaissance ship that the lieutenant was flying and went aboard. Tink left Jing in the cabin while he searched the ship. He looked thoroughly, diving into every nook and cranny but he found no evidence of Nastee or the gremlins.
“Everything looks all right,” he said, when he returned to the cabin. “Maybe Nastee gave up his idea.”
“I think we’d better go along, just in case,” Jing said.
They were waiting in the cabin, sitting on a rheostat of the dashboard when Lieutenant Diggles came aboard. He was wearing his heavy, fur-lined leather flying togs and his face was serious as he rapidly checked the instruments.
The plane was a two-engined ship with a large cabin, and a special turret in the top for the cameraman. He arrived a few minutes later, a lanky redhead, carrying a heavy camera under his arm.
“Hi, Tom,” he greeted the pilot.
“Hello, Red,” Tom Diggles smiled. “Got everything you’ll need?”
Red patted his camera affectionately and said, “With this baby I don’t need anything else. If you could manage to fly over Hitler’s mountain resort I’ll tell you what he’s having for breakfast.”
“If I ever fly over Berchtesgaden, I hope it’s not to take pictures,” Tom said.
“Me, too,” Red said fervently. “I’d like to be sitting right alongside the bombardier, watching those block busters land right in Mr. Hitler’s lap.”
Tom looked out the glazed window and then said, “Well, I guess we’re ready to go.” He signalled with his hand to the ground crew and a few seconds later the great motors thundered to life. The ship trembled for an instant and then was rolling smoothly down the runway, gathering speed with every foot.
The lieutenant pulled the stick back slowly and the ship lifted into the air, dropped momentarily and then soared upward again in a steady climb.
Tom grinned at Red and, over the noise of the motor, said, “We’re on our way.”
Red closed his fist and pointed his thumb in the air with a wink.
The lieutenant turned back to his controls, and Tink and Jing settled down for the trip.
“How long do you think we’ll be gone?” Jing asked.
“Just a few hours,” Tink said. “We’ll cross the channel, fly over France and then return. Shouldn’t take long at all.”
They flew steadily for several moments gaining altitude, and then they saw the wide, bright ribbon of the Thames gleaming beneath them, beautifully silvered with moonlight.
When they reached about thirty-five thousand feet the lieutenant levelled off and headed directly east. The cabin was cold, and despite the automatic oxygen device the air was almost too thin to breathe.
Jing hugged herself and nestled closer to Tink.
“I don’t like this,” she said through chattering teeth.
LIEUTENANT DIGGLES glanced at his instruments and a worried frown settled on his face. He joggled a small switch several times, then shoved his goggles up to his forehead and glanced out the window.
“What’s the matter?” Red asked.
The lieutenant shrugged helplessly.
“Can’t tell for sure. We’re losing altitude. I think the de-icers are on the blink. It’s okay unless we run into real weather, then we’ll be out of luck.”
Jing looked at Tink and raised her slim eyebrows significantly.
“Are you thinking what I am?” she asked.
Tink nodded thoughtfully.
“I think it’s about time for me to go to work,” he said. “If the de-icers on this plane aren’t working, I’ll bet anything Nastee’s behind the trouble.”
“Where are the de-icers?” Jing asked.
“Out on the wings,” Tink said.
“Well how’re you going to get out there?”
“Very simple,” Tink said. “Watch.”
He scampered up the instrument panel and jumped into the breech of the machine gun. Using all of his strength he dislodged a cartridge and crawled into the small dark shell chamber. Then he slipped into the barrel of the gun and crawled along its two-foot length until he reached its open end.
The cold, lashing wind that whipped past him almost tore his head off, but he fought his way on, until he was able to drop from the gun to the cowling and then to the broad surface of the wing, dangerously slick from its coating of ice.
He ran along the wing until he reached the de-icer apparatus and there, crouching in the lee of the equipment, he found Nastee, curled up in a small, cold ball.
His eyes were closed and his teeth were chattering. And he was oblivious to everything except his own discomfort.
Tink kicked him with his foot.
“What’s the idea?” he demanded.
Nastee blinked his frost-laden eyes open and stared with incredulous amazement at Tink.
“How’d you get here?” he sputtered.
“That’s beside the point,” Tink said. “What have you done to the de-icers on this plane?”
In spite of his frozen discomfort, Nastee managed to smile triumphantly.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” he said. He chuckled gleefully. “I suppose we’ll be forced to land pretty soon, won’t we?”
Tink shook his head, then smiled at Nastee’s bewilderment.
“No,” he said, “we won’t have to land. I just heard the pilot say he can get along without the di-icers if the weather doesn’t get worse. And that seems rather unlikely.”
It was Nastee’s turn to chortle.
“That’s what you think,” he laughed. “But I just talked to a gremlin scout and he said we’re heading into a storm within fifty miles. And the temperature is due to drop about fifty degrees.”
