Wings over England

by Roy J. Snell

  _Chapter_ X First Blood

  Next day, just after lunch, feeling very much like a small boy slippingaway to go fishing, Dave made his way toward the airdrome. He wanted, hetold himself, to study a Spitfire. He had seen that one in action overthe farm on the day of that air battle. It had fascinated him. Truthwas, he hoped to run across the Young Lord and perhaps to be invited forone more ride in that two-seater. There was, he realized, a slightelement of danger in such an excursion, just enough to give it tang,like a frosty morning.

  He was not to be disappointed. Lieutenant Applegate was just having themachine rolled out.

  “Greetings!” he cried. “Just in time! But then,” his voice changed. “Imust not tempt you too much. This, you will understand, is our life. Itis easy to ask too much of one who is not in on the great game.”

  “I’ll be glad to go up again,” Dave said quietly. “To tell you thetruth, that’s what I had hoped to do.”

  “Righto! Climb in!” Applegate exclaimed. “You see,” he added, “we’rejust giving this ship a tryout. Perhaps after we’ve done a stretch ofpatrol, we’ll ask the ground crew to run up a sky target and I’ll letyou have a try at it with a few bursts of machine gun fire.”

  “Oh!” Dave caught his breath sharply. But if he had known!

  “We’ve always got more men than ships,” Applegate went on. “So if twomen in a ship like this, by dividing the things to worry about, likedials, controls, gun-sights and all, can accomplish more than one, whythen, that’s the berries. What say? Shall we be away?”

  Dave nodded. Then they were off and away into the blue.

  As on that other day, the sky was magnificent—bright blue, with cloudslike huge cotton balls floating through it. Dave could not recall amoment in his life he had enjoyed so much. There was the thrill ofspeeding through space at three hundred and better miles an hour, and oflooking down upon a world that was entirely new to him. Added to this—areal dash of red pepper—was the possibility that they might—just mightbump into an enemy craft. Did he wish the last? He could not tell.Flying was strange. It was like a game, basketball or football—you wentinto it cold. As your blood warmed, a certain reckless daring came overyou. You didn’t will it, perhaps did not, in your sober moments, so muchas want it. It was there, and for the time being you could but yield toits urge.

  Today it was just like that. Now diving into a fleecy cloud, they werelost to the entire world. But not for long. Like a dove flying from acloud in a picture postcard, they glided once more into the brightsunshine.

  Little patches and squares, forests, fields, homesteads, lovely villagesall lay beneath them.

  Seized with a sudden impulse, Dave spoke hoarsely into his mouthpiece:“Let me take her for a minute.” Ten seconds later he was working thejoystick and Applegate, like an old lady in a wheelchair, was lollingback in his place.

  But not for long. Suddenly Applegate straightened up, shaded his eyes,stared straight ahead, reached for his field glass, looked again, thensaid in a cheerful voice:

  “See that long white cloud over to the left?”

  “Ye—yes.” Dave’s heart pounded, he scarcely knew why.

  “Swing over into it, then stay in it, going straight down it toward thechannel. It must be all of four miles long. I—I rather smell a Hun.”

  Dave obeyed instructions. The world was again lost to view.

  Their journey along that cloud could scarcely have lasted two minutes,but to Dave that seemed a long, long hour. What was beyond the other endof the cloud? Something, he was sure. Did it mean a fight? He hadn’tcounted on that. This was not his war. Was he sorry? He did not know.The ways of a human mind are past finding out.

  Then, as if their plane had given a sudden leap, they were out of thecloud. And there, off a little to the right, was a dark spot against theblue of the sky.

  The Lieutenant made one gesture, a stiff arm, pointing. That was all.

  They were a full ten minutes coming within striking distance of thatlarge plane. Every second of that exciting race Dave expected hiscompanion to take over his controls, and all the time he remainedsilent, impassive.

  At last, in a calm, even tone, he spoke: “That’s a Dornier. London tooka terrific beating last night. Many women and children were killed orinjured. That Dornier’s been taking pictures so they can find freshspots to bomb. His pictures must not reach Allemond. We must get him.”His words were like rasping steel. Even then he did not take thecontrols.

  A strange, cold wrath took possession of Dave’s entire being. “Women andchildren killed and injured.” He did not want the Young Lord to take thecontrols. And he knew what was to be done. He wanted to do it, at allrisks.

  Dropping a little below the flying level of the Dornier, he added alittle speed, then streaked straight on. His heart was pounding, but hishead was clear. At last, having risen to the attack, they were withinstriking distance.

  “It’s football,” he was thinking calmly. “That Dornier’s got the ball.But in the end, it’ll be thrown for a loss.”

  Even as he thought this, the Dornier banked sharply to soar away to theleft. At the same time the air was ripped,—rat—rat—rat. The side shotsfrom the Dornier went wild.

  Once again they were after the foe. Once more they were all but upon theenemy’s tail when he swung sharply to the left. From the Dornier’s sidecame a wild burst of gunfire.

  “Wasting his slugs,” Applegate exulted. “Keep right after him.” His handwas on the firing button. One push and eight guns would spray death,nearly ten thousand shots a minute. He could wait. It took just tenseconds when everything was right.