“You’re lying,” Tink said.
“All right, then,” Nastee said smugly, “there’s nothing to worry about if I’m lying. You just go on back to the cabin and relax.”
TINK knew that Nastee wasn’t lying. And he knew that if they flew into bad weather, their plane would be forced to drop within range of German anti-aircraft guns.
“You always think you’re so smart,” Nastee jeered. “I suppose you came along to stop me from doing my work. Well what are you going to do?”
Tink stared angrily at Nastee.
“I don’t know, yet,” he snapped, “But get this; this plane isn’t going to crash in France!”
Nastee laughed spitefully.
“We’ll see about that,” he said.
CHAPTER III
TINK returned to the cabin and told Jing what had happened.
“But what can you do?” Jing asked, when he finished. “If we’re flying into a cold storm and the de-icers aren’t working, we’ll be shot down, won’t we?” Tink nodded somberly.
“We wouldn’t have a chance,” he said.
“Could you fix the de-icers?” Jing asked.
“No. I don’t know anything about them. And you can bet that Nastee’s
done a thorough job of wrecking them.”
“But we’ve got to do something,” Jing said worriedly.
Tink snapped his fingers suddenly He glanced up at the lieutenant’s lean, serious features and then his eyes shifted to the dashboard. There was a speculative expression on his face.
Jing watched him anxiously.
“Did you think of something to do?” she asked.
“I think I’ve got it,” Tink said. “We’ve got to dodge that storm or we don’t have a chance.”
Jing’s slim eyebrows drew together in a frown.
“But how can you do that?” she asked.
“We’re flying east now,” Tink said, speaking quickly. “In a few more minutes, we’ll hit the storm. Before we do I’ve got to make our pilot swing south. That will take us out of the storm area.” He glanced at the dashboard again, a bright, beaming light in his eyes.
Jing shook her head helplessly.
“But how are you going to do that?” she asked.
“Watch,” Tink said quietly.
He crawled across the dial-pitted surface of the dashboard until he reached the compass, and then he went to work, his tiny dexterous fingers working with swift sureness. When he crept back to Jing’s side there was a pleased expression of triumph on his merry face.
“What did you do?” Jing asked breathlessly.
“Wait and see,” Tink said.
Lieutenant Tom Diggles was glancing out the window, squinting into the steadily thickening snow flurries that eddied about the plane, and there was a worried frown on his face. The frown deepened when he turned to the temperature gauge.
“I think we’re in for it,” he said to Red over his shoulder. “This weather is thickening and it’s getting colder. We’re dropping pretty fast.” He shook his head bitterly. “If only those damn de-icers weren’t on the blink.”
“Don’t blame our ground crews,” Red said, shaking his head ominously.
“This looks like the gremlins’ work.”
“Nonsense,” the lieutenant said irritably. “That’s just a childish superstition.”
“Don’t bet on that,” Red said gloomily. “I’ve seen some mighty queer things happen up here that weren’t caused by any human factor.”
“Rubbish,” the lieutenant said.
HE GLANCED down again at the dashboard and suddenly the expression on his face changed to one of complete astonishment.
“Well I’ll be damned!” he said loudly-
“What’s the matter?” Red said, leaving his turret and coming up to the lieutenant’s side.
The lieutenant was still staring at the dashboard with bewildered incredulity.
“I should be taken out and tossed in the Thames,” he said finally. He pointed emphatically at the compass. “Look at that! I’m a full ninety degrees off course. No wonder we’re heading into blizzard weather. We’re going straight north.”
“No!” Red said dazedly.
He stared at the compass, his lean features blank with astonishment.
“But how could that happen?” he said.
“Search me,” the lieutenant said sourly. “I guess I’m just the world’s worst navigator.” He kicked the right rudder and moved the stick slowly, bringing the ship about in a sharp right angle bank. The needle of the compass swung around to E and he straightened the plane out.
“That’s better,” he said. “Now we’re on course again and with a little luck we’ll flank this heavy weather.”
Tink was smiling triumphantly at Jing.
“You see?” he said. “We’re out of trouble.”
“But I don’t see how,” Jing said.
“Simple. I threw the compass off ninety degrees. We were heading east but the compass showed north. When the lieutenant corrected the position to east we actually turned due south.” So, Tink grinned, “we’re heading south now, toward warm weather. The plane won’t need de-icers in a little while.”
Jing clapped her hands together with pleasure.
“Why, that’s wonderful!” she cried.
Tink smiled modestly. “It was clever,” he admitted with only a shade of reluctance.
But an hour later as the plane continued to wing its way south at high speed his cheerfulness faded slightly. The weather was warmer but soupy and thick and the lieutenant was flying on instruments, getting farther off course every minute.
“I don’t know what to do now,” Tink confessed worriedly to Jing. “I don’t know where we are. And the lieutenant still thinks he’s flying on course. We may run out of gas and be too far from London to return.”
The lieutenant was scowling anxiously at his instruments and finally he turned to Red and said, “Something’s a bit wrong. I think we’re off course. I’m going to drop down and see if we can’t pick out a landmark.”
The plane started down through the dense massed clouds, the altimeter needle swinging dizzily as the plane slanted groundward.
Red’s loud incredulous voice suddenly broke the tense silence.
“It ain’t possible!” he cried. “My eyes are playing tricks on me.”
“What’s the matter?” the lieutenant demanded.
“We’re over water!” Red cried shrilly.
“That’s impossible,” the lieutenant snapped.
“Maybe so,” Red said dolefully, “but if that stuff below us ain’t water, it’s a darn good imitation.”
THE lieutenant straightened the plane out and then scrambled to the side and peered down. He swallowed abruptly.
“You’re right,” he said in a shaken voice. “It is water.”
“Then where the hell are we?” Red asked helplessly. “This sure ain’t Europe unless they been having a lot of rain.”
The lieutenant was staring at” a mistily outlined shore line, and when he turned to Red, his face was pale.
“Red,” he said, in an odd, brittle, voice, “we’re over the Mediterranean, heading for Africa!”
“What!” Red stared at the lieutenant and his adam’s-apple bobbed rhythmically. He pointed feebly at the dashboard. “We can’t be!” he cried. “The compass says we’re heading east.”
“The compass in on the fritz,” the lieutenant said tersely.
“Oh my God!” Red said weakly. “More gremlin trouble.”
“Stop babbling about gremlins,” the lieutenant said. “This is a mechanical breakdown, nothing else. And we’re in a mighty tough spot.”
“Well what’re we going to do?” Red asked.
“There’s only one thing we can do,” the lieutenant answered. “We haven’t enough gas to make London, and if we return to the French coast, we’ll be captured and dumped into a German prison camp. We’ve got to try for Africa and hope we can find an allied airfield to land on.”
“Yeah, but there’s lots of Nazi airfields in Africa,” Red said, “especially along the coast. How’re we goin’ to tell one from another?”
“Let’s worry about that when we get there,” the lieutenant said.
Tink listened to this conversation in silent misery. He turned to Jing with sagging shoulders.
“I’ve certainly made a mess of things,” he said dolefully.
“That’s no way to feel,” Jing said. “You saved them from the storm, didn’t you? It isn’t your fault that this other trouble came along.”
“I know,” Tink said miserably. “But that’s not much consolation.”
The sun was edging an orange shoulder over the horizon when they sighted the ragged coastline of Africa, and after a few more minutes they were able to make out the camouflaged site of an airfield.
“Maybe luck is with us,” Red said jubilantly. “That looks like home-sweet-home to me.”
“Maybe,” the lieutenant said grimly. “If it isn’t, we’re too low on gas to do much scouting around.”
They headed in over the airport at about five thousand feet, coming down out of the early sun to keep out of sight as long as possible.
“I can see some fighters war
ming up,” Red said excitedly.
“Take a good look,” the lieutenant said. “Are they ours?”
“Can’t tell yet. Drop in a little closer.”
“Okay,” the lieutenant said. He shoved the stick forward slowly. “But make up your mind pretty fast. We’ll be in their laps soon.”
Red was standing in the turret peering downward, his eyes narrowed to thin slits as he strained to make out the insignia of the planes on the ground.
“I think I got ’em,” he said.
“What’s the verdict?”
“Start climbing,” Red said tersely, turning from the turret. His voice was dull and flat as he said, “They’re Focke-Wulf, 109’s!”
“Judas Priest!” the lieutenant whispered softly.
HE JERKED the stick back into his stomach and gunned the ship, but there was an ominous sputter from the left engine as the plane took the extra gas.
“We’re about through,” he said. “Did they see us?”
“Can’t tell,” Red said. “They’re still on the ground. But it’s a cinch they heard us.”
The lieutenant nursed the plane to eight thousand feet, but then the left engine conked, and a few seconds later the powerful throbbing of the second engine began to fade to a labored cough.
“We’ll have to land,” the lieutenant said. “Can’t do much about it. It’s the law of gravity.”
They slanted down in a long sweeping dive that carried them toward a distant fringe of vegetation that marked the beginning of the trackless jungle wastes.
“I always wanted to do a little big game hunting,” Red said, and his voice sounded hollow and loud in the unnatural quietness of the cabin.
“Then this is your chance,” the lieutenant said.
At three thousand feet they were over the green carpet of jungle, heading inland at a dead speed of almost three hundred miles an hour.
“We’re going to hit pretty hard, aren’t we?” Red asked.
The lieutenant nodded. “Pretty hard. I’ll try and break it as much as possible with a couple of short climbs, but it’s going to be pretty hard.”
Ten minutes later the fuselage of the plane was sweeping over the tops of the trees.
Tink took Jing’s hand and held it tightly.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 190