  On the tip of Dave’s tongue were the words; “Here, take the controls.”He did not say them. His tongue would not waggle that way.

  The Dornier took a nose-dive. When he came out of it the two-seater waswith him. He tried climbing. No use. They could outclimb him, two toone.

  Once again he straightened out, then curved to the right.

  Recalling how so very often a football runner will repeat a pattern, adash to the right, one to left, then straight ahead, Dave worked out aplan. Would it succeed? Only time, a terribly short time, could tell.

  True to his pattern the Dornier pilot banked first right, then left, andafter that went into a power dive.

  Measuring this dive with greatest accuracy, Dave managed to come out ofhis own dive just in time to glide squarely up on the enemy’s tail.

  Squinting through his sight, the Lieutenant gripped his gun control andwaited. Dave found himself counting, “One—two—three.” Then came a suddenburst of sound that all but startled him into a tail spin.

  Regaining his control, he shot heavenward.

  The Dornier had received a ten-second burst of gunfire, hundreds ofslugs, straight down her pencil-like fuselage. What would be the result?They must wait and see.

  The Dornier lost its steady, straight onward flight. It began to smoke,then to lose altitude. Just then it went into a cloud.

  “Dumb!” said Harmon.

  Fearlessly Dave drove into that cloud. It was a long one. A full minutepassed, another, and they were out.

  Beyond them now was all clear, blue sky. There was no spot against thatpatch of blue.

  The Young Lord took the controls. They spiralled downward toward thesea. At last they were beneath the cloud. There was nothing hidingthere. But on the surface of the sea was a white spot. It was not foam.There were no white-caps.

  “Good!” exclaimed the Young Lord. “We’ll head for home. If we hurry abit we’ll be in time for tea.” And they were.

  “We got that Dornier right enough,” the Young Lord whispered the minutethey were on solid ground again. “But not a word about this! It’sfrightfully irregular, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Dave agreed.

  “And after all, it’s not your war,” his companion added.

  “No. Of course not,” Dave agreed. “It’s not my war.”
For the first timein his life those words seemed a bit strange.

  At headquarters Dave asked for coffee and got it, good coffee served bya bright faced English girl.

  He had just taken his first swallow when two young men entered. At oncethe Young Lord was on his feet.

  The slim, dark-eyed one of the new arrivals said: “As you were.” At oncetension relaxed.

  “Commander Knox,” said the Young Lord, “I want you to meet my friendDave Barnes from America. He thinks he can fly.” He grinned slyly.

  “All Americans think that.” The Squad Commander chuckled. “Didn’t youever notice that?”

  “Yes—yes I have,” the Young Lord agreed. “And mostly they can’t. Butthis chap,”—he gave Dave a quick grin—“I shouldn’t wonder if he couldfly. Oh, just the least little bit.”

  “You wouldn’t be spoofing us?” said the red-headed companion of theCommander. He was grinning broadly.

  “No one could spoof you!” the Young Lord laughed. “You’ve already beenspoofed.”

  “Dave,” he said, turning to his companion, “meet the singing murderer.We call him the Lark because he sings as he flies. You should hear himroaring away! He sings ‘On the Road to Mandalay’ while he swoops down onthe tail of some unsuspecting Messerschmitt and blasts him from thesky.”

  “That,” said the Lark without smiling, “may be a joke. It works for allthat. I learned the trick when I was a boy fishing for salmon inScotland. If I could whistle, carrying a tune, while I was landing a bigone, I’d not get excited and I’d land my fish. It’s the same with thesky fighting. If you can carry a tune in the thick of it—”

  “If you can,” laughed Dave, “then I’ll say you’re good!”

  “He’s right as he possibly can be,” said the Commander.

  “The good old Leader of Squadron 73 over in France used to say: ‘Boys,you may have as many good points as you like, but two are absolutelynecessary: courage that will stick, and an unfailing sense of humor.Nothing keeps up a fellow’s sense of humor better than a song.’

  “Guess we’ll have to toddle along.” The Commander moved away. “Good tohave met you, Barnes. If you can really fly, and I must say you do lookthe part, we’ll sign you up just any time you say.” At that he and theLark vanished through the swinging doors.

  As Dave stared after them, awed respect was registered in his eyes. “Sohe was with Squadron 73!” he murmured.

  “Sure was.” Applegate beamed. “In France, all the way, right through theBlitzkrieg. That was the fightingest aggregation that ever flew information. They shot down more than a hundred planes for sure, and senta likely hundred more limping home.”

  “How many came back to tell the story?” Dave was visibly impressed.

  “Nearly all,” was the reply. “I think they lost two commissioned and twonon-commissioned officers. That was all.”

  “Sayee!” Dave murmured. “Air fighting is almost as safe as football!”

  “Absolutely,” his companion agreed. “Providing you know your stuff andhave been born in the air.”

  “And that,” Dave thought, as he started for home some little time later,“is how I keep out of this man’s war. I’d better look up the planeschedule to Lisbon tomorrow.” But would he?